The next morning.
I stood shirtless in front of the mirror, scanning my chest.
Not even a scar. Smooth, unblemished skin where the bullets had gone in.
Guess I should thank my trait—Quick Recovery.
As long as I treated the wound with basic first aid, my body did the rest. Fast, clean, quiet. Good to know. I mentally noted that down for the future. Might come in handy. It meant less downtime, less risk of exposure. More flexibility.
Then, without much ceremony, I reached up and pulled out the staple pins still lodged in my skin. A slight twitch. Nothing more. The skin closed behind them, already healing.
So what now?
My easy-money plan blew up in my face. Big time. Spectacularly.
Do I just give up and start doing paid work like a normal, functioning member of society? Get a steady job, pay taxes, pretend to care about corporate ladder climbing?
…Yeah, no. That thought barely lasted a second.
One plan crashing didn't mean I was out of options. I still had the items in the bag.
First, I needed to figure out what they were—really were, beyond just "items."
Then, I'd decide how much they're worth… and who might be desperate enough to pay for them without asking too many questions.
I grabbed the bag I'd tossed onto the couch yesterday, too drained to deal with it back then. The memory of the alley, the gunshots, the sheer exhaustion, made me shiver slightly despite the lingering heat of my recovering body.
Unzipping it slowly, I pushed aside the dirty clothes I'd used to stash the gun. Beneath them were the packeted items—tightly sealed in plastic, no leaks, no labels. Light in weight. Suspiciously clean. Almost too clean for something passed between criminals in the slums.
I tore one open, careful not to damage whatever was inside.
Crystals.
Small, translucent, almost glass-like. Not brittle, but if I applied just a bit of pressure, they crumbled into powder.
Wait a minute.
No way.
It's not what I think it is… right? The familiar dread began to coil in my gut.
I picked one up between my fingers.
Then, without much thought, I raised my fist—and slammed it down. A quick, decisive crack on the desk.
Crack.
It shattered instantly, turning to fine powder.
I scooped a little with my finger, brought it close to my nose, and gave it a quick sniff. A faint, almost clinical scent.
Snf.
"Tight. tight, tight," I muttered, blinking once, the taste almost metallic on my tongue.
"...Yep. Pretty sure these are drugs." The realization settled, grim and heavy.
I pulled out my phone and scanned the crystal powder using Search Lens—a knockoff version of Google Lens, but reliable enough in a pinch for quick data.
The results popped up in seconds.
Crystal Meth (Awakened Variant):
A specialized stimulant drug used by Awakened to enhance combat performance.
Temporarily boosts strength, speed, and stamina, allowing users to fight longer with sustained intensity.
However, it heightens emotional impulses—particularly anger, lust, and bloodlust.
High doses mimic the effects of a euphoric high, but long-term use leads to rapid resistance as the body adapts.
Status: Illegal.
Banned by the Lumanian government due to widespread abuse. Possession, sale, or distribution is a criminal offense worldwide.
I stared at the screen for a second, then at the fine powder on the table.
So I was right.
They were drugs—
But not just any kind.
They were for Awakened. A specialized kind of poison.
I muttered under my breath, "Of course. Combat-grade junk." Just my luck.
Instead of cash, or intel, or something remotely straightforward, I had a bag full of illegal, highly volatile stimulants.
Which raised the next big question:
How the hell was I supposed to make money off this?
What was I gonna do—go around the streets, flash a grin, and say,
"Hey man, need a little something?
This stuff doesn't just get you high—
It'll make you feel like a god.
One hit and you'll be crawling back for more."
Yeah… pretty sure I'd be locked up for drug dealing before I even finished that sentence. Or worse, targeted by the very people who created this stuff.
So what now?
Find someone who knows the business? Someone like Gus Fring from Breaking Bad? A shadowy, legitimate front hiding a brutal empire?
Or do I study the drug trade myself like some dropout Walter White, building an underground empire from scratch?
More complications.
More mess.
And me?
Still broke.
Honestly, at this point, I was starting to think that "easy money" was never supposed to be easy in the first place.
---
Just as I was trying to figure out my next move, a low rumble snapped me out of my thoughts.
Grrrrrowl.
Yeah, that was my stomach. Loud and dramatic. Like it was personally offended by my current state of destitution and indecision.
"…Right. I didn't eat dinner last night."
Too tired. Too many things happening. Too much blood, too many bodies. I'd simply passed out on the bed like a corpse, or what was left of one after a particularly bad day.
Well, no use planning anything with an empty stomach. Hard to think clearly when your body's running on fumes, and your brain cells were screaming for fuel.
"Alright, food first. Brain cells can wait."
Technically it was breakfast—the first
meal since yesterday morning—but seeing as I woke up past noon and it was already creeping toward 1 PM… let's just call it lunch and move on. No need for pointless labels.
First, a quick bath to feel halfway human again, to wash away the lingering stench of alleyways and desperation. Then it was off to the canteen.
It was Sunday, so the academy canteen was less crowded. Quiet. Peaceful. A rare luxury in a place like this. Most students hadn't returned from home yet, still clinging to the last vestiges of their break. I'd done the same, finding a quiet place to rest off-campus—if not for the entire mess of yesterday, I'd still be there. We were, after all, still only in the first semester of the first year, and the academic pressure hadn't fully kicked in yet.
But that peace?
Yeah, it wouldn't last.
The curriculum here was brutal. Designed like a gauntlet. The first semester eased you in, a deceptive lull meant to let you adjust to the new environment. But the second semester? That's when the real ride began. The curriculum started to violate you, with or without your permission. From there on, you'd barely have time to get out of the academy campus ground, making you look back at the first semester as some precious ex—fondly remembered, but forever out of reach.
First and second semesters—two months each.
The third one? Four months of non-stop grind, pushing students to their breaking points.
And after that?
A two-month break... if you passed.
Or rather, if you survived.
Because those who did—well, let's just say they weren't greeted with congratulations.
They were met with something far worse.
The second year.
Where the real hell began.
But that's a topic for another time.
Right now?
I was busy having a blast with my plate — which, frankly, looked like it was meant for two people. Eggs, toast, spicy beef curry, noodles, two types of buns, and a mountain of rice stacked so high it could be classified as a terrain feature.
Hey, don't judge. I skipped dinner, remember?
And when you're this hungry, manners go out the window.
I found an empty seat and immediately started devouring everything on my plate. My body was already on the skinny side, and I'd been planning to bulk up—so yeah, this much food was absolutely necessary.
Time passed, and so did the food. The plate that once looked like a battlefield was now wiped clean. I stood up again, heading back to the counter for some dessert. Because let's be honest—there's always room for sweets.
Especially when your brain needs glucose to think clearly.
And I needed to think. A lot.
Thankfully, I had enough Academy Points saved up. The academy used its own internal system instead of real cash, claiming it promoted equality and encouraged meritocracy. Only those who performed well could earn enough points to enjoy privileges. That's also why competition here was insane—between classes, within classes, even on an individual level.
As I returned with a modest slice of cake and a cup of creamy pudding, something caught my eye.
A boy. Sitting alone, completely absorbed in his tablet screen. His fingers moved with practiced ease, tapping through documents, flipping pages, typing quick notes.
Hmm. Familiar face, huh.
I narrowed my eyes, watching him for a beat longer.
Yep. Definitely someone I know.
With a subtle shift of direction, I made my way over to his table.
I placed my plate down on the table and took the seat across from him.
"Didn't expect to see you here," I said. "Thought you'd be off to your hometown for the weekend."
Kevin looked up from his tablet, a flicker of surprise in his eyes before a quick smile touched his lips. "Oh, Mr. Brightwill. How have you been?"
I shrugged. "Let's just say... fine."
He chuckled lightly. "Heh, quite a way to put it. Well, to answer your question—my hometown's pretty far from here. Going back and forth takes too much time, so I usually spend most vacations on campus."
"Sounds convenient," I said, poking at my dessert with a spoon. "Less travel. More time for oneself."
Kevin gave a small nod. "Well, that's one way to see it." He didn't elaborate, simply watched me with an easygoing curiosity.
I leaned back a little. "So, what've you been up to?"
"Oh, nothing special," he replied, swiping at his tablet. "Just analyzing the previous battle evaluations—taking notes on potential opponents, looking for patterns. You know, the usual. Oh, and checking social media to balance things out. Like, look at this—"
He tilted the screen slightly toward me.
"There's this guy in Sanctumhaven who got arrested for walking down the street in just his underwear. No context. Just... underwear."
"...Bold of him," I muttered, trying to keep my expression neutral. Kevin's casual delivery almost made me choke on my pudding.
Kevin grinned. "Right? The comments are even better. Apparently, he claimed he was 'absorbing mana directly from the air.'"
"Sounds like he was absorbing something else," I deadpanned, taking a slow bite of cake.
Kevin snorted, a genuine laugh. "Wouldn't be surprised. Anyway, stuff like this helps keep me sane between the serious bits." After a short lull in conversation, Kevin glanced up from his tablet, his tone turning a touch more cautious.
"Umm, Mr. Brightwill… mind if I ask you something?"
"Go ahead," I said simply, scooping the last bite of my dessert.
"Well, uh… the first time we talked, you asked about Leon," he began, scratching his cheek. "And then, in the combat evaluation, you just happened to face him as your opponent. So, I was just wondering… did you know beforehand who you'd be up against?"
…Huh. Look at that.
Didn't expect Kevin to be this sharp. He was putting pieces together.
I gave a slow smile, setting my spoon down. "Let's just say it was… part coincidence," I said, leaning back, allowing a touch of mystery to color my words, "and part educated guess."
Kevin blinked, taking it in. "So you predicted it?"
"Something like that," I replied vaguely. "The academy's randomness isn't all that random, if you know where to look."
"Well, you've got quite the perspective," Kevin said, chuckling, clearly impressed. "By the way, your match? Easily one of the most thrilling ones out there."
I gave a small nod, sipping the last of my drink. "Hmm. That dagger I borrowed from you came in handy."
Kevin waved it off with a modest smile. "I'm just glad it helped. Though, speaking of that match… someone's been looking for you since it ended."
I raised an eyebrow, a flicker of suspicion immediately replacing my casual demeanor. My instincts, always sharp, buzzed. "Oh? And who might that be?"
"Well, he's from Class A—"
Kevin didn't get to finish.
Before he could say the name, a sharp voice cut through the quiet of the canteen, clear and resonant, slicing through the mundane chatter.
"Ah! There you are. I've finally found you."
We both turned.
A boy stood there, arms crossed, looking down at me with the kind of smugness that always meant trouble. His gaze was intense, possessive almost, like a predator who had finally cornered its prey.
"I've been searching for you for quite some time, Edward Brightwill."