System, please just shut up

After that day in Vice Headmaster Revek's office, Kael's identity was kept hidden by his request.

He wasn't really a fan of those stories where the main character hides their powers and achievements, ducking the spotlight like it's some noble cause.

But this wasn't a novel.

He didn't decide to hide because it was cool or mysterious.

Besides, he genuinely liked his simple, noise-free life just the way it was.

Fame, scrutiny, and endless questions were the last things he needed.

So for the past month, he kept his head down. Trained. Watched. Waited.

Let the rumors swirl.

Some said it was a second-year wearing a disguise, a prodigy trying to humble the new batch.

Others whispered it had been a shadowy prodigy from a secret household that came to test their system, an unrecorded trial by a powerful, hidden clan.

Each one was more ridiculous than the other, serving only to obscure the truth.

Eventually, the initial frantic hype about the mysterious candidate who'd felled an Elderbeast died down, replaced by newer, more immediate gossip.

But it was impossible to truly hide his identity from everyone, especially since the academy had contained the situation a little too late.

For example, the Factions.

He was pretty sure every core member of each faction knew exactly who he was, having received invitations the very day he finally woke up from his post-exam recovery.

There were still some other people, like the discerning staff, as he'd sometimes catch some professors giving him strangely knowing looks.

But he ignored them all.

No one, not even the all-seeing Archive or the intimidating Vice Headmaster, was going to help him with the immediate, chilling problems he currently faced:

Advance to Master Sigil in 6 months — Penalty: Death

Increase Sword Mastery proficiency by 15% — Penalty: Death

Increase another weapon proficiency by 5% — Penalty: Death

His life hung by a precarious thread woven from these three impossible demands.

And probably more to come.

"..."

Kael sighed, looking up, the ceiling stared back, silent and unfamiliar.

It still smelled like new wood and enchantment polish—proof he hadn't truly gotten used to the room yet, even after a month.

He rolled over, groaning into his pillow, dreading the day.

Another day of trying to fit in.

He pushed off the bed, the cool floor a jolt, dragged himself to the sink, splashed cold water on his face, and just stood there for a while, dripping, letting the chill clear his mind.

Next came the usual morning routine, a methodical sequence born of habit: Towel. Teeth. Shirt. Boots.

By the time he left the room, the hallway was already buzzing with the crisp energy of early morning.

Most cadets had early drills, their footsteps echoing with purposeful urgency.

He took his time heading down the curved staircase, its polished marble reflecting the rising light, nodding at a few passing students, some of whom offered quiet, respectful greetings.

The dorms opened out to the upper terraces, wide and bright with layered bridges stretching elegantly across the academy spires, connecting buildings like silver threads against the blue sky.

Far below, a training ground buzzed with motion—the rhythmic clang of sparring, the sharp thwack of arrows hitting targets, the vibrant crackle of mana flares igniting.

Kael kept walking, a deliberate pace.

The east wing housed the faction-aligned subclasses.

His own classroom was tucked between the disciplinary wing and the logistics hall, which was just a fancy way of saying "no one important passed through here unless they were lost."

The sounds of distant activity faded as he approached, replaced by the hushed whispers of the Inner Wing.

The classroom door was already open, voices drifting from inside—a few late first-years squeezing into seats, the murmur of anticipation for the day's lessons.

Kael didn't bother going in.

Instead, he kept walking until he reached his instructors' office.

His instructors were… different.

Rheya Vos was precise, terrifyingly efficient, and somehow always five steps ahead.

She never raised her voice, never repeated herself, and never accepted mediocrity. She didn't tolerate excuses, and she didn't hand out praise unless you earned it so hard it nearly broke you.

Yet, beneath that strict, unyielding exterior, she was truly nice when you managed to get past her formidable side—a rare, almost hidden warmth.

And then there was Garren Thorne.

A walking contradiction of casual chaos and razor-sharp insight.

He looked like he couldn't care less, lounging with an air of supreme indifference, but somehow caught every minute detail—like the exact moment your footwork slipped or the instant your focus drifted mid-swing.

He was either a genius pretending to be lazy, or a lazy man brilliantly faking genius.

Kael hadn't figured out which yet.

Together, they made a surprisingly balanced pair.

Tough, unpredictable, and just slightly unhinged in their methods.

Kael had a pretty good relationship with them, something that even went beyond academics, bordering on a strange, shared understanding.

Two knocks.

"Enter."

He stepped in, closing the door softly behind him.

The instructors' office wasn't large—just a rectangular room lined with tall windows on one side, bathing the space in natural light, and shelves stacked with thick field reports and training records on the other. The air inside smelled faintly of calming tea, old parchment, and the crisp tang of cold steel.

Rheya stood near the chalkboard, adjusting a series of glowing rune-tags with clean, efficient movements.

She wore a tightly fitted combat uniform, high-collared and unadorned except for a single silver stripe on the left sleeve—a mark of her specialized role. Her hair was bone-white, straight, and cut sharply to her jawline like the edge of a whetted blade.

Her eyes, pale gray—almost colorless—tracked the movement of each rune like a hawk watching prey, missing nothing.

If elegance had a warform, it would wear Rheya's face.

Garren, in stark contrast, sat perched on the windowsill like he owned the sunrise.

His loose overcoat was rumpled, his boots unlaced, and his shirt half-buttoned like he'd been interrupted halfway through deciding whether he should dress up or not.

His hair was a tousled brown with a single, striking streak of silver at the temples, not styled so much as simply existing in a state of amiable disarray.

One leg was propped lazily against the ledge, the other swinging absently. A thin wisp of steam curled up from the mug of tea he was drinking, which he held with the casual grace of a nobleman sipping expensive wine.

He noticed Kael first.

"Well," Thorne said, glancing up, a wry grin spreading across his face, "look who actually remembered we exist."

Kael blinked. "I thought this was the part where you praise my punctuality and hand me a gift."

Rheya finally looked up, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips—a rare sight. "You're late."

"…Fashionably," Kael countered.

Neither of them looked impressed.