Julien stepped into the classroom.
Silence.
All chatter died the moment he crossed the door.
Dozens of heads turned. Some eyes narrowed. Others blinked in confusion.
Every stare landed on him like a blade.
Not awe.
Not curiosity.
Revulsion.
"What's he doing here?"
"I heard he seduced the princess."
"No way. How could a crybaby like him pull that off?"
"They say he drugged her... couldn't control himself once he was in heat."
"Then why wasn't he expelled?"
"His family pulled strings, obviously. After all, they are one of the main patrons of the academy."
"Tch. Must be nice having a family like Rothvale."
Whispers buzzed like flies around a corpse.
Julien's eyes slid past them.
'Hypocrite bastards. They should look in a mirror before talking about nepotism.'
His boots tapped against the polished stone floor, calm and deliberate. Each step echoed like a war drum through the stunned room.
He moved down the central aisle, unhurried.
Rows of students lined either side, seated in rising tiers. Their eyes tracked him like vultures.
Near the bottom, he turned right.
And without hesitation, he slid into the last seat on the row—next to the window.
The seats ahead were empty.
He sat alone.
Then, he kicked his legs up, crossing them lazily on the wooden table in front of him.
Leaned back. Shoulders slouched deep into the seat. One arm hung over the seat's edge. The other folded behind his head like a pillow.
His eyes half-lidded.
He let out a soft, idle sigh—almost like a man fighting off a yawn.
Bored. Distant. Completely at ease.
Like this wasn't a lecture hall filled with nobles. But his personal balcony seat.
That alone was enough to stir someone's pride.
Then came the voice—
Arrogant. Loud.
"You've got some balls, showing your face here after what you pulled."
Julien looked up.
The boy stood near the windows across from him—left row, far side.
Tall. Muscular. A broad-shouldered build stuffed into a uniform that strained slightly at the arms. His red hair spilled in wild waves over his brow, messy and untamed.
His jaw clenched. Eyes sharp, burning with irritation.
In old Julien's memories, there were plenty of faces like his. Too many.
Mockery. Bullying. Harassment. Cheap shots behind the back.
All pointless. All useless.
So he didn't even bother digging through the memories to check who the boy was.
Julien didn't respond. He simply sat—quiet, still, uninterested.
That silence… seemed to irritate the redhead more than any insult would've.
"You deaf and spineless?" the boy growled, stepping forward. "Or are you just so used to being on your knees, you forgot how to stand up like a man?"
Laughter rippled around the classroom.
Nervous. Uneven.
Julien raised his eyes. Calm. Flat. And then, a single sentence:
"Sorry. I don't understand barking."
The laughter died instantly.
The entire room froze.
A vein pulsed on the redhead's temple.
"What did you say?"
Julien tilted his head slightly, voice soft and lazy. "Bark louder if you want attention. I can't hear small creatures."
The boy's nostrils flared. Rage twisted his face—he looked ready to explode.
Then—
"Ahem! Please move aside."
The voice came from behind him. Smooth. Low. Feminine.
The boy jolted and stepped aside instinctively.
"Y-Yes, Senior Tristina."
She passed by him without a glance.
Tall and built like a goddess carved for war. Dark auburn hair tied in a high braid, piercing gray eyes, fair skin, and a sharp jaw framed a face as flawless as sculpted marble—emotionless.
Her hips swayed beneath the sharp lines of her academy uniform, the black pants stretched tight over the full, heavy round of her rear. Each step made the fabric flex, tracing every deep curve like she'd painted it on instead of wearing it.
Her chest was full and firm, tightly bound under the silver-lined coat, buttons strained slightly against the swell of her breasts.
Even restrained, they bounced with every step.
She walked toward Julien—and sat beside him without a word.
The scent of cool iron and something floral brushed the air as she settled into the seat.
Her presence was heavy.
Julien's memories clicked into place.
Tristina de Draker.
Youngest daughter of House Draker—a ducal family like Rothvale.
She was two years older than him.
And… his fiancée.
In old Julien's memories, she had never mocked him. Never insulted him. Even after the scandal with Elaria—when the whole kingdom spat his name like filth—she hadn't cancelled the engagement.
And yet, their interactions had been few.
Barely any words exchanged. No letters. No emotion.
But she always sat beside him.
Every class. Always at his side.
Not out of warmth. Not exactly.
But not out of obligation, either.
She didn't harm him.
But she wasn't distant.
She existed beside him like a fixed star—cold, constant, unreadable.
Even now, without a glance, she'd taken the seat beside him again.
Julien couldn't tell if it meant anything.
Did she care?
Was this some quiet loyalty?
Or was it simply a habit—something she didn't think about?
He didn't know.
And that, more than anything, left him unsure.
Moments later, the door at the bottom of the hall clicked shut.
A tall man in his late forties entered—white-haired, robed in dark academic layers, a polished pin bearing the crest of the Academy on his chest. His gait was calm, his demeanor reserved, scholarly.
He stepped onto the platform and gave a courteous nod.
"Good morning. I am Aldwain Macklin, and I will be instructing you in Continental History this semester."
His voice was smooth and refined. "There is much to learn, and too little time. I trust we can at least pretend to be serious for the first week."
A few scattered chuckles followed.
Just as he turned toward the chalkboard—
The lecture hall doors creaked open.
Elaria entered.
Her usually pristine appearance was gone.
Dark circles shadowed her eyes. Her golden hair was tied back hastily, a few loose strands falling into her face. Her posture stiff. Her pace, uneven.
She looked exhausted.
Restless. As if she hadn't slept all night.
Professor Aldwain glanced up.
"What should one do," he said mildly, "if they arrive late on their first day?"
Elaria bowed slightly. "Apologies, Professor."
He gave a polite nod. "Take your seat."
She moved quickly and quietly, slipping into a seat in the front row on the left side, her head bowed low.
Julien said nothing at first. But after a moment, a faint hum drifted from his lips—light, lazy, almost amused.
As if the sight of her ruined morning had made his day.
Class resumed.
At the Aristheia Academy, every student was required to study six subjects.
Four mandatory: Continental History, Noble Etiquette, Swordsmanship, and Laws of Lordship.
And two elective subjects, chosen at the start of each term: Philosophy, Language & Oratory, Alchemy, Beast Studies & Taming, and several others.
The first class ended within half an hour.
After a short break, the next professor arrived.
She was tall and slender, her frame wrapped in soft grays and muted silvers. A tight-fitting corset blouse paired with a long pleated skirt gave her the air of traditional nobility. Her hair was pinned into a flawless coil behind her head, not a strand out of place. She wore heels—not high, but just enough to click against the marble with delicate rhythm. Every step was precise. Controlled. As if the room were already her stage.
She introduced herself as Lenira D'Chesray with a graceful bow, hands folded. Her voice was smooth and well-trained.
"Ladies. Gentlemen. Welcome to the art that defines civilization: Etiquette. Every word you speak—every breath you take in public—will reflect your house more than your sword ever could."
Julien leaned back in his seat.
He didn't like her.
Not because her elegance was fake—on the contrary, it was polished to a fault. Weaponized. Perfect for manipulation.
He didn't like her because—
She was flat.
After being surrounded by a parade of heavy-chested women—Mira, Seraphina, Tristina, Elaria—her figure barely registered.
Even smaller than Seraphina's Dame.
Julien stared ahead, unimpressed.
Then she began walking along the aisles, speaking about poise and posture.
How a noble should sit, rise, turn, bow.
What to say, what not to say.
Her voice was smooth as silk.
But to Julien, every word felt like slow poison.
The more she spoke, the more his dislike grew.
And then she stopped.
Right near the front-right aisle—
Directly in front of Elaria.
The entire room seemed to pause.
Eyes followed.
So did Julien's.
Elaria stiffened.
"P—Professor?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Lenira's voice cut through the room, cold and clear.
"Elaria le Reinhart."
Her tone didn't rise—but the tension did.
"Were you dozing off just now? Is my class that boring to you?"
The silence turned razor-sharp.
Elaria blinked, startled. Her head jerked up, as if the words hadn't fully registered.
A beat passed. Then her mouth parted.
"P—Pardon?" she said softly, still seated—trying to keep her voice composed, unsure if she'd misheard.
But Lenira's heels had already clicked against the marble once. Then again.
She stepped closer. Face to face.
"You don't even have the basic etiquette to stand without prompting."
Her voice dropped—lower, sharper.
"Even your brother—the Crown Prince—was never this arrogant."
Elaria scrambled to her feet. "I apologiz—"
She didn't get the chance to finish.
In one swift motion, Lenira lifted her hand—and pressed her fingers just above the peaks of Elaria's breasts, through the cloth.
"And this?" she said, coldly.
"Custom tailoring? Low cuts? Messy hair?"
Her fingers slid down the fabric with surgical disdain.
"What are you trying to be—an heir... or a harlot?"
Gasps scattered like falling glass.
Elaria didn't flinch. Didn't fight.
She just stood there—eyes wide, lips parted, breathing like she'd been stabbed somewhere no one could see.
Up above, Julien leaned on his elbow, chin resting lightly against his knuckles.
He didn't know why the professor had chosen to tear apart Elaria.
But watching her suffer...
It stirred something in him.
Dark.
Amused.
Pleasure.
He tried to stifle his grin behind his hand.
It didn't help.
Then—
A pressure.
A sudden spike, like heat against the back of his skull.
Bloodlust.
Julien's eyes shifted.
Across from him—left row, near the windows—the red-haired boy was glaring straight at him.
Face twisted. Jaw clenched so tight it looked locked in place. His fists trembled at his sides, knuckles white—blood trickling from his palm where his nails had dug deep.
His breath came sharp. Shoulders rising. Falling. Twitching.
Like he was holding back murder.
Julien blinked.
Then glanced at Elaria.
And back to the boy.
A slow, knowing smirk curled at the corner of his mouth.
'Ah…'
'Don't tell me.'
A new thought flickered in his mind.
'I never expected the academy to be this fun.'