The academy bell rang with its usual clarity.
But nothing about today felt normal.
Security had doubled. Teachers replaced. Senior staff walked with guarded eyes and tightened expressions. Students whispered behind closed doors, passing rumors like contraband.
Something had happened during the break.
Something no one dared say aloud.
But everyone felt it—like the aftertaste of blood.
And in the middle of it all… Class D.
Once dismissed as a haven for spoiled nobility with barely passing grades, it now sat in tense silence. The classroom, typically buzzing with hushed gossip or idle chatter, felt more like a courtroom. Every glance carried suspicion. Every breath, hesitation.
Noven hadn't moved from his usual seat.
Back straight. Hands folded. Eyes downcast.
Perfectly forgettable.
And beside him, as always—Princess Avalith.
Her presence was ice wrapped in velvet. Spine-straight. Chin tilted ever so slightly. Composed, collected. An empress in a kingdom of lesser blood. But beneath her poised exterior…
Something churned.
Her eyes, though unfocused, kept flicking toward the boy beside her.
Noven.
The same unreadable nobody. The same gray background character. He never spoke unless addressed, never reacted to gossip, never acknowledged her presence—despite being seated inches from royalty.
But last night…
She saw the footage.
She watched the fight on a device hidden within the crystalline pendant resting just beneath her collarbone—an artifact gifted to her by her late brother. It recorded everything within a half-mile radius when activated. She'd used it without thinking. And now, she couldn't unsee it.
That masked figure…
He moved like death made flesh.
He didn't just kill—he erased. Effortlessly. Brutally. A ghost with red-stained fingers.
Unit IX soldiers—elites known for their monstrous resilience—folded like paper around him. Limbs twisted in unnatural directions. Bones broke with a soundless force. And his voice—emotionless, clinical.
"Because I may still need her."
"She's a pawn."
Those words echoed like gunfire in her head.
And as she rewound the footage—over and over—the same terrifying truth whispered in the back of her skull:
It was him.
It moved like him.
It felt like him.
Just like during the sparring match with Alyss.
When Noven had stumbled. Winced. Struggled.
But had never fought back.
And she had felt it—that hollow restraint in his aura. That chilling stillness behind his eyes.
He was pretending. Even then.
So why pretend now?
She stole another glance at him. He sat there like a statue, completely unmoved.
Could someone really wear such a flawless mask?
Could someone really be so… empty?
She closed her eyes for a second, trying to clear the noise in her head.
And felt nothing but questions.
The door creaked open.
Their new instructor stepped in—older, taller, with black hair and scars down one arm. His robe was black and laced with golden etchings of unknown symbols. His presence screamed foreign.
The last instructor had mysteriously "transferred."
Everyone knew that meant dead.
"Good morning," the man said flatly. His voice was sandpaper. "Today, you'll meet some new classmates. Temporary placements. Tactical reassignments."
His hands didn't tremble, but his aura did. A faint ripple of pressure lingered behind every syllable.
He gestured toward the door.
Three students entered.
The first was tall and slender, his hair brown and bound by a cord of knotted string. His uniform was untouched, his boots spotless. His eyes were black.
"Rulien Vale," the instructor said. "Formerly Class C."
That was a lie.
Everyone could feel it. Even the air resisted the truth.
Rulien scanned the room like he was shopping. His gaze paused briefly on Avalith. Then on Noven. A flicker of recognition, a twitch of amusement.
He smirked, and sat diagonally in front of them.
The second was a girl—no, a wraith dressed in silk. She wore ceremonial cloth from a ruined era, her long black hair matted in strands. Her eyes never opened.
"This is Meviah," the instructor said. "She will not be tested."
No one dared ask why.
Meviah glided to the front of the room, not walking, not quite floating—like a memory that didn't belong. And as she sat, Noven felt it.
That presence.
It didn't feel like aura. It felt like absence. A void masquerading as life.
Avalith shivered once.
"That one's not human," she whispered to herself.
The third student was the opposite.
A smiling boy with books nearly toppling from his arms. He tripped as he entered, laughed at himself, and beamed at the class.
"Tamsen Elric. Noble family. Outer provinces," the instructor announced.
Most students exhaled—finally, someone normal.
But as Tamsen passed by Noven's desk, he dropped a book.
No title. Just a black leather cover with a spiral rune embossed in silver.
Noven blinked.
The cipher was familiar.
Unit IX.
Tamsen scooped it up, gave Noven a wink, and moved on.
No one noticed.
Except Avalith.
Her eyes narrowed.
She leaned slightly toward Noven. Her lips parted—about to whisper something.
But he didn't flinch. Didn't move. Didn't blink.
He was a wall again. A ghost in uniform.
She leaned back, cold settling into her chest like frost.
Courtyard of Blades — Later
Class A's sparring ended early due to "security adjustments."
Alyss wiped sweat from her brow and dropped her blade into its sheath.
She took a breath beneath the willow tree near the outer gates—until a voice called from above.
"Tired already?"
She looked up.
Callyn Vire—Class A, Rank 2. Graceful, smug, untouchable. Dangling from a low branch like a bored panther.
"I expected more. You've been slipping lately."
"I'm fine," Alyss replied coolly.
"Liar."
A second voice joined.
Lorn Kaen. Rank 3. Towering, calm, chewing on a sugar-root stick like always.
"You keep watching Class D," he said. "Your eyes follow someone. Small guy. Looks like nothing."
Alyss said nothing.
"It's him, isn't it?" Callyn leaned closer, eyes glinting. "That boy. Noven."
Still no answer.
Callyn smirked. "You're afraid, aren't you?"
"I'm not—"
"Not afraid of what he is," she interrupted. "Afraid you didn't notice it earlier. That you couldn't tell how dangerous he really was… until it was too late."
Alyss turned and walked away, fists clenched.
She didn't argue.
Because they were right.
Class D — End of the Day
The bell rang. Students stood, grabbed their bags, and filed out.
But two figures remained seated.
Avalith.
And Noven.
The silence stretched long between them. Not just quiet—but weighted.
Avalith gripped her bag strap, her knuckles pale.
She wanted to ask. To confirm the gnawing doubt.
But she didn't.
Instead, as she stood, she pulled a folded slip of parchment from her sleeve and placed it on his desk.
Her fingers brushed his lightly. Just long enough to feel the coldness in his skin.
She walked out without looking back.
Noven waited until the room emptied completely. Until the sunlight faded into gray shadows across the desks.
Then he opened it.
One line.
Was it you under the mask?
No name. No flourish.
Just silence, sealed in ink.
He read it once.
Then, without emotion, his fingertips heated ever so slightly. No flame. No motion.
The parchment withered into ash between his hands.
And he said nothing.