The next 2-days, the fourth of January, arrived anticlimactically. A film of mist pressed gently against the dormitory windows, dulling the view and making everything look farther away than it really was.

The air was chilly, closer to warm now with the bite of morning, but beyond that cold lay an enormous anticipation.

The semester had officially begun.

Ruvian sat at his desk, fully dressed after he finished sticking the notebook to his body with a tape.

‘Since the flaw is that it needs skin contact, then, might as well just stick it to my body for efficiency. I already transferred 2 useful chanting spells in the notebook. It took a lot of my Mana Essence too.’

This is one of the purposes why he decided to give this enchantment to the notebook.

The steam rising from the cup in his hand was already beginning to fade. He had woken before the bell, as he always did, but this time there was no urgency in his movements.

Today was the first true academic day of the term, the day when the Academy would, in theory, resume its full function. And yet, he had little illusion that anything meaningful would happen.

The novel had been brutally clear.

Class E was a dead end, the lecturers, all of whom were supposed to be scholars of the highest tier, considered it a trash bin, a place where students who lacked noble backing and talents were sent to waste away.

According to the source material, most professors either skipped the class entirely or sent aides to deliver vague notes and pre-written lectures, assuming they bothered at all.

He stood, collected his belongings, and made his way to the lecture hall.

‘Well, let's see how it goes.’ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ʀᴇᴀᴅ ᴍᴏʀᴇ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs, ᴘʟᴇᴀsᴇ ᴠɪsɪᴛ novel⦿fire.net

…

The corridor leading to Class E’s assigned building was half-empty, students trickling in at a pace that suggested they, too, did not expect much.

The others shared that blank-eyed fatigue of people walking toward obligation, not opportunity.

Some chatted lazily, others walked alone with sleep still in their posture. No one looked hopeful. That, Ruvian noted, was a kind of clarity in itself.

He entered the hall.

It was a wide space, cleaner than expected, though clearly not maintained the same as the upper floors. Rows of long desks stretched across the chamber in a semi-circular arc.

The mana projector at the front sat dormant.

The atmosphere was heavy with expectation’s absence. He took a seat near the middle, close enough to observe, far enough to avoid attention.

The clock ticked on, 10 minutes in, a few students began whispering. 15 minutes in, one of them got up and peeked into the hallway, then returned with a shrug.

At 20 minutes, someone stood and laughed softly.

“Well, that confirms it, no one’s coming.” they muttered.

There was a ripple of cynical chuckles. One student in the back pulled out a snack. Another began sketching mana circles in their notes for amusement.

But Ruvian remained refining his mana, unmoved by the predictable apathy that unfolded around him.

He sometimes watched them all, quietly measuring.

The door at the far end of the room creaked open with slowness that felt almost accidental. Every idle conversation stopped.

Support the creativity of authors by visiting NovelBin for this novel and more.

The sound of a mana stylus clattering to a desk echoed as the students turned toward the entrance, their attention snapping into place.

A woman stepped through.

She didn't demand authority but assumed it would be recognized all the same. Her dark hair swayed gently as she walked with confidence in her step and the sharp clarity in her eyes.

“Delila Victoria, Assistant Lecturer of Combat Rhetoric and Magical Integration – Class A Division.”

One of the scholars whispered.

“She was known, at least by reputation, for being part of the teaching rotation for Class A, the most elite of the Academy’s divisions. But… Why is she here? She had no business being in our class.”

Her gaze swept the hall slowly, assessing. Then she spoke:

“Professor Halten, the one assigned to Class E, has once again chosen to forgo his responsibilities.”

Her voice was clear, there was no apology in her tone. She paused briefly, allowing the implications to land, before continuing.

“In light of that, I’ve decided to take responsibility, temporarily by the order of Professor Veliana. You all will be wasting time in this room for years if this keeps going on.”

A hush ran through the students like a passing current. Some blinked in surprise. Others straightened reflexively, unsure whether to feel grateful or threatened.

Delila tilted her head slightly.

“Today, you’ll be joining Class A for joint instruction. You will observe, participate, and please… attempt not to embarrass yourselves during my teaching.”

A beat of stunned silence.

Then murmurs broke loose across the room, loud enough to echo against the old walls. Some scholars leaned forward, whispering something about a dream come true.

A few of the more idealistic types were already halfway to excitement—minds drifting to images of collaboration, recognition, maybe even promotion.

The more cautious ones stiffened. Their expressions darkened. Ruvian didn’t need to read their thoughts to know what they were thinking.

It was too sudden. Too generous and… Too perfect. Ruvian remained quiet, his expression composed.

‘Although this did happen in the original narrative, she shouldn't be involved with Class E. Well, whatever.’

He sat on his back slightly, gaze narrowed with calculation. The others might see this as a gift. He saw it as an intersection. A moment where paths were meant to cross.

He had been meaning to meet the ‘relevant’ side characters of this world eventually. Now he could do so without constructing a plan. An opportunity for him to get closer to them came to him first.

He allowed himself a small, contained smile.

There is no need to rush forward if the story was now willing to carry him into its higher layers. So long as he remembered his role.

He rose when the others did and blend with the motion of the class.

…

The command to change was given without fuss or debate. Delila ushered them from the lecture hall and toward the changing rooms beside the training wing.

Her tone left no room for interpretation. The joint lecture was not an offer but it was an obligation now.

Ruvian moved with the others, blending into the sea of dark robes and uncertain footsteps. Class E shuffled like a scattered flock trying not to look lost.

Not a single scholar spoke with confidence or laughed. The moment the word “combat gear” was uttered, the reality of the situation began to press down with pressure that was neither metaphorical nor subtle.

Inside the changing room, the issued attire waited for them in clean, organized bundles. The Academy’s standard training uniform: a tight black shirt woven from mana-conductive fibers, designed to hug close to the skin for minimal interference.

The trousers were similarly designed—dark, sleek, and reinforced at the joints, cut for agility rather than strength.

Light armor plates could be clipped to specific runic ports along the sides, but none were provided here.

Because this wasn’t real combat.

By the time they emerged into the corridor again, Class E looked uniform—at least on the surface. But the nervous energy hadn’t vanished. It had only been pressed tighter with the black fabric and synthetic enchantments.

Delila led without glancing back, walking briskly down the corridor that linked the eastern dormitories to the southern training complex.

They passed beneath high arches before arriving at the hall.

[B Hall – Class Training Section]

Since there are 80 scholars from each class, they need to be divided into two groups.

Ruvian was in group B.

They entered together, a mass of dark uniforms and wary eyes, stepping into a space that seemed too large for a simple training session. The walls were tall, reinforced with layered stone and spell-laced steel.

The floors were smooth, slightly textured for footwork. Above, a skylight of reinforced crystal glass let in the soft morning light.

And across them.

Class A was already there.

40 students stood gathered in clean, organized lines. Their posture was straight and their presence was oppressive.

Each one of them exuded the pressure that comes from the certainty of superiority. Their uniforms matched Class E’s, but somehow looked sharper, better fitted.

The moment Class E entered, the room was suffocating.

Many Class E scholars slowed their steps. Some hesitated at the doorway, blinking, as if trying to confirm whether they had entered the wrong chamber.

Eyes dropped to the floor, shoulders lowered. Even the more confident among them found their breath caged by the force of comparison.

‘Well, inferiority is a silent curse to them.’

Ruvian, however, did not look down.

His eyes scanned the hall with scrutiny, absorbing the posture of every Class A scholar.

PP= 250

ME= 180