The antique grandfather clock situated in the corner of the opulent East Wing dormitory lobby chimed softly, its deep, resonant tolls echoing exactly ten times.
It was 10:00 PM. The strict, unyielding curfew of the Imperial Academy had officially descended upon the student body. The heavy oak doors of the respective noble suites were bolted shut, the prefect patrols had begun their meticulous rounds through the marble corridors, and the magical wards securing the perimeter had shifted from a passive hum to an active, lethal crackle. For the average student, stepping foot outside their quarters at this hour meant facing immediate disciplinary tribunals, severe point deductions, and potentially a very painful encounter with the automated security golems.
Rudeus, however, was no longer bound by the average rules.
He slipped out of his suite, pulling the deep, shadow-grey cowl of an unadorned training hoodie over his vibrant green hair. He moved with the silent, fluid grace of a phantom, his footsteps making absolutely no sound against the thick Persian runner carpets. In his past life as Damien, Captain of the Vanguard's elite Wombat Squad, stealth was not merely a skill; it was a prerequisite for continuing to draw breath. Even in this frail, unconditioned fifteen-year-old body, the muscle memory of moving through hostile territory remained firmly intact.
He carried the official, wax-sealed Letter of Exemption in the inner breast pocket of his tracksuit, but he had zero intention of actually getting caught and having to explain himself to a confused prefect. The less people who knew he was actively utilizing the subterranean gymnasium, the better. He wanted his physical transformation to be a complete, utterly terrifying surprise to his enemies.
Navigating the labyrinthine, dimly lit corridors of the Academy, Rudeus masterfully bypassed two separate prefect patrols, melding into the shadows cast by the towering statues of past Emperors whenever the magical glow of their lanterns swept past.
Within fifteen minutes, he stood before the massive, circular tungsten blast doors of the Subterranean Level 4 Advanced Martial Arts Gymnasium.
He reached into his pocket, bypassing the magical rune scanner Amanda had used earlier that afternoon. Instead, he withdrew the small, heavy metallic token inscribed with the Academy's crest—the master bypass key the Deathstalker had procured for him.
He slotted the token into a hidden recess beneath the primary rune. The heavy doors hissed, unlocking with a rush of pressurized air, and slowly ground open just wide enough for him to slip through.
The moment he crossed the threshold, the doors sealed shut behind him, locking him inside the cavernous facility.
Rudeus pushed the hood back from his head, his crimson eyes slowly taking in the vast, awe-inspiring interior of the gymnasium. Bathed in the cool, steady light of industrial mana-crystals, the sheer scale of the place was staggering. It was a cathedral dedicated entirely to the art of violence and physical supremacy.
He walked forward, his boots padding softly against the advanced, shock-absorbing alchemical mats that covered the floor. He approached the sprawling sections of training equipment, running a pale, uncalloused hand over the cold, enchanted steel and dense iron.
He took a mental inventory, assessing the tools he would use to forge this pathetic vessel into a weapon capable of slaying gods.
First, he examined a row of what looked like heavy, metallic treadmills. They weren't powered by electricity, but by complex kinetic-absorption runes that actively increased the gravitational drag on the user the faster they ran. 'Perfect,' Rudeus thought. 'I need these to fundamentally upgrade my baseline stamina and my cardiovascular endurance. If my heart gives out after dodging three strikes from an assassin, all the strength in the world won't save me.'
Next, he moved to the free-weight section, eyeing the massive racks of dense-iron dumbbells. They ranged from weights suitable for children to massive, rune-etched blocks of metal that only a fully realized Knight Commander could lift. 'Dumbbells. Essential for perfectly fixing the severe, unilateral muscle imbalances this body suffers from. The original Rudeus favored his right side defensively when cowering from blows, leaving his left side atrophied.'
He walked past the squat racks, noting the heavy barbells loaded with enchanted weight plates. 'The barbell will be critical to assist with heavy, compound lifting. Since this world is heavily populated by massive, physically overwhelming monsters—including those towering Behemoths from the Barren Wastelands I saw on the game—I cannot rely solely on agility. I need explosive, structural power.'
He paused at an incredibly complex, pneumatic machine. 'Ah, the leg press machine. Excellent for developing heavy quad, glute, and hamstring density without axially loading my spine too early. Since this kid's spine is currently as fragile as a dry twig, trying to do heavy barbell back-squats right now would just snap me in half.'
Lastly, he admired a towering, multi-station cable crossover apparatus, its pulleys glowing with frictionless mana. 'Even though it's generally an all-around trainer for hypertrophy, I absolutely need the constant, adjustable tension of the cables to rebuild the foundational core stabilizers of this pathetic body. A weak core means a weak kinetic chain, which means weak punches.'
Having completed his tactical assessment of the facility, Rudeus stepped back to the center of the open mat.
"Hmm," Rudeus murmured aloud, his voice echoing in the vast, empty arena. A dark, determined smirk spread across his aristocratic face.
"It seems the hardware is all here. I am ready. But!"
He rolled his shoulders, his joints popping loudly in the quiet room.
"Let's do some proper dynamic warm-ups first, and—"
He dropped to the floor, getting into a standard military plank position.
"—Some basic push-ups and sit-ups to establish a baseline metric of just how utterly terrible my current physical state is."
Rudeus braced his core, lowered himself down until his chest hovered an inch above the mat, and pushed back up.
One.
He lowered himself again, focusing on perfect form, keeping his elbows tucked close to his ribs.
Two.
As he went down for the third repetition, his arms began to visibly shake. The triceps and pectoral muscles of the fifteen-year-old noble, completely unaccustomed to bearing any sort of sustained body weight, immediately flooded with lactic acid.
Three.
He pushed up for the fourth. His elbows flared out. His core sagged. His face turned bright red with exertion.
"G-ggrgh..."
By the eighth push-up, his arms completely gave out. He collapsed flat onto his stomach on the mat, his chest heaving as if he had just sprinted a mile.
Rudeus rolled over onto his back, staring up at the vaulted ceiling, utterly flabbergasted by his own weakness. He spent the next five minutes doing nothing but gasping for air.
"Haah... haah... haaah!"
He wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead, glaring at his trembling hands.
"Goddamnit, Rudeus," Damien muttered to the ghost of the boy whose body he inhabited. "You really should have spent at least some of your free time doing basic calisthenics! Like, at the very least, a few push-ups and sit-ups before bed! Did you just lie around crying all day?! Like, fucking hell, kid, you're literally making my life so damn hard right now!"
He let out a long, deeply frustrated sigh, letting his head drop back against the mat.
"Sigh... I know it's not entirely your fault. I mean, you are still just a fifteen-year-old boy who was systematically starved of affection and proper physical instruction, but... ugghh! Eight push-ups! My grandmother in her wheelchair could do more than eight push-ups!"
He forced himself to sit up, slapping his own cheeks lightly to wake up his nervous system. Complaining wouldn't build muscle. Only pain would build muscle.
"Let's just continue. I need to push through the failure threshold. I just hope I won't be too crippled to walk to class tomorrow, since it's my first mandatory practical session and I already technically got marked absent for skipping yesterday afternoon to get beaten up by the Head Maid."
With a heavy grunt of exertion, Rudeus forced himself back into the starting position.
For the next three hours, Rudeus subjected himself to a highly modified, deeply humiliating version of a military boot camp. He spent his evening—stretching well past midnight and into 1:00 AM in the early morning—methodically exercising and trying out the various stations of equipment.
But because of how truly pathetic and unconditioned his body was, he couldn't perform standard sets. He could only manage a meager two or three repetitions on the absolute lightest weight settings for each piece of equipment before his muscles reached complete, catastrophic failure.
He did two reps on the chest press. Two reps on the lat pulldown. A single, agonizing minute of walking at an incline on the gravity treadmill before his calves cramped so violently he nearly fell off.
It was a humbling, agonizing experience. But every time he failed, every time he collapsed onto the mat gasping for breath, he pictured the Demon God's mocking smile. He pictured the blood of his comrades. He pictured the sneering face of Aemond Blackfyre.
And he got back up.
When the arcane clock finally struck 1:30 AM, Rudeus was entirely spent. He couldn't lift his arms above his shoulders. His legs felt like they were made of setting concrete.
He gathered his hoodie, dragging his feet toward the exit, his body thoroughly destroyed, but his mind burning with a triumphant, singular focus.
After that, utilizing the very last dregs of his adrenaline to sneak past the nocturnal patrols, he finally made his way back home to his dorm suite and collapsed into bed without even taking off his boots.
***
The Next Morning.Male Dormitory, East Wing - Suite 404.06:00 AM.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
With a sharp, obnoxiously loud metallic clanging that repeated for what felt like ten agonizing times, the enchanted brass alarm clock sitting on the mahogany nightstand practically vibrated off the table.
Rudeus groaned, a deep, guttural sound of pure, unadulterated misery.
He tried to blindly reach out from under the covers to smash the snooze button, but the moment his brain sent the signal to his right arm to move, his entire body erupted in a symphony of horrific, agonizing pain.
"Augghh... Mother of God..."
Rudeus gritted his teeth, his crimson eyes snapping open, wide with shock.
He was experiencing severe Delayed Onset Muscle Soreness (DOMS), magnified by a factor of ten due to his body's complete lack of prior physical conditioning. Every single microscopic muscle fiber in his chest, shoulders, back, and core felt as though it had been meticulously torn apart and replaced with shattered glass.
He slowly, agonizingly stretched his hands out, his joints popping in protest. He was still profoundly tired after that brutal late-night exercise session. And yet, as he slowly forced his legs over the edge of the mattress, he noticed a tiny, silver lining.
It seemed that, this time around, his legs were not uncontrollably trembling anymore like they had been yesterday afternoon after Amanda's "cardio" lesson. The muscles were stiff and burning, yes, but they felt marginally more stable. The micro-tears were already attempting to heal, fortifying the tissue. The growth process had officially begun.
Rudeus grunted, forcing himself to stand up. He stumbled over to the nightstand and violently slammed his palm down on the alarm clock, silencing the infernal ringing.
Moving with the stiff, rigid gait of an eighty-year-old man with severe arthritis, he proceeded directly into the lavish, marble-tiled shower room.
He turned the enchanted brass dials, letting a torrent of scalding hot water rain down over his bruised and battered physique. He stood under the spray for a full twenty minutes, letting the heat penetrate deep into his aching muscles, trying to manually massage the stiffness out of his shoulders and thighs.
After stepping out of the steam-filled bathroom and toweling off, he dressed quickly in the slightly more functional, less restrictive uniform mandated for practical combat classes—a fitted, dark-grey tunic, reinforced black trousers, and sturdy leather combat boots.
He grabbed a pre-prepared, cold roast beef sandwich from the small enchanted stasis-box in his kitchenette. He didn't have time to go to the grand dining hall and deal with the sneering nobility.
Though he wasn't technically running late, the deeply ingrained military discipline of his past life demanded that he be punctual—if not excessively early—when it came to the schedule of his physical and practical classes. Arriving "on time" meant you were already five minutes late in the Vanguard.
Rudeus stepped out of his suite, his satchel slung over one aching shoulder, still aggressively biting into his cold sandwich as he navigated the morning corridors.
***
The Imperial Academy.The Grand Coliseum - Sector 7 (Practical Combat Field).06:45 AM.
The sports field of the Imperial Academy was not a mere grassy pitch. It was a massive, open-air, Roman-style amphitheater known as the Grand Coliseum. Towering tiers of stone seating surrounded a massive, oval arena covered in magically resilient, hard-packed earth and scattered with various obstacles, dummy targets, and dueling rings. The morning mist was still clinging to the ground, giving the colossal arena an eerie, gladiatorial atmosphere.
Rudeus arrived at the designated meeting point near the weapon racks. He looked around the vast, empty expanse.
He was the absolute first one here again, just like what had happened days ago in Professor Vane's theoretical class.
Rudeus ignored the feeling of déjà vu. He found a cold stone bench near the perimeter wall, sat down with a stiff groan, and continued to methodically chew and swallow the last half of his sandwich, fueling his recovering body.
He chewed slowly, his crimson eyes scanning the misty field.
"Hmm. Weird," Rudeus muttered to himself, swallowing the last bite of bread. "As far as I remember from the canonical schedule, the head coach and primary instructor of this specific practical combat subject is usually an early riser. He should absolutely be here already setting up the obstacle courses."
Rudeus tapped his chin, his mind delving back into the vast, encyclopedic lore of the game. He pulled up the character profile for the instructor of this class.
A fond, incredibly genuine smile broke across his face as he remembered exactly who it was.
The Coach and Instructor of this practical class—a character universally beloved by almost the entire player base of The Chronicles of Adelina—was none other than Avalon of Pendletree.
Avalon Pendletree. The name alone carried a massive weight in the lore.
He was the older half-brother of Adelina, the game's central protagonist. Though he was born an absolute commoner, hailing from a poor, rural farming village on the outskirts of the Empire, Avalon had defied all societal expectations. Through sheer, unbreakable willpower, unparalleled martial talent with a broadsword, and an incredibly charismatic, magnetic personality, he had risen through the ranks to become one of the most widely respected, highly decorated senior students and instructors in the entire history of this elitist academy. He was a beacon of hope for the commoner faction.
And, as an incredibly important footnote in the overarching narrative, Avalon was also the absolute best, closest friend of Rudeus's Eldest Brother.
Rudeus's eldest brother, the true heir to the Blackfyre Duchy, was a character simply known to the player base as the 'Drunkard'.
Even though Avalon's best friend was a notorious, functioning alcoholic who had largely abandoned his noble duties, Avalon never gave up on him. He never abandoned him to his vices; rather, he stubbornly stayed by his side, constantly trying to pull the Blackfyre heir back into the light.
Rudeus's older brother was actually one of the most incredibly important, pivotal supporting characters in the entire game. But his true importance only manifested later in the story, after a specific, highly traumatic event.
He only became a major player after Avalon died.
Avalon Pendletree was destined to die a horrific, gruesome death at the hands of the Crown Prince in Arc 3, during an event titled the "Trial of the Nine."
Sitting on the cold stone bench, Damien's smile vanished, replaced by a grim, dark scowl as he recalled the details of that specific plotline.
The "Trial of the Nine" was not a standard academic tournament or a friendly sparring exhibition. It was a brutal, archaic, legally binding trial to the death, invoked only under the most extreme circumstances of aristocratic law.
In the game's deep lore, Avalon invokes the Trial and goes directly against the Crown Prince. He doesn't do it for political gain. He does it because the Crown Prince, a depraved, untouchable sadist protected by his mother's power, sexually assaulted the girlfriend of one of Avalon's close commoner friends.
Avalon, being a fundamentally good, uncorrupted person who believed fervently in the absolute ideals of chivalry and justice, couldn't let the crime stand. Knowing the corrupt courts would never convict the Emperor's heir, he challenged the Crown Prince to the Trial of the Nine.
It was a suicidal maneuver. Avalon was strong, but the Crown Prince possessed overwhelming, generationally hoarded artifacts and high-tier offensive magic.
Though this event was slated to happen years in the future, Rudeus grimaced physically at the thought of it. Avalon suffered a gruesome, prolonged defeat in that arena, ultimately dying directly by the Crown Prince's own hands while the nobility watched in silence.
Rudeus, in his past life as Damien, absolutely loved Avalon's character. He loved him precisely because of his unyielding ideology and his genuinely good, self-sacrificing personality. Even though Damien's own personality was defined by severe anger issues, deep-seated cynicism, and a tendency to act like a sadistic asshole when he was pushed, he recognized and deeply respected true heroism when he saw it. Avalon reminded Damien of the bravest men in his old Vanguard squad—the men who died holding the line so others could retreat.
Because of that profound respect, Avalon easily ranked in the top three on Damien's personal list of favorite characters in the entire game. (Though, naturally, Rosetta the Winter Monarch would always, unequivocally remain his undisputed Top 1).
Avalon's brutal murder was the primary catalyst for the second half of the game. Because of that death, Adelina, the protagonist, swore a blood oath to absolutely destroy the Crown Prince with her own hands. And she succeeded.
"I am honestly, genuinely glad that arrogant royal bastard really did suffer a horrific, gruesome death at Adelina's hands in the end," Rudeus laughed darkly to the empty arena, the sound carrying a sharp edge of malice. "Hahaaha! Cutting off his legs was too good for him."
He let out a heavy sigh, his thoughts shifting from the Crown Prince to his own bloodline.
"Though... it's incredibly sad for Rudeus's eldest brother," Rudeus murmured, staring down at his hands.
Even though his eldest brother had completely ignored the young Rudeus's existence for his entire life, completely failing to protect him from the bullying of their siblings because he was entirely consumed by his own internal demons and political pressures... the Eldest Brother was actually a really good person deep down in the game's lore. He was one of the few nobles who actively, covertly helped Adelina orchestrate her revenge against the Crown Prince behind the scenes.
Rudeus sighed again, the tragedy of the narrative weighing on him.
Instead of Avalon's death inspiring the Eldest Brother to quit drinking and take up his sword, it broke him entirely. He rather retreated deeper into his vices, drinking himself into oblivion. His personality worsened, becoming bitter and reclusive after losing the only true friend he ever had. He ultimately died from liver failure and alcohol poisoning shortly after the Crown Prince's defeat. He was another deeply tragic character in a world full of them.
And yet, despite knowing all this, it was really unknown to the player base what specific, original trauma drove Rudeus's brother to become a drunkard in the first place, even before Avalon's death. It was a piece of lore the developers had never fully fleshed out.
"HEY! KIDDO! COME DOWN HERE!"
A booming, incredibly energetic voice shattered the misty silence of the early morning.
Rudeus jumped slightly, snapped out of his deep lore dive. He looked up toward the upper entrance of the Coliseum.
Standing there, backlit by the rising sun, was a tall, broadly built man. He had messy, unkempt black hair tied back in a loose, practical wolf-tail, and he possessed incredibly vibrant, warm brown eyes that seemed to constantly sparkle with amusement. He wore a simple, worn leather training tunic over a linen shirt, looking more like a seasoned mercenary than a pristine academy instructor.
It was none other than Avalon Pendletree.
Avalon was looking down at Rudeus sitting alone on the bench, one thick eyebrow raised in a mixture of surprise and mock sternness.
Rudeus didn't hesitate. He grabbed his satchel and hurriedly jogged down the stone steps, making his way onto the packed earth of the main field. He stopped a few paces away from the imposing instructor, standing up straight despite his aching muscles.
"Good morning, sir," Rudeus greeted politely, keeping his tone perfectly neutral.
Avalon didn't immediately return the greeting. He crossed his thick, muscular arms over his chest and let out a long, highly dramatic sigh, shaking his head mournfully.
"You know, kiddo," Avalon began, his voice taking on a tone of profound, exaggerated disappointment. "You can just slip a formal excuse letter under my office door if you really, truly don't want to participate in my practical combat class. No matter what the reason is! You don't have to show up just to sit on a bench and mock me with your silence."
Rudeus blinked, thoroughly confused by the sudden reprimand. "Sir? I—"
"Sighs... you really are slowly but surely becoming just like those arrogant, lazy noble delinquents in my other classes," Avalon continued, cutting him off, laying the guilt on thick. He placed a hand over his heart, looking utterly wounded. "Even though you possess such a notoriously frail, weak constitution... I literally went out of my way to understand your medical limitations! I was fully prepared to let you get some extra rest this morning and excuse your absence! And yet... this is how you repay my boundless kindness? By showing up early just to glare at me?"
Avalon brought a hand up to his face, dramatically wiping away an invisible tear.
"Sniff... sniff. It breaks my heart. Truly." Avalon proceeded to fake cry, his broad shoulders shaking with the effort of holding in a laugh.
Rudeus stood there, completely dumbfounded. His eye twitched violently.
'Is this motherfucker seriously guilt-tripping me right now?!' Rudeus thought, his head tilting slightly as he processed the sheer, absurd audacity of the situation happening to him.
He was the reincarnation of a battle-hardened, cynical Vanguard Captain. He had stared down horrors that would make a grown man go mad. He was used to being yelled at, shot at, and stabbed. But this?
Rudeus actually had to bite the inside of his cheek to stop himself from bursting into laughter at the absolute absurdity of it all.
'Motherfucker,' Rudeus laughed inwardly, shaking his head. 'In all my thirty-two years of life on Earth, and my brief, traumatic time in this universe, I have never once experienced getting actively guilt-tripped by a grown man! This is a first!'
Deciding to play along with the charade to appease his favorite character, Rudeus immediately snapped his feet together. He forcefully bowed his upper body forward at a perfect, ninety-degree angle, executing a flawless, deeply apologetic martial bow.
"I am profoundly sorry, Professor Pendletree," Rudeus announced loudly, his voice echoing across the empty arena. "I was completely insensitive to your boundless generosity. I swear on my honor, I will not do it again."
He kept his head bowed, staring at the dirt.
'Happy now, you dramatic bastard?!' Rudeus asked inwardly, trying to suppress a grin.
Avalon stared at the bowing noble for a second. Then, his dramatic facade completely shattered.
"Bwahahahaha!"
Avalon threw his head back and roared with genuine, booming laughter. The sound was infectious, bouncing off the stone tiers of the Coliseum.
"Hahahaha! Oh man, that is rich!" Avalon guffawed, stepping forward and clapping a heavy, calloused hand down onto Rudeus's shoulder, forcing him to stand upright. "For the notoriously difficult younger brother of my best friend, and worse, a notoriously stiff-necked Blackfyre... you really, actually know how to deliver a solid, convincing apology! I'm impressed!"
Avalon continued to laugh, wiping a real tear of mirth from his vibrant brown eye.
Rudeus didn't reply verbally, but his face hardened into an expression of intense, highly manufactured annoyance.
'Tsk,' Rudeus clicked his tongue inwardly, rubbing his aching shoulder where Avalon had slapped him.
"Anyways, jokes aside," Avalon said, his laughter subsiding into a warm, genuine smile. "Why are you out here so early, kiddo? Seriously, it's perfectly alright with me for you to sleep in and get here a little late for the warm-ups. I don't mind, because—"
Avalon proceeded to deliver another hearty, solid slap to Rudeus's upper back, right between his shoulder blades.
"—You're his little brother! You get a free pass in my book." Avalon grinned widely, looking down at Rudeus with an expression of unwavering, brotherly affection.
"Hahaha... yeah. Thanks," Rudeus replied awkwardly, wincing as the slap aggravated his severely sore latissimus dorsi muscles from last night's pull-ups.
'Goddamnit,' Rudeus cursed internally, massaging his back. 'If you were not literally my absolute favorite male character in this entire franchise, I would have already given you a fucking headbutt for slapping my sunburned muscles like that!'
"Well, we still have about twenty minutes before the rest of your lazy classmates drag themselves out of bed and get down here," Avalon said, stretching his arms above his head. He gestured toward the perimeter of the arena. "Come on. Let's sit on the bench and wait for them. Take a load off."
Avalon led the way, practically bounding over to the stone seating area. He plopped down on the bench, leaning back and resting his arms across the top of the stone backrest, looking completely at ease in the chilly morning air.
Rudeus followed at a much slower, stiffer pace, taking a seat a respectful distance away on the same bench.
Avalon tilted his head back, looking up at the sky as the morning sun finally broke through the mist, casting a warm, golden glow over the Grand Coliseum.
A comfortable, yet slightly heavy silence settled between the two of them. It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers, but the weighted silence of two people who knew they needed to discuss something difficult.
After a grueling minute of listening to the distant chirping of morning birds, Avalon was the first one to break the quiet.
He didn't look at Rudeus. He kept his eyes fixed on the clouds.
"Hey."
His voice had lost all of its boisterous, theatrical energy. It was soft, quiet, and incredibly serious.
"What is it, Professor?" Rudeus asked politely, maintaining his formal tone because Avalon was his elder, his instructor, and a man he genuinely respected.
Avalon slowly turned his head, his vibrant brown eyes locking onto Rudeus. The carefree instructor was gone, replaced by a deeply perceptive, deeply worried older brother figure.
"You know... you can tell me, right?" Avalon said softly, his brow furrowing with genuine concern. "If you're getting bullied at school. If the other nobles are making your life a living hell. You can open up to me about it. You don't have to carry it alone."
Rudeus's breath hitched slightly. He hadn't expected the conversation to pivot to this so quickly.
"I know exactly how your half-siblings treat you, kiddo," Avalon continued, his voice tightening, his hands clenching into fists on his lap. "I know because your older brother... he tells me about it when he drinks. He talks about it a lot."
Avalon looked down at his clenched fists, an expression of deep, frustrated sorrow crossing his face.
"I really, constantly tell your older brother, y'know... I tell him that he needs to step up. I tell him he can at least use his authority as the heir to defend you. To put Aemond and the others in their place. But—"
Avalon sighed, a sound of profound helplessness.
"It seems he really has massive, crushing problems of his own. Demons he's fighting that he won't even share with me. I really don't know what exactly is breaking him from the inside out, but it paralyzes him when it comes to your family politics. But... because he can't, or won't, protect you..."
Avalon looked back up, his eyes shining with absolute, unyielding sincerity.
"I will. At the very least, I can help you here at the Academy. I can be your shield. So, please. Tell me your problems, Rudeus. Let me help you carry the weight."
Rudeus sat perfectly still. He let out a long, shaky sigh as he heard the earnest plea.
He covered his face with his hands, leaning his elbows on his knees. He was thinking. He was rapidly processing the emotional data, sorting through the original Rudeus's traumatic memories of his family.
The original Rudeus, and now Damien, really, truly hated all of his family. The abuse was unforgivable. Even now, with his past life's perspective, Rudeus wanted nothing more than to systematically destroy them all. He even harbored a deep, burning resentment toward the Eldest Brother. Because, regardless of whatever secret trauma or political pressure the heir was facing, it was absolutely no excuse for standing by and watching his younger brother be tortured and starved for a decade. Negligence was complicity.
He couldn't accept Avalon's pity on behalf of a brother he despised. But he also knew that it was absolutely not the time yet. He couldn't reveal his true strength or his grand design to dismantle the Duchy. He knew it was not the time to get his bloody revenge for the little brother whose diary he held. He had to remain the defect a little longer.
That's why, when he lowered his hands, his face was a mask of polite, impenetrable deflection.
"I appreciate the sentiment, Professor. I truly do," Rudeus said, his voice entirely devoid of emotion. He offered a small, dismissive smile. "But can we please switch to another topic? I'd rather not discuss my family dynamics this early in the morning."
Avalon looked at him, his perceptive eyes searching Rudeus's face for a crack in the armor. He saw the walls go up. He knew when to push and when to back off.
He let out a defeated sigh, his broad shoulders slumping slightly.
"Alright, kiddo. We don't have to talk about it today," Avalon relented gently.
At that exact moment, the heavy wooden gates at the far end of the Coliseum began to creak open. The loud, obnoxious chatter of the aristocratic student body began to filter into the arena as the rest of the class finally arrived for the morning session.
Avalon stood up from the bench, slapping his thighs, his boisterous instructor persona instantly snapping back into place.
"Well, duty calls. We can talk about this later, kiddo. My door is always open," Avalon said, giving Rudeus a reassuring wink.
He took a few steps toward the field, then paused, looking back over his shoulder with a bright, eager smile.
"Oh, and hey! Since we're establishing a rapport... maybe later this week, I can also introduce you to my little sister! She just transferred into the Light Magic department. You two are the same age, you might hit it off!"
Rudeus froze. A chill ran down his spine that had absolutely nothing to do with the morning mist.
He knew exactly who that little sister was. Adelina Van Hestianna. The Protagonist. The center of the universe's gravity, and the very magnet that attracted all the doom, drama, and world-ending plotlines to the Academy.
Rudeus slowly shook his head, a perfectly polite, entirely terrifying smile plastered on his face.
"No thanks, sir. I'm quite busy with my studies," Rudeus replied smoothly, his voice betraying none of the absolute panic surging through his veins.
He turned away, looking out over the empty obstacle course.
'I don't want to meet the protagonist yet,' Rudeus thought, his internal monologue screaming in alarm.
'Not now.'
He thought of the death flags, the duels, the harem politics, and the inevitable confrontation with Demon Lords that followed her everywhere she went.
'Maybe never.'