CHAPTER 28: A MOMENT OF CLAM

Chapter 28 – A Moment of Calm

The warmth of sunlight brushed across his skin.

Michael slowly opened his eyes, the faint rays of dawn slipping through the curtains and painting the dormitory room in gold.

For a moment, he lay still, listening to the faint hum of voices in the common hall outside, the creak of footsteps, the distant clang of weapons from the Colosseum far away.

Then, for the first time in days, he smiled.

...It’s been two days since I’ve felt the comfort of a bed.

He shifted, stretching his limbs against the soft sheets. No damp earth beneath his back, no blood-soaked ground, no cold winds gnawing at his skin—just a mattress, clean linen, and the quiet rhythm of morning.

Rising slowly, Michael padded toward the window. His hand brushed against the curtain, and with a gentle pull, light flooded the room. The sun was climbing, spilling brilliance across the sky, the rays warm and sharp against his face.

He exhaled deeply. A sigh of relief.

A month...

Exactly one month had passed since his arrival in this world. A month of relentless struggle. Training in secret before dawn. Delving into that hidden F-rank dungeon. Bleeding for every step inside the trial. Claiming Darken, the Divine-ranked blade, at a cost that still lingered in his muscles. And finally—the Survival Trial itself, where he clawed his way to the top, earning the #1 rank.

It had been chaos. Pressure. Endless tension.

But now, standing in the light of a calm morning, it was the first time he allowed himself to feel... relieved.

He let out another long sigh, the weight on his chest loosening, if only slightly.

The clock read 5:40 AM when Michael splashed his face with cold water, brushed his teeth, and laced his track suit. His body still ached faintly, but rest had dulled the worst of it

The air was cool and sharp when Michael stepped outside, the faint mist of morning clinging to the paved road like a lingering dream.

He stretched once, rolling his shoulders, then began to run. His body slipped easily into rhythm, the sound of his steady footfalls echoing faintly against stone and grass.

Ten kilometers. That’s the goal.

The first few minutes were quiet.

The academy’s vast grounds sprawled out before him—open plazas, marble walkways, patches of green gardens, and training fields already alive with movement.

Michael kept his pace, neither rushing nor slowing, letting his body warm up naturally.

His muscles, though healed from the Survival Trial, still carried faint traces of strain. Every pull of his lungs reminded him of how close he’d pushed himself to the limit only yesterday.

Yet, strangely, he felt alive.

This is different from the forest. Running here, there’s no killing intent behind every corner. No monsters lurking in the shadows. It’s... almost peaceful.

The thought was comforting, but only for a moment.

Ahead, a group of cadets in crisp academy training suits jogged together, their movements in perfect sync. The insignias stitched into their uniforms gleamed faintly—symbols of their classes and years. Judging by their polished strides, Michael guessed they were second-years.

They didn’t spare him a second glance.

He overtook them silently, his plain tracksuit making him stand out as someone not part of their circle. A few eyes flicked toward him, indifferent, before turning back to their rhythm.

Michael kept running.

Further along, in a large courtyard, more cadets were training. Some were engaged in push-ups, their arms moving like pistons. Others ran laps around the yard, voices raised in calls of encouragement or discipline. The clang of wooden swords echoed as pairs sparred, each strike sending vibrations across the morning air.

Michael slowed his pace slightly, watching them from the corner of his eye.

Third-years. Their stance is sharper, breathing more controlled. The difference in experience is clear.

Past the courtyard, the Colosseum loomed.

Its massive arches stretched high into the sky, casting shadows over the ground. Within its walls, the muffled roars of combat rang out—sparring duels, already underway at this early hour.

Michael imagined what kind of battles were being fought inside. Quick, decisive strikes. Spells colliding in bursts of light and thunder.

Older cadets honing themselves like sharpened blades, each fight pushing them toward greater heights.

And he?

He was ignored.

Nobody called his name. Nobody tried to rope him into their exercises. Nobody even gave him the courtesy of suspicion.

To them, he was just another first-year. One of the hundreds who’d barely scraped through the Survival Trial.

Michael’s lips curved faintly at the irony.

If they knew the results, if they knew what I did yesterday... half of them would already be here, trying to drag me into their circles. They’d whisper offers, bait me with resources, promise me strength in exchange for loyalty. That’s how this academy works.

But they didn’t. Not yet.

And Michael wasn’t about to tell them.

He preferred it this way. To move quietly, unbothered, while the upper years underestimated him.

By the time his tenth kilometer came to an end, the sun had risen higher, washing the academy grounds in bright gold. Sweat clung to his forehead, his breathing heavy but steady. His body felt alive, sharper than it had in weeks.

Yet his mind was far from quiet.

As he walked back along the training road, cooling his pace, thoughts pressed in.

Thoughts of factions.

Michael wiped sweat from his brow, gaze drifting toward the academy’s towering spires in the distance.

Arcadia wasn’t just a place of learning. It was a battlefield of ideologies.

The game made it sound simple. You chose a side, gained quests and benefits, and moved forward. But here? This world feels heavier. More dangerous. Choosing wrong isn’t just about gameplay—it could mean being marked as an enemy.

He let the thought simmer as his feet carried him along the path.

The Nobility Faction.

Michael pictured Magnus Draven, the duke’s heir who would soon graduate as one of Arcadia’s most notorious names.

Draven’s philosophy was arrogant but clear: nobles exist above all. Dignity, status, tradition—these were the pillars of his world. The weak exist to serve the strong, and commoners? They must know their place.

To join him meant access to influence, wealth, and connections. Noble families would extend their hands, resources would flow like rivers, and cadets under his wing could rise quickly.

But the price was submission.

Bend the knee, call yourself lesser, and watch every noble treat you like dirt under their boots.

Michael’s jaw tightened.

Then there was the Equality Faction.

Emily Lionheart. The Student Council President. Leon’s elder stepsister by law, though their bond was complicated.

Her ideology was the opposite of Draven’s: strength exists to protect the weak. Nobles and commoners stand equal, united by shared growth. She attracted idealists, dreamers, those tired of oppression. Her faction became a shield for the downtrodden, a rallying cry for fairness.

Michael could already imagine her standing on a stage, her words burning with charisma, her followers cheering with fervor.

Joining her would mean allies. Protection. A banner of justice.

But it would also mean making enemies.

Draven would see me as a direct threat. His followers would mark me from day one. I’d have to fight every step just to survive the hostility.

Michael exhaled slowly.

And then... the Neutral Faction.

This was the unexpected one. The one not even the game touched on.

Ethan Braveheart. A name whispered like a legend. Fourth-year. Rank #1 of the academy. His approach was neither noble arrogance nor egalitarian idealism.

His stance was balance.

Peace, profit, and pragmatism. Those who want no part in ideology, those tired of war, those seeking quiet strength—all gather beneath him. He plays both sides, negotiates deals, and builds power not from ideals, but from leverage.

Neutrality came with its own risks. No firm allies, no ideological shield. But freedom. And freedom meant choice.

Michael’s pace slowed until he stopped at the edge of the path, gazing across the academy fields.

So... which one?

Nobility offered resources. Equality offered camaraderie. Neutrality offered freedom.

Each was a ladder. Each a chain.

In the game, players had the luxury of experimentation—joining one, then reloading a save if things went wrong. But here?

This was real. Once chosen, the path might be irreversible.

Michael closed his eyes briefly, recalling the faces he had seen already.

Leon Lionheart, standing proud even in the Survival Trial. Selena, her gaze sharp, trembling as she whispered his name. Draven’s shadow, still ahead. Emily, waiting somewhere within the academy walls. Ethan Braveheart, silent, observing from the top.

The stage was already set.

And he was no longer just a bystander.

I can’t avoid this forever. Eventually, I’ll have to choose. The question is... when?

His fists clenched lightly at his sides.

For now, silence was his weapon.

Let them underestimate him. Let them ignore him.

When the time came, he would step onto the stage not as a nameless first-year... but as the storm they never saw coming.

Michael turned back toward the dormitories, the sun casting his shadow long across the road.

---

The common hall was quiet when Michael returned, the morning bustle of cadets still muffled beyond its walls. A soft hush lingered in the corridors, broken only by the faint hum of mana lamps embedded into the ceiling. Their pale-blue glow spilled across polished stone tiles, reflecting faintly like ripples of moonlight.

Michael entered the bath chamber, and the difference struck him instantly.

—Clink... clink... drip...

The air was warmer, heavy with steam that curled lazily around the lanterns. Rows of marble basins lined the walls, carved with delicate runes that pulsed faintly. Mana-infused water flowed through them in endless supply, trickling like a crystal brook.

He pulled his shirt over his head, peeling away fabric still clinging faintly with dried sweat. The quiet rustle of cloth against skin echoed in the chamber. Tossing it aside, he stepped toward the wide pool at the center of the bathhouse.

The water shimmered with a faint azure hue, runes glowing beneath the surface. Steam rose in thin veils, carrying the faint scent of minerals.

Michael dipped a hand in.

Shhhh— warm ripples spread, wrapping around his skin.

Without hesitation, he sank himself into the water, muscles relaxing as though the heat had been waiting just for him.

"...Haa."

The sigh escaped before he could stop it, echoing softly in the empty chamber. His eyes closed, head tipping back against the marble edge. For a brief moment, the world fell away—the battles, the points, the sharks, even the weight of his secret knowledge.

For the first time in days, he felt clean. Human.

—Drip... drip...

Drops of water slid down his temples, trailing across the defined lines of his jaw.

Steam swirled, veiling the chamber in a dreamlike haze. The silence was punctuated only by the faint rush of the enchanted springs and the gentle lapping of water against the stone.

Michael finally rose, droplets cascading down the contours of his body. His silver-white hair clung wet against his forehead, catching the faint glow of the mana lamps like strands of liquid moonlight. His physique, honed through weeks of relentless training, gleamed with droplets sliding across lean muscle, each ripple of movement revealing strength hidden beneath calm poise.

Even in silence, his presence carried weight.

Grabbing a towel, he wiped himself down with slow, deliberate motions.

—Rustle... swish...

Fabric brushed against his skin, soaking away water, leaving faint warmth behind.

When he was finished, he draped the towel over his shoulders and sat cross-legged near the edge of the chamber. His breath was steady now, though his blue eyes held a quiet storm beneath their surface.

He raised his right hand slightly.

"Status."

—DING.

A crystalline chime rang out, resonating in the chamber like a bell struck underwater.

Before his eyes, translucent azure screens unfolded into existence, layer after layer of glowing text etched in runic script. The light from the display painted across his damp skin, illuminating his focused expression.

---

[ STATUS WINDOW ]

Name: Michael Willson

Age: 15

Class: Magic Swordsman

Traits: Mana Manipulation

Rank: E-

Affinity: Ice, Space

STR – 109

STA – 117

AGI – 94

ENC – 79

INT – 107

Mana: 2900 / 2900

Unallocated Stats: 0

SP: 3720

Skills – (8)

Arts – (1)

| SHOP | CREATION SKILL |

——Notification (!)

---

Skills

Unique Skill: Shadow Swap (Purple)

Sword Skills: Sword Swift (Green), Sword Counter (Blue)

Mental Skill: Quantum Analysis Mind (Purple)

Ice Spell Skills: Frozen Edge (Blue), Ice Missile (Blue), Ice Bullet (Green), Ice Shield (Blue)

Space Spell Skills: None

Arts

Basic Swordsmanship — Apprentice Art

(Adept — 63%)

---

The runes pulsed faintly, almost alive, as though waiting for his command.

Michael’s eyes scanned the glowing window, his expression unreadable.

Strength, stamina, intelligence... slowly rising. But still too low. If yesterday had been more than a trial, if the sharks hadn’t been weakened, would I have survived?

He exhaled, closing the status with a gesture. The light dissolved into shimmering motes, vanishing into the air.

The bath chamber fell silent again, only the faint dripping of enchanted springs filling the void.

Michael leaned back against the wall, towel draped loosely across his shoulders, his gaze unfocused on the ceiling above.

The quiet lingered, heavy yet strangely comforting.

For the first time since arriving in this world... he allowed himself to simply breathe.

" System show the notification"

✨ Chapter End