The cafeteria was silent.
Not the silence of an empty room. The silence of a thousand people collectively deciding that breathing was too loud.
I chewed the steak. It was tender. It was seasoned perfectly. It tasted like ash because Sylvia was staring at my throat as I swallowed, like she was calculating exactly how much pressure it would take to crush my windpipe versus how much she wanted me to digest the protein.
"Good?" she asked.
"It's meat," I said. "I liked the potato better."
"Potatoes are for peasants," she said, cutting another slice with surgical precision. "You need iron. Your blood is thin."
"My blood is fine. It stays inside my body, mostly."
I tried to pick up my water glass.
A hand intercepted it.
It was a pale hand, delicate, wrapped in white silk that smelled of incense and obsession.
Elara.
The Saintess didn't look at me. She didn't look at Sylvia. She looked at the water glass with the intensity of a bomb defusal expert.
"Impure," she whispered.
She pulled a small crystal vial from her robes. It glowed with a soft, holy light that made my eyes ache. She uncorked it and let a single, golden drop fall into my tap water.
Hiss.
The water bubbled. A tiny puff of white steam rose from the glass, forming the shape of a dove before dissipating.
"Purified," Elara said. She slid the glass back to me. "Drink, Caelus. The pipes in this academy are rife with spiritual corruption."
I looked at the water. It was glowing faintly.
I looked at Sylvia, who was holding a piece of steak on a fork three inches from my mouth.
I looked at the rest of the cafeteria. Every student—noble, commoner, and the newly formed cult of F-Class weirdos huddled in the corner—was staring at our table.
"I can't do this," I said to the glowing water.
"Drink," Elara commanded gently. She sat down on my right.
Sylvia sat on my left.
Elara placed her holy staff on the table. It clattered against the wood, the golden headpiece gleaming.
Sylvia placed her sword on the table. The scabbard hit the wood with a heavy, dull thud.
The weapons lay parallel to each other. I was the demilitarized zone in the middle.
"You're crowding him," Sylvia said without looking up from the steak. "He needs oxygen to metabolize the red meat."
"He needs holiness," Elara countered, her voice light and airy. "His soul is heavy. I can feel the weight of his burdens."
"His burden is that he's an idiot who forgets to eat," Sylvia said. "Open up."
She shoved the fork at my mouth.
I opened my mouth. I had no choice. If I refused, she would probably pry my jaw open with the pommel of her sword.
I chewed. I drank the holy water. It tasted like vanilla and ozone.
[HOLY BLESSING INGESTED][STATUS EFFECT: MINOR REGENERATION][VILLAINY PENALTY: PENDING...]
"Why?" I asked the System internally. "I didn't ask for this. I am a victim of aggressive hospitality."
The System remained silent. It was probably enjoying the show.
Clip-clop. Clip-clop.
The sound of heels on stone cut through the silence.
The temperature in the cafeteria dropped five degrees.
Isolde von Aethelgard. The Principal. The Ruthless Gardener.
She walked through the center aisle. She wasn't wearing her usual academic robes. She was wearing a tailored suit of crimson velvet that looked like it cost more than the building we were sitting in. She held a glass of red wine, despite it being noon on a school day.
Students parted for her like the Red Sea. They didn't just move; they scrambled.
She walked straight toward our table.
Oh god, I thought. She's going to expel me. She's going to drag me back to the dungeon and break my ribs again.
She didn't stop.
She didn't even look at me.
As she passed behind my chair, her hand flicked out.
A single, red apple landed on my tray.
It spun on its axis—thwip-thwip-thwip—and came to a perfect stop right between the steak and the holy water.
Isolde kept walking.
"Dessert," she said to the air. "Don't choke."
And then she was gone, disappearing into the faculty lounge.
I stared at the apple. It was perfect. Red, shiny, and terrifying.
"She likes you," Sylvia noted, stabbing a potato.
"She gave me fruit," I whispered. "That's a threat. In her language, vitamins are a threat."
"She is investing," Elara murmured, touching the apple with a fingertip. "She sees the darkness you carry. She wants to cultivate it."
"I am not a plant!" I snapped. "I am a villain! I am bad news! Why are you all sitting here?"
I stood up.
"I'm leaving. I'm going to go... kick a puppy. Or litter. I'm going to litter aggressively."
"Sit down," Sylvia said.
"No."
"Sit. Down."
Her voice dropped an octave. It wasn't a request. It was the voice she used before she cut people in half.
I sat down.
"Good boy," she said.
Life Force: 71:30:00
I was going to live forever, and it was going to be miserable.
[LOCATION: CAFETERIA BALCONY - VIP SECTION]
Lucas gripped the railing of the balcony. The gold plating groaned under his gloved hand.
He watched the table below.
He watched the Sword Saint's daughter feeding Caelus. He watched the Saintess blessing his drink. He watched the Principal gifting him fruit.
"Why?" Lucas hissed.
His face, usually a mask of golden perfection, was twisted into something ugly.
"He is trash. He is a third son. He has no mana. He fights with sand."
Beside him, his aide—a nervous boy named Ren—swallowed hard.
"Perhaps... perhaps they pity him, Your Highness? He is... pathetic."
Lucas turned. His green eyes were glowing with a faint, sickly light.
"Pity?"
He pointed at Sylvia.
"Look at her eyes, Ren. Does that look like pity?"
Ren looked. Even from this distance, the possessive intensity in Sylvia's posture was visible. She looked like a dragon guarding a particularly stupid pile of gold.
"No, Your Highness."
"It looks like hunger," Lucas whispered.
He released the railing. The metal was bent, bearing the imprint of his fingers.
"He's stealing them," Lucas said calmly. "He's stealing my future. The Saintess. The Sword. The Academy."
He adjusted his white uniform. He smoothed his hair. The mask of the Golden Hero slid back into place, but his eyes remained cold.
"The Midterm is coming," Lucas said softly. "The Dungeon Exploration."
"Yes, Your Highness."
"Ensure he is on my team," Lucas smiled. "Accidents happen in the dark, Ren. Especially to trash."
[LOCATION: THE TABLE OF DOOM]
I was halfway through the apple—which was crisp and sweet, damn her—when a shadow fell over the table.
It wasn't a student.
The person standing there wore a uniform I didn't recognize. It was grey, military-cut, with silver epaulets and a high collar. She held a notebook in one hand and a fountain pen in the other.
She had glasses. Sharp, rectangular frames that caught the light. Her hair was a severe shade of auburn, tied back in a bun so tight it looked painful.
She was staring at me.
She wasn't looking at Sylvia or Elara. She was looking at me like I was a bacteria slide under a microscope.
"Subject," she said. Her voice was flat, precise.
I stopped chewing. "Excuse me?"
She tapped her pen against the notebook.
"Caelus von Valerius. Third Son. Mana capacity: Negligible. Physical threat: Low. Social standing: Abysmal."
She adjusted her glasses.
"And yet," she continued, "you have mobilized the F-Class demographic into a fanatical paramilitary unit in under twelve hours."
She pointed her pen at the corner of the cafeteria.
I looked.
The twenty students I had "bullied" yesterday were sitting there. They weren't eating. They were watching me. When they saw me look, they all gave a synchronized, sharp nod. The boy who had cast the flamethrower gave a thumbs up.
"I didn't mobilize them," I argued. "I traumatized them. There's a difference."
"Results are identical," the girl said. She scribbled something. "Weaponized psychology. Interesting."
"Who are you?" Sylvia asked. Her hand drifted to her sword hilt. "You're not a student here."
The girl looked at Sylvia. She didn't flinch.
"Transfer," she said. "Iron Empire. Royal Academy of Applied Sciences."
She bowed slightly. It was a stiff, mechanical motion.
"Princess Lysandra."
I choked on the apple.
The Iron Empire. The technological superpower to the North. The place where they built mana-cannons and didn't believe in gods.
And a Princess?
"Why are you here?" Elara asked, her eyes narrowing. "The Iron Empire has no love for our ways."
"Research," Lysandra said.
She looked back at me.
"I study anomalies. Statistical impossibilities. Systems that function despite having zero structural integrity."
She leaned in. Her eyes were grey, the color of cold steel.
"You," she said to me, "are a mathematical paradox. You should be dead. You should be ostracized. Instead, you are the center of gravity in this room."
She wrote one last line in her book, snapped it shut, and put the pen in her pocket.
"I will be observing you," she stated. "Do not be alarmed if you see me in your peripheral vision. I prefer naturalistic observation."
"Please don't," I said. "I value my privacy."
"Privacy is inefficient," she replied.
She turned on her heel and marched away. Her steps were perfectly measured. Left, right, left, right.
I stared at her retreating back.
"Another one," Sylvia said quietly. She picked up her knife. "I should cut her tires."
"She doesn't have a car," I said. "We don't have cars."
"I'll invent tires just so I can cut them," Sylvia growled.
I put my head on the table.
"I just wanted to eat lunch," I mumbled into the wood. "I just wanted to be a villain and eat a sad sausage in peace."
"Eat your apple," Sylvia said, patting my head. "You need the vitamins for the Midterm."
I lifted my head.
"The Midterm?"
"Dungeon Exploration," Elara said, her eyes shining with a terrifying light. "We get to go into the dark. Together."
[NEW NARRATIVE ARC DETECTED][EVENT: THE MIDTERM DUNGEON][OBJECTIVE: SURVIVE THE TRAP]
The text hovered over Elara's head.
"Trap?" I asked.
"Adventure," Elara corrected, smiling.
I looked at the timer. 71:15:00.
I looked at the apple. I looked at the holy water.
"I'm going to bring so much poison," I decided.
"Good idea," Sylvia nodded. "Bring the paralytics. I like those."
I took a bite of the apple. It tasted like impending doom.