CHAPTER 46: AN UNEXPECTED PARTNER

Chapter 46 – An Unexpected Partner

Evelyn stood there, utterly still, her gaze boring into me. For the first time, her expression wasn’t predatory—it was disbelief. Almost... curiosity.

"...Class dismissed," she said abruptly. Her voice was level, but her eyes lingered on me longer than anyone else.

Chairs scraped back, students chattered as they filed out, buzzing about my answer.

I stood too, slinging my bag over my shoulder.

But my thoughts weren’t on the lesson.

Students bustled around me in groups of two, three, five—each cluster buzzing with anticipation. The Freshers’ Ball was only days away, and already it had infected every conversation. Dresses, partners, the rumors of which noble heirs would flaunt which family heirloom... all of it was tangled into the air.

I walked slower, my steps almost dragging. Not because I was tired.

Because my thoughts were heavy.

The Freshers’ Ball. A night of chandeliers, etiquette, and nobles acting like peacocks. A night where demons slip their claws into the Academy and blood stains the marble floors.

The memory of the "original story" played in my mind with cruel precision. I knew who died. Who lived. And what horrors emerged from the summoned gate.

My stomach clenched. I’ll have to change it. Somehow. I can’t let that many cadets die. But before I even get there...

I sighed aloud. "...I need a partner."

That was the cruelest rule. Attending the ball alone wasn’t just frowned upon—it was social suicide. The dances, the etiquette duels, the introductions all required pairs. And so far...

Not a single person had asked me.

Yes, I was Rank 1. Yes, my aura revelation yesterday had spread like wildfire through the academy. But apparently that didn’t make me any less intimidating—or perhaps "weird" was the better word.

Even Leon had offered only a weak, "If you don’t find anyone, we could both go solo."

I rubbed my temples. How am I supposed to worry about demons and ballroom etiquette at the same time?

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The Training Hall loomed ahead, vast double doors lined with silver trim. I pushed them open, expecting the quiet emptiness of polished floors and racks of training weapons.

Instead, the ground trembled.

Runes across the walls flared to life, spilling golden light across the chamber. The very stone rumbled as the hall began to shift—pillars sliding away, walls groaning outward, the polished floor fracturing into concentric rings.

In moments, the room had transformed into a colossal duel arena, wide and circular, the air humming with restrained mana.

"...He wasn’t kidding." I muttered under my breath.

A laugh, gravelly and booming, rolled out from the shadows.

"Monstrous, was it? That’s a compliment I’ll accept."

From the far side of the arena emerged Alastor Greythorn. His frame was broad, the weight of years and scars carved into his skin. His sword rested lazily against his back, though even sheathed it radiated a pressure that threatened to crush the air from my lungs.

"You came," he said, his tone carrying the weight of command.

"...Would’ve been suicidal not to," I muttered back.

That earned a bark of laughter. "Good answer. Now draw your blade."

I didn’t hesitate. Steel training sword in hand, I stepped forward onto the runed floor.

What followed was less "lesson" and more "trial by fire."

"Your stance is sloppy." Whack. His wooden staff smacked against my shin.

"Footwork’s heavy." Whack. My wrist stung.

"Stop thinking. Feel the rhythm!" His voice roared across the arena like thunder.

Strike after strike, drill after drill. My breath came ragged, my muscles screamed, but with each correction something sharpened. My movements grew tighter, my balance steadier.

At last, Alastor stopped. "Good. You learn fast. Still sloppy. But fast."

I was too exhausted to even groan. "...Thanks... I think."

That was when he reached into his coat.

And pulled out a book.

Not just any book. A leather-bound tome, its edges frayed with age, its cover scarred yet proud. The etched title glimmered faintly:

Siekie Ryoku Arts.

My breath caught.

"This art," Alastor said, his tone suddenly grave, "is older than most kingdoms. Six forms. All speed, deception, survival. No ceremony, no pomp. Only killing efficiency."

He tossed it. I caught it clumsily, almost dropping it as the weight of history sank into my hands.

This... This was supposed to be Leon’s. In the second year, Alastor recognized his talent and handed this art down, shaping his path to Sword Saint. But now... it’s in my hands.

The script was unraveling.

Alastor’s eyes narrowed at me. "Learn it. Or let it kill you. Either way, you’ll be stronger."

"...Understood." My voice came out quieter than I intended.

"Good. Now get out before I decide to make you my practice dummy again."

I bowed slightly, clutching the book like a lifeline. My heart pounded. The story is changing. And with it... so is my role.

The heavy iron doors of the Training Hall closed behind me with a thud that echoed in my bones.

For a long moment, I just stood there. Breathing. My hands still trembled faintly around the leather-bound tome tucked beneath my arm—the Siekie Ryoku Arts. My shirt clung to me with sweat, every muscle in my body screamed, and yet my mind was louder than all of it.

This book was supposed to go to Leon.

Not me.

The evening sun slanted through the windows of the corridor, casting long shadows across the marble floors. The Academy at this hour was still buzzing with activity—students rushing to their electives, servants carrying stacks of scrolls, the distant hum of mana-lamps being lit for the night.

I moved slowly down the corridor, my boots echoing on stone. The air smelled faintly of parchment and old wax from the rune-lamps.

Every student I passed glanced at me—some with curiosity, some with thinly-veiled envy. Whispers followed like faint winds:

"Isn’t that him? The one who used Aura?"

"Rank 1... they say even Professor Alastor made him stay behind."

"Do you think he’ll be chosen by one of the Eight Families?"

Their words pricked at me, but I didn’t slow down. I held the book closer against my chest, as though shielding it.

If they only knew. I’m not some genius blessed by the gods... I’m just a guy who knows what’s coming.

The corridor curved into one of the outer courtyards. My boots clicked against stone tiles, the air cooler here, open to the twilight. A fountain stood at the center, mana-lit water shimmering faintly. Students lounged around its edge, laughing, tossing bread to mana-birds perched along the railing.

Normally, it would’ve been a picturesque scene. A place to breathe.

But my head was still spinning.

Alastor’s voice echoed inside me: "Learn it. Or let it kill you."

I rubbed my temple. "Easy for him to say. I’ll die from his training before the art book even gets me."

The sound of laughter drew my attention. A group of noble heirs passed me, their uniforms freshly pressed, each step rehearsed like parade marchers. They barely spared me a glance, though one sneered under his breath:

"Enjoy your rank while it lasts, commoner."

I didn’t reply. I didn’t need to. Their type always barked loudest before they tripped over their own arrogance.

Leaving the courtyard, I entered another hallway—this one wider, leading toward the central rotunda, where most of the Academy’s major halls connected.

The rotunda was breathtaking even now: a circular chamber with a domed ceiling that reached higher than most city towers. Stained-glass panels told tales of ancient battles against demons, colored light spilling onto polished stone. Students moved in rivers through the passages, the sound of voices and footsteps amplifying in the great space.

I paused beneath the dome, craning my neck. One panel in particular caught my eye: a depiction of a heroic swordsman, blade glowing with divine aura as he cleaved through a shadowy beast.

My grip on the Siekie Ryoku Arts tightened. A Heroic Art... every great family has one. The Lionheart Sword Style, the Frostheart’s Glacial Aria... and now, I’m holding something beyond even that. What the hell am I supposed to do with it?

The smell of roasted meat finally cut through my thoughts. My stomach growled loud enough for a passing elf to raise an eyebrow.

"...Cafeteria it is."

I followed the stream of students down a sloping corridor lined with glowing runes. The hum of conversation grew louder with each step, until I reached the double arching doors of the Great Cafeteria.

And as I stepped inside, the noise, the warmth, the chaos of clattering plates hit me like a wave.

Time to eat. Maybe, just maybe, I’ll get five minutes of peace.

By the time I reached the cafeteria, my arms felt like lead.

The hall was lively, filled with cliques of students—noble heirs boasting, commoners sharing meals, circles of friends laughing over gossip. The scent of roasted meat and baked bread mixed with mana-spiced soup lingered in the air.

I found my usual seat at the corner table, away from the crowd. Just me, my tray of food, and the buzzing whispers that always seemed louder when I was alone.

For a moment, I thought I could eat in peace.

Then the room went silent.

Conversations faltered mid-sentence. Forks froze in midair. A wave of hush rippled across the hall.

And then I saw her.

Silver hair gleaming under the light, every movement graceful as though she belonged on a stage. Maria Frostheart.

Noble heiress. Mature beauty. The "untouchable flower" of our year.

She was walking toward me.

Not past me. Not near me. Directly.

"...No way," I whispered, fork trembling in my hand.

The whispers around us swelled into a tide of shock as she sat. Across from me. Without a word, as if this table had always been hers.

I stared. "...What are you doing?"

Maria didn’t answer. She lifted a fork, speared a piece of salad, and ate with practiced elegance. Completely ignoring the way the cafeteria had frozen around us.

Meanwhile, my brain was melting. This isn’t right. In the original story, Maria went with a background extra to the Ball. She shouldn’t even.

"So." Her voice cut through my thoughts. Calm, composed, smooth as ice.

"Are you attending the Freshers’ Ball?"

I blinked, almost choking on my drink. "...Yeah. I suppose I should see what royal etiquette looks like."

Her silver eyes flickered. She tilted her head slightly. "And your partner?"

"Uh... haven’t asked anyone yet. Keeping my options open."

A faint smirk tugged her lips. "So, no one asked you."

"Wh—No! Not at all!" I denied instantly, my voice cracking like a guilty child.

Her smirk deepened. Then she leaned forward, her tone casual yet commanding:

"Then let’s attend together."

The world froze.

My fork clattered onto the tray. My jaw slackened. "...What?"

"You heard me." Her voice was steady, unbothered by the hundred stares burning into us.

My mind spun. This isn’t supposed to happen. Why is she—why me—why now—

"Y-yeah. Okay." The words slipped out before I could stop them.

Maria’s expression softened into faint satisfaction. "Good. Meet me tomorrow after the Academy. We’ll go shopping."

"Shopping...?"

"Of course." She said it like the most natural thing in the world. "You don’t own a proper suit for the Ball. We’ll fix that."

I sat frozen. "...Right."

She finished her salad gracefully, dabbed her lips with a napkin, and rose. Her silver gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat—something unreadable hidden in them—before she walked away.

The cafeteria erupted. Whispers, gasps, rumors flying like arrows.

I just stared at my tray. The demon attack is coming. The Ball isn’t just a party—it’s a battlefield. And now... Maria Frostheart is walking into it with me at her side.

I stabbed my food with unnecessary force. "...Great. I can dodge Evelyn’s chalk, survive Alastor’s training, but apparently I can’t dodge a noble girl’s invitation."

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