[Julian’s POV]

A tray clattered against the marble, the sharp sound echoing like a sentence passed. Food scattered in disgrace across the polished floor, staining the academy’s pristine elegance.

The boy responsible stood paralyzed, fingers trembling as if to undo what had already been witnessed. Panic surged in him, not from his fall, but from what he had done.

The scholar's robes bore the faded insignia of an obscure house—one whose name barely left memory, let alone respect, within Velthia’s exalted halls.

Here, lineage was currency and he had none to offer. Meanwhile, before him was none other than Julian Rozenberg. His mere presence, unmarred by emotion, was judgment enough.

The tension grew heavy, with a scorn colder than words. Julian remained motionless, still as a blade. His eyes, cold and unblinking rubies, lingered on the blot of spillage that had dared mar the purity of his uniform.

He said nothing and did nothing. But that made it even worse. The Dining Hall froze, suspended in a silence so quiet that it could snap the whole hall into collapsing.

Then, Julian slowly lifted his gaze. A single breath escaped him as if the act of exhaling itself required royal restraint.

With the poise of one long accustomed to power, he reached to the side and retrieved a napkin. He dabbed at the stain with a composed elegance that felt far more terrifying than fury ever could.

The boy stammered, hands trembling as if even they sought to flee.

“I—I didn’t mean to—”

“Didn’t mean to?” Julian echoed the words with quiet contempt. He folded the napkin and set it aside. The boy’s breath quickened.

The silence stretched, coiling tighter…

Then, a calm voice rang out.

“I’ll take responsibility.”

A female scholar rose from the nearby table, her bearing steady, her tone devoid of hesitation. Her amethyst eyes bote into his.

‘This girl again?’ Julian’s gaze sharply snapped toward her.

He recognized her instantly—how could he not? The very same girl who had dared to oppose him during the joint session with Class E. The same common-born scholar who, with deliberate audacity, had enrolled in Noble Etiquette.

Violet.

A feeling of unease coursed through the crowd as whispers bloomed.

“Is she insane?”

“What is she thinking?”

“Another spectacle from Class E… pathetic.”

Julian allowed the murmurs to fester, his silence giving them space to breed. He studied Violet with a dissecting interest, as though deciphering the purpose of a stray insect that dared crawl across porcelain. For original chapters go to nοvelfire.net

‘What the hell does she want this time?’

Then, slowly, he stepped forward.

“Responsibility?” he repeated, the word rolling off his tongue with amused disdain.

His lips curled into something that might have been a smile, if it weren’t so void of warmth.

“And how exactly,” he asked calmly, “do you intend to take responsibility?”

Across the hall, Class E fidgeted in growing unrest. Their eyes flicked between her and the lion before her, unsure if they should intervene or simply pray.

Class A, on the other hand, observed with idle curiosity, as though watching the prelude to an inevitable downfall. But not all. The Scions of Class A—Calyra, Rosalin, Silvena, and Loden—sat in still, watchful silence.

Loden, in particular, felt tension coil within him. Violet was his teammate. And she had just placed herself directly beneath the lion’s shadow.

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Julian tilted his head slightly. His next words came soft, casual, almost like a suggestion. “No answer?” He shrugged, the gesture elegant in its apathy.

“Then allow me to offer one for you.” He met her gaze, and without raising his voice, he issued his decree:

“Kneel. You as well.” He looked at the boy again.

Loden rose, the scrape of his chair sharp against the floor. His voice cut through the tension. “Enough, Julian.” The command was firm.

Julian didn’t so much as flinch. He shifted only slightly, just enough to glance over his shoulder.

The tilt of his chin was subtle, a gesture of dismissal. “Commoners like them should know their place, Loden,” he said, his tone light. “Or… have you also started to believe you could stand against me too?”

Loden’s jaw clenched. His fists tightened at his sides. Every instinct he had screamed to step in, to intercept, to put an end to this performance before it could escalate.

But in the end, he didn’t. Because he knew how this would unfold. Challenge Julian here, in front of everyone, and the consequences would stretch far beyond this moment. He wouldn’t just drag Violet down. He would drag the entire squad with her.

Only a fool would stand up against Julian in this circumstance.

Loden cursed under his breath, bitter and helpless. Julian hummed softly, the sound low and satisfied, as he watched Loden forced himself to swallow his pride and sat down again.

Then, Julian turned his attention back to Violet. The weight of countless eyes bore down on her.

She understood that if she didn’t kneel, he wouldn’t stop. So, Violet lowered herself to one knee. A collective gasp echoed through the hall.

Julian tilted his head slightly, he seemed almost thoughtful, as though weighing the aesthetic value of her submission.

“You’re quite eager to protect your little companions,” he said. “But I wonder…” He let the words trail.

“You want to enroll in Noble Etiquette, don't you?” His smile returned. “Good. Consider this your first lesson, Scholar Violet.” His voice dipped lower.

“Watch closely. This is how a noble repays disrespect from those beneath them.”

Violet’s nails dug into her palms, crescents of resistance buried into skin. Julian lowered himself slightly, crouching like a predator toying with its prey.

“First,” he murmured, “they make them kneel. Just like this.” His eyes drifted past her—toward the boy who had dropped the tray, who now stood frozen in place, pale and breathless.

“You caused this, right?”

“Shouldn’t you take responsibility as well?”

“Or are you planning to cower behind a girl’s back?” The boy flinched, shame crashing over him.

Julian’s gaze returned to Violet. “Now… onto the second part of the lesson.” He rose just enough to let the words settle.

“You punish them.” His tone never wavered.

“Do it. Strike him as you see fit.” The boy’s eyes went wide. Julian leaned closer, his voice soft, cloyingly sweet.

“Go on, Violet. Isn’t this what you wanted?”

“A noble education.”

“Proper etiquette.” His lips curved.

“Or… would you rather I show you how it’s done?”

Then, almost as if summoned by the weight of his words, a chair scraped back.

Then another.

And another.

Three figures rose.

Calyra. Silvena. And Rosalin.

Their movements were fluid, unhurried, taken with the quiet precision of those who did not act on impulse. They said nothing but their atmosphere did.

Mana flared like a tremor shaking the earth. Then it surged, threads of colourful essence licked at the space around them, casting pressure that rolled through the cafeteria like a coming storm.

Julian’s eyes flicked toward them. And he simply smiled with the faintest trace of genuine amusement.

‘So, this is how they want to play it.’ His weight shifted, barely perceptible. His posture adjusted—shoulders angling, one foot repositioning itself across the marble.

A swordsman’s instinct.

And the tension climbed—mana thickening, sparks gathering like a breath before lightning. It was a moment on the cusp, the pause before chaos.

But just as the tension reached its peak, a voice rang out, clear and sharp.

“How noble…” (+100PP)

The whole Dining Hall went silent, searching for the voice.

“The illustrious heir of House Rozenberg—Velthia’s finest, or so they claim, reduced to a mere spectacle, throwing a fit before the crowd…”

“Hey, Julian, is this what passes for dignity these days among the Rozenbergs?” (+200PP)

Julian’s mana did not waver but his expression did. His gaze snapped toward a dark-haired boy who sat two tables from him.

‘The fuck did he just said?’

‘And who is this fucker?’

The dark-haired scholar didn’t even turn his back to look at him. One hand idly cradled a glass, its contents swirling in a lazy spiral, catching the cafeteria light.

Then, as if the moment were just another idle minute in his day, he lifted the drink to his lips. (+100PP)

“Why so quiet now, Julian?” he murmured.

“I was under the impression, all that barking never tires you.” (+100PP)

The silence that followed was violent. A sharp inhale came from somewhere nearby. Because no one, absolutely no one, spoke to Julian Rozenberg like that.

‘This brat crossed the damn line.’ Julian’s fingers twitched.

His amusement vanished. So too did the mask of idle superiority. What replaced it was colder. Julian had turned fully, unmistakably toward a new target.

And at last, the dark-haired boy rose and put his drink down on the table. His teammates were surprised as they watched him stand up. (+100PP)

Then, his voice dropped as he sighed: “So this is the grand measure of your pride?”

“A crusade over spilled broth? Seriously?” He stepped forward with an unshakable calm.

“Crushing the helpless beneath you… is that it? For what? Tell me. Perhaps, is it a performance to distract from your own fragility?” His words did not rise as much. Every syllable landed with confident truth spoken bravely. (+200PP)

His onyx gaze locked with Julian’s, burning with cold rage.

“If this is the sum of your worth…”

The faint trace of mockery faded from his voice, replaced by something fierce.

“Then, the esteemed heir of Rozenberg… is nothing but a spineless cur.”

[The Watchers of Good Ending were shaken by the development of the story!]

[You have received +2500 Plot Points!]

PP= 5960

ME= 215