***
The corridor leading to the cafeteria was already filled with the sound of footsteps from students released from class. During recess, Asnia Academy always felt alive, like a river that never truly stopped moving. From somewhere ahead, the warm scent of food had already begun to drift through the air, mingling with the clatter of plates, cups, and overlapping conversations behind the large cafeteria doors.
Alen stepped inside without haste.
He was not looking for noise, but his stomach demanded something far more concrete than magic theory and potion formulas. After a morning filled with introductions and small, unexpected incidents, he had worked up a bit of an appetite. Long tables stretched across the cafeteria, already occupied by groups of students who came together to laugh, talk, or show off the results of their training in ways that made him want to sigh.
And yet, the moment Alen appeared at the entrance, several gazes turned toward him.
Not the sharp, hostile kind he had known at the mansion. Not the kind of judgment that left a scar behind. These were lighter. Curious.
"That's Alen, right?"
"The one with white hair?"
"He's in Fire Class, isn't he?"
A few of them greeted him in simple fashion, as though making sure the person before them was indeed the same one who had drawn attention in class earlier. Alen only gave a small nod in return. He was not especially skilled at casual conversation, but he also saw no reason to be cold.
"Yes," he answered briefly.
One student sitting near the entrance even lifted a hand. "Hey, if you want, sit here. There's still an empty seat."
Alen glanced toward the table, then nodded politely. "Thank you."
He did not head over immediately, merely keeping the offer in mind before choosing his meal at the serving counter. The cafeteria menu was simple but decent: warm soup, toasted bread, smoked meat, and a small bowl of boiled vegetables. Alen took only what he needed, then paid at the counter with his academy identification card.
After that, he chose a table a little apart from the crowd.
Not because he wished to isolate himself, but because he was used to observing from a quiet distance. The table he picked stood near a large window. From there, he could see the academy courtyard bathed in midday sun, students passing back and forth, and the shadows of the towers stretching across the stone floor.
He sat alone and slowly lifted a spoonful of soup to his lips.
There was something peaceful about silence like this.
For a brief moment, he felt like a real student.
But peace never lasted long.
Footsteps came toward him, steady and deliberate, the kind that announced someone who wanted to be noticed. Alen did not need to look up to know the person approaching had a purpose. The rhythm was too confident, too purposeful.
When he finally lifted his gaze, a young man stood beside his table.
Blond hair neatly combed back, green eyes sharp and polished, and a smile far too smooth to ever feel sincere. His academy uniform was worn with a little more elegance than the others, as though he wished to remind everyone that there were different classes of people in this world—and he belonged to the better one.
"So you're Alen," he said, his voice calm, but intentionally raised so the surrounding students could hear. "I'm Edgard Ventas."
The name carried weight for anyone familiar with the major families of the kingdom. The Ventas family was not a noble house built solely upon bloodline, but a powerful trading family involved in large-scale commerce. They controlled distribution routes, logistics, and the supply of important goods across many regions. The name Ventas was known in markets, in ports, in administrative offices, and among those who liked to count profits with great seriousness.
Edgard looked at Alen with a faint smile that was clearly not meant to be friendly.
"I've heard a lot about you," he continued.
"They say you're Andreas's son. They say you entered the academy alongside nobles. They say you've got some decent ability."
He pulled out the chair across from Alen without asking and sat down with the ease of someone who believed the match was already won before the game began.
Alen kept his spoon in hand. His expression did not change much.
"Then," he said flatly, "you've heard enough."
Several students at nearby tables began to turn their heads. The cafeteria, which had been noisy a moment ago, suddenly felt a little more alive, because people always enjoyed watching a conversation that might turn into trouble.
Edgard smiled faintly. "Perhaps. But I've always been curious—can a boy taken in from the streets really stand beside people who were born to belong in a place like this?"
Alen let out a quiet breath, so quiet it was almost invisible.
He did not answer at once.
Not because he was afraid, nor because he lacked words. He simply knew that reacting too quickly often gave an opponent more power than they deserved. And Edgard was clearly fishing for a response.
"Do you have something to say?" Alen asked after a few seconds of silence.
Edgard leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. "I'm just saying you look far too calm. Or, moron?."
His smile widened, though it never reached his eyes.
"People like you," he said, "usually pretend not to care just so they can look interesting."
A few students gave soft laughs. Not loud enough to be rude, but enough to make the atmosphere feel like a small arena waiting for an explosion.
Alen looked at Edgard with a calm, steady gaze. "If you came here just to judge someone who's eating lunch, then you must have a lot of free time."
The laughter around them became a little more obvious.
Edgard frowned slightly, perhaps displeased that Alen still would not bite. He leaned forward then, glancing at the food on Alen's table before returning his eyes to Alen's face.
"I just wanted to make sure," he said softly, "whether all those rumors about you are worth that plain face of yours."
At last, Alen set down his spoon. The movement remained slow, neat, controlled. He looked at Edgard with eyes that were still calm, almost blank.
"If your goal is to insult someone," he said, "you should learn to choose better words. That sounded cheap."
The air around them tightened a little.
Edgard did not like that. The muscles near his jaw stiffened, though he still tried to keep his smile. But his annoyance grew more obvious when he realized that Alen refused to show anger. No raised voice. No dramatic reaction. No emotion he could latch onto. And that, more than anything, made him irritated.
"Cheap?" Edgard repeated. "You've only just entered the academy, and you're already talking as if you have the right to lecture me on manners?"
Alen picked up a piece of toast, broke off a small portion, and answered in the same even tone. "I'm not lecturing you on manners. I'm simply saying your way of disturbing someone's lunch is rather inelegant."
A few people almost choked on their laughter.
Edgard glanced at them, then back at Alen. Embarrassed by the way he was losing control of the room, he chose a rougher method. His hand moved quickly, snatching the plate of food still left on Alen's tray, and without warning, he threw it to the side of the table.
The meal spilled.
Warm soup splashed across the tabletop. Bread fell to the floor. A few pieces of meat rolled away, while sauce dripped onto Alen's uniform.
The entire cafeteria fell silent.
Not truly silent, because no cafeteria ever could be, but quiet enough that every motion suddenly felt sharper than before.
Edgard leaned back again, crossing his arms with a thin smile. "Oops."
Alen stared at the ruined food.
Then his eyes moved slowly to Edgard's hand.
Then to his face.
When his gaze changed, it did not explode. It was not dramatic. It did not turn threatening all at once. But something in the depths of his eyes had become unmistakably different. Like a closed door that had been opened just enough to reveal a dark room beyond it.
The air around Alen felt colder.
He did not stand. He did not raise his voice. He did not strike the table. There was no grand reaction, nothing the onlookers might have expected.
But that silence made the students around them swallow nervously.
Edgard, who had felt victorious only moments before, suddenly lost the smugness in his expression for a fraction of a second.
"What?" he said, trying to sound casual. "Want to get angry? Maybe you really are only good at staying quiet until someone steps on you."
Alen rose slowly from his seat.
His movement was smooth, unhurried. He took a small napkin from the edge of the table, wiped a bit of the stain from his uniform, and then looked back at Edgard.
"If all you wanted was attention," he said calmly, "you've succeeded."
His tone was far calmer than the expressions of everyone else in the room. And perhaps because of that, the atmosphere between them felt even more dangerous. A truly angry person was easy to read. But Alen, standing there in that stillness, was difficult to understand.
Edgard lifted his chin. "And then? What are you going to do?"
Alen did not get the chance to answer.
Because before his next words could be born, the sound of a chair scraping across the floor rang out from the side of the cafeteria.
"That's enough."
Every eye turned at once.
A girl with long golden-brown hair and sharp but clear eyes stepped between them. She did not carry herself with the harshness Edgard had, but there was such strong presence in her that the small conflict seemed to lose its place near her. Her academy uniform was worn neatly, and from the way she stood, it was obvious she was not someone who backed away from trouble.
Sophie Dola.
The daughter of House Dola, the family known as the supplier of magical energy. The name alone was enough to make many people recognize her, especially those who understood how important the magical core supply routes were to the kingdom. House Dola was not a family famed for war titles, but for the essential role they played in sustaining much of the nation's magical activity.
Sophie stood between Alen and Edgard without hesitation.
"Edgard Ventas," she said sharply. "Do you not have anything better to do than bother someone who's trying to eat?"
Edgard rolled his eyes, though he no longer dared to meet her gaze properly. There was something about Sophie that was different. Perhaps it was her family name, perhaps her personality, or perhaps her eyes—too bright to ignore.
"I was only joking," he replied lightly, though his voice had already lost its earlier confidence.
Sophie looked at the ruined table, then at the stain on Alen's uniform. Her expression immediately hardened.
"A joke?" she said. "You call throwing food at someone a joke?"
Edgard lifted one shoulder, though the motion looked forced. "He didn't seem offended."
"Not because he wasn't offended," Sophie shot back, "but because he has more patience than you do."
A few students who had been watching began holding their breath.
Sophie stepped closer to Edgard, then fixed her stare on him.
"If you have even a little shame left," she said, "walk away before you disgrace the Ventas name any further."
The words landed like a slap.
Edgard went quiet for a moment. His jaw tightened. His eyes narrowed. But he knew when to retreat. Sophie's gaze was too firm, and too many people were now watching. If he pushed further, he would not just be dealing with Alen, but also with a Dola daughter who clearly had no intention of letting him leave unchallenged.
At last, Edgard gave a snort.
"Fine," he said as he stood. "I'll take this as your little victory."
Sophie did not move. "Go."
Edgard looked at Alen one last time before turning away. But before he disappeared completely, he still muttered, "We're not finished."
Only then did he truly leave, dragging the tension with him.
When his footsteps finally faded, Sophie turned to Alen.
The sharpness in her eyes softened. Not much, but enough to show that the edge had been tempered by concern.
"Are you okay?" she asked.
Alen glanced at the table, then at the stain on his uniform, then back at Sophie's face. "I'm fine."
Sophie nodded slightly. "Good."
Then she looked at the fallen food. "Sorry I was late. If I'd come a little sooner, he wouldn't have gotten the chance to act like that."
Alen shook his head lightly. "You don't need to apologize. It wasn't your fault."
Sophie watched him for a moment, then gave a faint smile. That smile felt much warmer than the sternness she had shown a moment before.
"Then," she said, "don't let someone like that decide the mood of your day."
Alen paused a beat, then let out a small breath. It was such a simple sentence, but for some reason it felt exactly right.
Sophie continued in a lighter voice, "At this academy, there will always be people who try to measure you by your appearance, your background, or rumors. If you want to survive here, don't let them get too far into your head."
Alen looked at her quietly. In his mind, he understood that she was not trying to lecture him. She was simply warning him, like someone who knew the field better than most.
"Thank you," he said at last.
Sophie nodded again, then glanced at the nearby tables. Several students were still pretending not to watch, though it was obvious they had just witnessed a small drama worth retelling later.
"If you don't have a place," she said, "sit with us next time."
Alen blinked slightly. "Us?"
Sophie's smile deepened a little. "At least with people who won't throw food in your face."
Alen almost laughed, though he held it back.
"All right," he replied briefly.
Sophie was about to leave, but before she did, she looked back once more. "And Alen?"
"Yes?"
"Don't change that calm way of yours just because other people try to provoke you. It only makes them look foolish."
After saying that, she turned and walked away, leaving the cafeteria behind her.
Alen stood there for a while beside the messy table, looking at the remains of his lunch. Strangely enough, he did not feel terribly bothered. There was irritation, yes, but less than anyone might have expected. What lingered more strongly was not Edgard's insult, but Sophie's arrival at exactly the right time.
He exhaled slowly.
Today would not be peaceful after all.