The late afternoon sun bathed the academy's garden in a warm, golden hue, casting long shadows that danced over the manicured paths. Beneath a delicate stone pavilion, Emilia Vel'Faera sat with regal poise.
Her long golden-green hair caught the sunlight, shimmering like strands of liquid gold. Her emerald eyes studied the bubbling porcelain teapot her maids had just poured, the delicate fragrance of elven tea mingling with the air—an aroma both soft and refined.
She was just about to take a sip, just as footsteps echoed through the stone path.
Her relaxed posture stiffened slightly when Ace Thornevale stepped into view.
His white hair, tied loosely behind, danced with the breeze, and his piercing, soulless white eyes scanned the area like a predator.
On each side of him walked two towering figures—both clad in black, the unmistakable aura of master-ranked warriors radiating from them like an invisible fire. Their expressions were cold, detached, and battle-hardened.
Emilia's fingers tensed around her teacup. He brought escorts?
She hadn't brought her own guards. She didn't think she'd need to. After all, she was a princess of the elven kingdom—she didn't expect intimidation from a human noble, even one like Ace. But her confidence wavered seeing his level of preparation.
To her relief, Ace stopped a distance away from the table and made a simple hand gesture. The Thornevale warriors bowed slightly and took position near the garden's edge, giving their master privacy but remaining within immediate reach.
Ace approached, his footsteps unnervingly silent. There was no rush in his movement, no sense of eagerness. Only a slow, calculating calmness. He pulled out the chair across from her with a single, effortless motion. The chair creaked softly under his weight, but it was his presence that made the sound seem to reverberate across the garden.
The maids, visibly nervous, poured him a cup of tea. He picked it up, took a sip, and set it back down without a sound.
Emilia parted her lips to speak, but before a single word escaped—
"I'll be blunt," Ace said coldly, cutting through the silence like a blade. There was no warmth, no greeting. "If you ever insult a Thornevale again… We will raze your forests to ash."
Emilia's eyes widened in disbelief. "You—!"
But before her voice could rise, something unseen pressed down on her.
A suffocating pressure bloomed from Ace.
Causing Emilia's breath caught in her throat. She gripped the edge of the table, stunned at how her magic refused to stir under that weight.
Ace stood up slowly, the chair creaking under the shift.
"You're a guest," he said, white eyes glinting like ice. "So this time, I'll let it go."
He took a single, deliberate step back
"But take this as a warning," he finished, voice dropping. "Next time… there will be consequences."
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away.
The master-ranked Thornevale warriors silently fell into step behind him.
Emilia sat frozen, fists clenched in her lap. She had expected a brat, an arrogant heir flaunting his title. But instead, she'd just met a storm cloaked in human form.
And for the first time in her life… someone silenced her.
Next Day – Second Period Class, Imperial Academy
The morning sunlight poured in through the tall arched windows, casting golden light across the vast classroom as the bell chimed, signaling the beginning of the second period.
But today, the air was different.
There was no usual chatter. No casual greetings or clattering of books.
Instead, a suffocating silence weighed heavily over the classroom, broken only by the soft scribbling of quills on parchment and the rustle of robes as students shifted uneasily in their seats. Whispers had swirled like a storm the moment the gates of the academy had opened that morning.
"He threatened the Elven Princess…"
"With two master-ranked guards behind him—"
"Does the Empire even dare touch the Thornevales…?"
The moment the tall, white-haired young man stepped into the room, all murmurs died.
Ace Thornevale entered with his usual composed gait, his white eyes flickering over the students. His uniform was sharp, his sword resting calmly at his hip—though the foul aura around it still made some of the more sensitive students instinctively shiver.
He didn't say a word.
He didn't have to.
The teacher at the podium, Sarina Kallen, faltered for just a second as her eyes met Ace's. Her breath caught mid-sentence, and she quickly resumed her explanation about magical circuit harmonization, her hand gripping the edge of the desk tighter than necessary.
As Ace moved down the aisle, every head subtly turned to follow him—some in fear, others in awe. Whispers dared not surface.
Emilia Vel'Faera, now seated elegantly near the center, briefly glanced his way.
Her expression was unreadable—part intrigue, part caution. She couldn't stop thinking about that threat, about that presence.
But someone else wasn't so silent in their mind.
Pete, the Hero, sat with his arms crossed and jaw clenched. His holy sword leaned against his desk, glinting faintly under the light.
' Why is everyone looking at him? Why not me? '
' Ace didn't smile. He didn't pose like some noble fool. He didn't even care. Yet everyone was looking at him. Talking about him. '
' Even Emilia is looking at Ace from time to time. '
' It should've been me.'
Pete didn't know when the feeling of irritation had turned into something else—a quiet jealousy. It clawed inside his chest like a creature of its own, growing bigger the longer Ace remained indifferent to everything.
He narrowed his eyes.
A glare.
Focused. Burning. Bitter.
Ace caught it in his peripheral vision—but didn't bother to turn.
He simply sat at his seat, resting one arm lazily on the desk, eyes already closed as if the world around him was beneath notice.
Pete's glare only grew colder.
He didn't realize it yet, but this wasn't justice anymore.
Just as the class was nearing its end, Sarina Kallen lowered her chalk and turned around, brushing her fingers against the edge of the desk.
"I'd like to speak to you after class, Thornevale," she said, her voice calm and polite.
The class stiffened.
Students exchanged glances. Some perked up, curious. A few nobles whispered to each other—already plotting to linger behind with their family authority to see what would happen.
Even Sarina seemed slightly reluctant as she noticed the shifting energy, but she knew what had to be done.
But before anyone could act on their curiosity, Ace didn't even lift his head as he calmly said,
"Get out."
It wasn't a shout.
It wasn't aggressive.
Just calm. Simple. Final.
And yet, it echoed like thunder.
Every student froze—and then one by one, without a word, they began packing up and filing out the door. No one questioned it. No one dared stay. Even the most privileged nobles didn't look back.
As the last few students gathered their books and bags in silence, one voice finally dared to rise above the tension.
Pete stood tall by the doorway, his chest puffed out and a confident glint in his eyes. His voice rang through the classroom with forced bravery.
"If you lay a hand on Teacher Sarina… I swear, I won't let you go."
His words echoed dramatically in the quiet room—more for the sake of his own pride than true courage. Without waiting for a response or glancing back, Pete turned on his heel and marched out.
The door clicked shut.
Sarina let out a small sigh, brushing a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "That boy…" she muttered under her breath, her tone unreadable—half amused, half exhausted.
Turning her gaze to Ace, she folded her arms. "Let's get to it."
Ace remained silent, his posture relaxed yet guarded.
After a beat, she spoke again, more measured this time. "You don't have to attend the basic swordsmanship lessons anymore. If you're interested, I can arrange for you to join the second-year advanced class. Their instructor is a master-ranked warrior. It might be more suitable for someone like you."
Ace's eyes narrowed slightly in interest.
In the book, Pete was granted to learn with the second years but only near the end of the first academic year.
Yet here he was, two days into the term, already being offered that very step.
It was also a quiet acknowledgment of how fast Pete had grown in the book, without formal training, he had reached first-rate in barely a year.
Ace tilted his head slightly, lips twitching in the barest hint of amusement. "Fine," he said quietly.
Sarina nodded, keeping her expression composed.
The next morning arrived with a soft drizzle pattering against the stone walls of the academy, soaking the training fields in a thin sheen of dew. The Second-Year Advanced Practical Swordsmanship class was already assembled, their instructor standing before them with arms crossed and a stern expression.
The Second-Year Advanced Practical Swordsmanship class was already assembled, standing rigidly in formation. The instructor, a man who seemed as carved from stone as the academy's walls, stood before them with his arms crossed, a stern expression etched into his battle-hardened face.
Dravon Lutharge was a mountain of a man, both in height and presence. His body, thick with muscle, had been sculpted by decades of brutal combat. His scars, each a testament to a lifetime lived on the edge of death, traced cruel patterns along his jaw and neck. His rough, gravelly voice often carried weight even in silence.
As Ace stepped into the training yard, every student's eyes turned toward him. Some whispered. Some stiffened.
The instructor's eyes narrowed.
"…You're the one Sarina spoke of. The first-year."
A few of the students looked confused at first—a first-year?—but when they saw the black and silver crest on Ace's uniform, their murmuring died instantly.
Thornevale.
In that instant, the weight of the name pressed down on the entire yard like a storm cloud.
Even in this class of second-years—where most were heirs to lesser noble houses and trained rigorously for over a year—none dared meet Ace's gaze.
None except one.
A tall, regal-looking boy broke through the rows of students, his golden-blond hair tied neatly at the back, emerald-blue eyes shimmering with intelligence and pride. His steps were confident—not arrogant—and his presence made the others naturally step aside.
He walked straight up to Ace, stopping just short before extending a gloved hand.
"I've been waiting to meet you," he said. "I'm Crown Prince Alric Solarian."
The words held no arrogance. There was no boastful grandeur in the tone, no hint of the self-important pomp one would expect from a royal. Instead, it was a voice that carried the weight of command, of someone born into authority yet unafraid to stand on equal footing with those around him.
Ace blinked once.
In the book, Alric Solarian, the eldest son of the Emperor—was slain during the early phases of the demonic war.
His younger sister, Catherine, protected by hero, survived. After Alric's death, she eventually became the crown princess.
But Ace remembered well that Alric was no fool. Eccentric, yes. But insightful. Visionary.
The boy before him now held none of the arrogance of pampered royals. Instead, there was an intensity in his eyes—a desire to be free from the rot of court, to reshape the Empire like the Thornevales duchy where only the word of head matters, nobody dares refute.