The robe felt heavier than I expected as I walked with the others in the final graduation procession. The fabric brushed against my legs with every step, and the cap on my head sat slightly crooked, no matter how many times I adjusted it.
This was it.
From today onward, my life was supposed to become simple. Easy, even.
I would open my own restaurant—maybe a small café—in Nyro City. A quiet place with warm food and familiar faces. A peaceful life with Erza and Elena was only one step away now.
As I reached the stairs leading to the stage, my heartbeat began to quicken. I didn't know why. It wasn't nervousness about graduating. Maybe it was the feeling that this moment marked an ending more than a beginning.
Standing at the center of the stage was Father Brian—the vice principal, and the man who had founded Bosco Culinary and Art College. He stood straight, calm, watching each student with the same patient expression.
When my turn came, I stepped beside him.
He shook my hand firmly and smiled.
"Yuuta Kounari," he said, his voice warm. "You're looking well these days."
I blinked. "Pardon me, Father?"
He let out a soft chuckle. "When Elijah's father first brought you here, your eyes were empty. There was no light in them. No sense of life." His gaze lingered on me for a moment. "But now… that's changed. You've found something worth living for."
I smiled faintly. "You could say that, Father Brian."
He picked up my certificate and glanced at it.
"You did well," he said. "Despite your attendance during the last two months—which was terrible."
I rubbed the back of my head awkwardly.
"I don't know what happened to you and Fiona," he continued. "Both of you disappeared completely. Still, your results were excellent, so the board agreed to let you graduate."
"Thank you, Father," I said quietly.
He handed me the degree, and I took it with both hands.
The paper felt solid. Real.
And yet… my eyes wandered.
The moment the degree touched my hands, my vision blurred. I thought it was happiness, but it wasn't. It was everything I had buried for years finally breaking free. My chest tightened, and before I could stop myself, tears fell.
When I first entered school, I didn't know what cruelty looked like. I learned quickly.
Every time I cried, my eyes glowed. That was all it took. They called me a monster. They hit me. Some days, they taped my eyes wide open just to force the glow out of me again. Each morning felt like stepping back into a place that wanted to break me. Every night, I wondered how much longer I could endure.
But I didn't stop going to school.
Instead, I changed.
I learned to smile even when it hurt. I learned to joke before anyone could aim their words at me. Little by little, I became the clown of the class. Laughter turned into my shield. If I could make them laugh, they wouldn't hurt me. If they laughed with me, they wouldn't stand above me. Even the tallest students eventually stood beside me.
By the time I reached college, I had perfected the lie. I told everyone my glowing eyes were just unique contact lenses. They believed me. And for the first time in my life, I lived without fear. No fists. No whispers. No hands reaching for my face.
Now, standing there with my degree, my hands trembling, I lifted it without thinking. I wanted to show it to Sister Mary. She was the one who wiped my tears when no one else cared. The one who told me to endure just one more day.
Without thinking, I searched the audience. Row after row. Face after face. I was looking for Sister Mary.
Then I realized she wasn't there.
The crowd was full, the hall was loud, but the space she should have occupied was empty. And in that moment, the pain I thought I had survived came back quietly—because the person I wanted to see me succeed the most was gone.
The whole reason I had studied so hard was to show her that I could do it. That I could pass. That I wasn't a failure. She had always been there—watching every event, waving at me from the parents' section, smiling as if she believed in me more than I ever did.
But now… those seats were empty.
The joy I expected to feel never came. My vision dulled, and my grip on the certificate loosened slightly. Once again, my eyes felt lifeless.
Then—
"Papa!"
The voice cut through the noise of the courtyard like sunlight through clouds.
I froze.
"Papa, congratulations!"
I turned.
"Elena!" she shouted, waving her tiny hands with all her strength.
"Papa! Elena is here!"
Her voice rang out across the courtyard, clear and proud, cutting through the noise like it had been meant for me alone. I stare instinctively, my eyes finding her small figure almost immediately.
Elena was waving both her hands above her head, smiling so brightly it made my chest ache. Erza stood beneath her, holding her securely, lifting her just enough so she wouldn't be lost in the crowd.
Something warm spread through me—not all at once, but slowly, gently, like heat returning to frozen hands.
I smiled without realizing it.
That was when Sister Mary's words finally made sense.
You're not alone anymore.
She hadn't meant that the pain would disappear. She meant that I wouldn't have to carry it by myself. I had my own people now. My own place to return to.
My family.
My dragon family.
I tightened my grip around the degree and lifted it high, turning toward them. My voice rose before I had time to think it through.
"I got it, Erza!"
My laugh slipped out, light and unrestrained. Then the words followed—simple, honest, unfiltered.
"ERZA I LOVE YOU SO MUCH."
"Erza… Elena… I love you both so much."
There was no embarrassment. No hesitation. Only truth.
Elena burst into giggles, her shoulders shaking as she leaned closer to Erza's ear. "Papa is so brave, Mama," she said proudly, her voice carrying farther than she probably intended.
Erza stiffened.
For a brief second, she didn't move at all. Then her face slowly turned red—far too red for someone who always carried herself with calm dignity. She looked away, clearly overwhelmed, holding Elena a little tighter as if that might hide her.
Around us, the reaction spread through the crowd.
Some parents laughed softly. A few students stared in surprise. Nearby, a group of girls gasped and whispered among themselves.
"That's so romantic…"
"He said that in front of everyone?"
"He's not even embarrassed—how brave…"
I heard it all, but none of it mattered.
All that mattered was that for the first time in my life, I wasn't pretending to be strong. I wasn't hiding behind humor or silence.
I was simply standing there—degree in hand, heart full—knowing exactly where I belonged.
After that, I returned to my seat and sat down slowly, the degree resting on my lap as if it might slip away if I loosened my grip. Around me, the ceremony continued in an unhurried rhythm. One by one, students walked across the stage, their names called, their journeys acknowledged.
Some smiled proudly.
Some looked nervous.
Some looked like they still hadn't realized it was over.
I watched them quietly, letting the noise wash over me. The wind stirred the banners hanging above the courtyard, and for a moment, everything felt strangely distant—like I was watching the end of a long story from the outside.
Eventually, Father Brian stepped forward again.
The conversations faded. Chairs stopped creaking. Even the air seemed to settle.
"This will be our final prayer," he said.
He lifted his gaze toward the sky and stretched his hands outward. Droplets of holy water scattered gently in our direction, cool against my skin.
"My students," Father Brian began, his voice steady, "may God guide you along the path meant for you. Be strong, no matter what appears before you. When life pushes you down… stand tall."
He paused, allowing the words to sink in.
"And if there ever comes a time when your heart grows heavy—when your thoughts begin to drift toward ending your own life—remember this."
The courtyard was completely silent.
"You are human."
The simple statement carried more weight than any grand sermon.
"A being so precious that both demons and gods desire your soul. That is how valuable you are. So do not let your thoughts deceive you. Do not cast your life aside in a moment of pain."
I felt my fingers tighten around the degree.
"Failure," he continued, "is not proof that you are weak. Failure is life speaking to you—telling you that something went wrong, or that the road you chose was not your path."
He smiled faintly.
"But humans are remarkable beings. We adapt."
His eyes drifted across the crowd, then stopped on me.
"There are people born different—abnormal in the eyes of others—who lose their lives because of constant cruelty and bullying," he said. "But those who possess the will to live, those who refuse to surrender… they rise."
His voice softened.
"I once saw a boy who was treated as something evil. A boy pushed down, mocked, and broken. Yet he adapted. He survived. And through him, I learned what it truly means to be human."
The words felt uncomfortably close.
"We evolve," Father Brian said. "So do not give up on yourself. If you find fault within you, sit down and reflect. Learn. Change. But never abandon yourself."
He straightened, his voice growing firm.
"Stand tall. Face every hardship with courage. Fight through it. So that one day, when your descendants hear your story, they can say—my ancestor was a warrior. He faced countless failures, yet he stood again and rose beyond them, reaching higher than his limits."
A long breath passed through the courtyard.
"My students," he concluded, "I hope your lives from this day forward become greater than all the days before. Thank you… for being part of this college."
For a moment, no one moved.
Then chairs scraped back. People stood. Applause rolled through the courtyard, growing louder and louder. Whistles cut through the air, and hands clapped until the sound became overwhelming.
I remained seated, listening.
Father Brian's words echoed quietly inside me.
This wasn't just the end of school.
It felt like the beginning of something I was finally ready to face.
After Father Brian finished his speech and the applause finally settled, I didn't stay in my seat for long. The moment the ceremony officially ended, I rushed back toward my dragon family, clutching my degree tightly in my hand as if it might disappear if I let go.
"Erza, look!" I said, slightly out of breath as I reached her side. I lifted the certificate and held it right in front of her face. "I got it. Look—see? I really got it!"
She glanced down at the paper, her expression unreadable for a brief moment.
Then she frowned.
"…Tell me something," she said calmly. "Is this piece of trash paper the reason you worked so hard?"
I froze.
"Piece of—what?"
"This," she continued, tapping the certificate lightly with her finger. "This is what you were struggling for?"
"What do you mean?" I protested immediately. "This is proof! Proof that I passed—proof that I succeeded! I even got above-average marks!"
"Marks?" Erza repeated flatly. "Where are they written?"
I quickly pointed at the numbers near the bottom. "Here. Can't you see it? Seven point eight four CGPA."
"7.84…" she murmured, tilting her head slightly. "So out of ten, you scored 7.84?"
"Yes!" I said proudly, puffing out my chest. "That's good marks!"
She stared at the paper again.
Then she laughed.
Not a small laugh. A full, unapologetic one.
"That's the worst score I've ever seen," she said casually. "How can you be this stupid?"
My pride shattered instantly.
"What do you mean stupid?!" I snapped. "It's an A grade! Can't you see? This proves I'm above average!" I argued, clutching the paper tighter.
Erza crossed her arms. "If you ever scored that in my academy," she said coldly, "I would have expelled you on the spot. No discussion."
I puffed my cheeks in frustration.
"You arrogant lizard queen! How can you ruin my happiness like that?!" I snapped. "And if I ever join your so-called academy, I wouldn't be a student—I'd be a teacher."
She raised an eyebrow. "Oh?" she said. "And who would allow you to be a teacher?" Her gaze sharpened. "Just because I'm the headmaster of my academy doesn't mean I'd allow anyone to teach there—even if you happen to be my husband. And what subject would you teach? How to fight humans?"
"Nope," I replied confidently. "I'd teach dragons how to cook. So your kingdom can finally learn how to make decent food. And as for permission—I'll make you accept me and my theory."
She scoffed. "Dream on. I would never allow your so-called culinary nonsense in my kingdom."
"We'll see, lizard dragon," I said smugly.
"We will, idiot mortal," she shot back without missing a beat.
Elena, who had been watching us quietly the entire time, suddenly giggled.
"Papa and Mama are fighting again," she said happily.
I sighed.
But even as Erza and I glared at each other, I couldn't stop smiling.
Degree in hand.
Family by my side.
This… felt perfect.
(Erza POV)
Three more days.
That was all that remained.
Three more days until this so-called happy life came to an end.
I watched Yuuta laugh, his voice light and unguarded, as he proudly pointed at every subject listed on his degree. He explained each mark with exaggerated enthusiasm, as if the paper itself were a treasure worth showing again and again.
Elena giggled beside him, clapping her hands whenever he spoke too loudly or puffed out his chest in pride.
I said nothing.
I only watched.
For a moment—just a moment—I allowed myself to see it as it was. A foolish man. A laughing child. A peaceful scene that did not belong to someone like me.
Then my gaze shifted.
Behind Yuuta, slightly apart from the warmth of the moment, Fiona stood quietly. She wasn't smiling the way Elena was. She wasn't laughing like Yuuta. She was simply… waiting.
Our eyes met.
There was no need for words.
I gave her a small nod—subtle enough that no one else would notice. A silent signal.
The time has come.
No matter what happened next, we would proceed.
Fiona understood immediately. She nodded back, just as quietly, a faint smile forming on her lips—one that held more resolve than joy.
Let's see how this ends, her expression seemed to say.
I turned my eyes back to Yuuta.
He was still smiling.
And that was why it had to end.
To be continued.