The crowd's noise blended into a dull hum—cheers, whispers, even the occasional gasp—but none of it mattered.
The sounds of their judgment, their confusion, their excitement, were all just static in my ears. My gaze never left Emilia, the delicate figure in the front row.
Her face was pale, lips trembling, eyes glistening like she was about to cry. Pathetic.
And yet, watching her like that only made the urge worse. A primal, dark impulse, a surge of adrenaline that tightened every muscle in my body. God, if you knew how hard it is to keep myself from walking over there and beating the ever-living hell out of her.
Every muscle in me twitched with the thought. My fists, already raw from the ground, clenched and unclenched.
But then my mother's words echoed in my head: "A man should never raise his hand against a lady." It's the only leash holding me back, the thin thread of morality I still cling to. Not because I respect her. No. But because those words are carved too deep in me to ignore. They were the one rule I hadn't broken.
If this world had a facility for sex-change operations, I swear I'd be the first to drag her there. Strip away the one excuse protecting her, the fragile, useless shield of her femininity, and then finally—finally—I could teach her what it feels like to break.
Instead, here I am. Standing still. Breathing in, breathing out. Pretending I have control. But it's a joke, really. Because inside, I'm still seething. Still irritated. Still imagining how good it would feel to let go, just once.
"Fuu…" With a quiet sigh, a sound of profound exhaustion, I turned on my heel and walked away, not bothering to spare another glance.
Miss Natasha and Harrison were whispering among themselves, voices low, no doubt trying to decide if they should address what just happened.
They probably knew exactly what went down. They had to. They were instructors of the most prestigious academy in the world; a simple mana surge like that wouldn't go unnoticed. But neither had the guts to say it outright, to call out the so-called heroine in front of a crowd.
I ignored them. Ignored everything. Just kept walking, a man on a mission to disappear.
"H-Hey! Why are you coming closer again—?!" Lucas's voice croaked, weak and panicked. He was sprawled out on the floor, right in my path, his broken body a testament to my earlier rage.
I didn't answer. It wasn't a question that needed one. My boot pressed down on his stomach as I walked past, a small, vindictive act of contempt.
"Aagh—fuck, yo—!" He choked, curling up, but I didn't even turn my head. He was a non-entity, a piece of trash that had served its purpose and was now in the way.
My steps carried me toward the exit, each one heavier than the last, my irritation boiling higher. I just wanted to leave. Just get out.
"Evan, stop!" Ryan's voice cut through the noise. "Hey, buddy, wait! Man, explain—what the hell was that? What did you just—"
"Ryan." I stopped only long enough to snap back, my voice low and sharp, a venomous hiss. "Shut your fucking mouth for a second."
He froze, his expression of concern twisting into one of pure shock.
"Just… leave me alone. I'll explain later. For now, let me breathe. Let me be."
"At least let us take you to the healer—"
I didn't hear the rest. Or rather, I refused to. Their shouts faded into the background, drowned out by the pounding in my ears.
My stride never faltered. Step after step, I reached the hall's doors, shoved them open, and the instant I crossed the threshold—
Mana surged. It swept around me in a violent ripple, racing through my veins, a raging torrent that felt like it was tearing me apart from the inside. It burst outward as if my very body was rejecting the restraint I had forced upon it. My magic, usually so calm and obedient, was in revolt, screaming its fury into the open air.
And still, I didn't stop walking.
I walked until the echoes of the crowd were gone, until the polished stones of the academy gave way to a quiet, solitary corridor. I walked until I felt like I was far enough—out of everyone's sight, out of their whispers—and then, finally, I snapped.
"Fuuucckkk!!" I swore loud, my voice cracking through the empty air as my fist slammed into the pillar in front of me. The stone split under the blow, pieces breaking off, but I didn't stop. I kept punching. Again. Again. Each strike harder, faster, until the pain in my knuckles and the rage in my heart blurred together into one single, destructive force.
"All this time… all this fucking time, I played the good fiancé. The good future husband. I learned the lines, I wore the mask, I was the perfect, charming prince. And for what? For this?!" My voice was a broken whisper, raw with fury.
My knuckles bled, skin tearing as shards scattered around my feet, but the anger didn't care. It demanded more. I drove my fist in again, spitting words between heavy breaths.
"I had the face—the fucking handsome face—the one that makes any lady's knees go weak just thinking about me. I had it all, the charm, the smile, the perfect script. And yet… she still did this."
The pillar groaned, cracks running deeper as I leaned in and slammed my fist one last time.
"Fuck!"
The stone finally gave way, chunks crashing down, dust choking the air around me. My chest heaved, sweat dripping down my brow, but the bitterness in my voice cut sharper than any wound.
"A good-looking face. Fucking wealth. A noble household grander than most. All of that—and still, I couldn't change her heart."
My voice dropped lower, breaking into a harsh whisper.
"Because the one she chose… wasn't me."
The words lingered, sour and venomous, until even the silence felt heavy.
Then came the sound of footsteps—fast, hurried, echoing closer with each second. I didn't turn. Didn't even twitch. I didn't need to look. I already knew whose steps they were. And honestly? I couldn't bring myself to care.
The footsteps stopped. A small, shaking figure stood just behind me.
"E-Evan…" Emilia's voice trembled as she stepped into view, her gaze falling on the wreckage I'd left behind. Her eyes widened even further when they landed on me—on my bleeding fists, on the cuts across my chest.
"Eva—Evan, you're bleeding."
"Yes, yes," I muttered, a crooked grin twisting my lips, "I'm on my period right now."
"P-Please, Evan, don't joke like that." Her voice cracked as she rushed closer. "Let me heal you first—"
Her hand reached for me. Instinctively, I slapped it away. My hand stung, and so did her cheek, a faint red mark appearing where my palm had made contact. She flinched, her eyes wide with shock and hurt, and then a torrent of words spilled out, broken and desperate.
"Please, Evan! I'm sorry, I'm truly, really sorry!" she cried, her words spilling out, broken and desperate. Warm tears streamed down her face as she choked on her own breath. "I—I don't know what possessed me! I just… I couldn't bear it, I couldn't stand it, I don't even know why I did it, but please… please listen! I never intended to—"
I cut her off with a hollow laugh, my voice sharp and bitter. The tears meant nothing to me. They were a performance, a cheap imitation of genuine remorse.
"Please, Lady Nightshade… why waste your tears on someone else?"
"Please, Evan, don't say things like that!" she sobbed harder. "I can't—so please—"
"Haaah…" I let out a weary breath, my body heavy, my gaze emptier than ever. The anger had burned itself out, leaving only a hollow ache. "Look at me, Ema."
She did. Trembling, shaking, as her tear-filled eyes met mine—cold, hollow, stripped of warmth.
"As much as I want to believe your sweet, sugar-coated words right now… I just can't." My voice dropped low, a whisper edged with bitterness. "Because you didn't do this for me. You did it for him. You just couldn't stand to see your little hero lose. Isn't that right?"
Emilia's lips trembled, her eyes wide—pleading, desperate, searching for the right words. She wanted to deny it, to throw back some excuse, anything. But I didn't let her.
"So, Ema… I'm not requesting anymore. I'm begging you. Please—just leave. I'll talk with you tomorrow. But for now… leave. No more words."
As the last nails sealed the coffin of my words, I lingered there for just a moment… before turning away. I left her behind—left the crying lady and her beautiful tears staining the floor.
My fingers moved instinctively, brushing through my smooth black hair, smearing streaks of crimson into it from my bleeding knuckles. Did it look cool? Maybe. Probably. But honestly—who cares? Not me. Not right now.
My steps were heavy. My walk, quiet.
My destination? Somewhere further ahead—my dorm room.
Yes, classes weren't over. The school day still went on. But I didn't give a single fuck about that right now. Why should I? I had just ruined something… something I never wanted to ruin. And yet, I couldn't undo it.
Not now.
Not ever.
As my heavy steps dragged me toward the dorm, even the shining green grass underfoot looked dulled, like it had lost its life just because I was walking over it. Yeah, I was walking on the grass, not the stone path right next to it. Didn't care. My mind was too far gone to care about neatness or rules.
The dorm finally stood in front of me. My destination. My so-called safe place. I didn't bother knocking—why should I? This was my room. My space. I pushed the door open and shut it behind me with a dull thud.
"Who's there?" a voice came, sharp, cautious.
Roselyn stepped out—not in her maid attire, but dressed in formal clothes. She froze the moment her eyes landed on me, on my state. She took in the disheveled clothes, the blood on my shirt, the dark smudges on my face.
"Ooo, look at that," I said, forcing out words like I had any energy left to joke. "Ain't you looking much more beautiful in casual dress? You should walk around more in those."
Her eyes widened, panic sparking like fire. "Young master, what happened to you—" she rushed to me, practically rising on her toes, her voice breaking with panic. "What happened? Why are you like this? What happened, did someone attack you? I will call the lord—"
"Relax." I cut her off, shaking my head. "Just some usual duel. Nothing more."
She didn't look convinced. "Please, young master, what kind of duel could do this to you—"
"Shush." I raised a finger, pressing it lightly against her lips. My blood smeared against her skin, staining her. "You talk too much. And you always use 'please' for everything, huh?"
"You—Young master…" her voice cracked, caught between worry and wanting to argue.
"That's enough. Just a few injuries. Nothing more." I sighed and leaned back against the chair. "Go. Take out some medicine, portions, whatever. Do the treatment. Do you understand?"
She hesitated, then nodded quickly. "Ye-yes, young master."
No more words. She disappeared into the small storage space and came back with a wooden box filled with bandages, bottles, and poultices. She didn't waste time. Kneeling before me, she began tending to my wounds with delicate, shaking hands.
Every time the cloth touched my skin, she flinched—like the pain belonged to her instead of me. Her eyes carried it all, like she was the one bleeding, not me.
I just sat there, silent. Cooperating, not resisting.
"Hash," I let out, voice low and bitter. "Truly, the taste of defeat is quite bitter, ain't it?"
I didn't expect an answer. I already knew.
The silence stretched, heavy but oddly comforting. Her hands kept moving, bandaging, pressing, applying medicine.
I closed my eyes, letting the sting of alcohol seep into me, grounding me more than her touch did. I didn't feel the sharp, bitter rage anymore. It had been replaced by a hollow emptiness. The defeat was not of my body, but of my spirit. I had tried to play by the rules, and for that, I had been betrayed.
Later that night, I drifted onto my bed, body heavy, mind blank. No thoughts, no strength to hold onto any. Just emptiness. The fight was over. The performance was done.
Tomorrow would come.
And with it, whatever hell waited.
For now… just blankness.