Time crawled, a sluggish, identical blur, but with each day dragging toward Sunday, so did the creeping chaos in the shadows.
Saturday came, lectures finally died down, and the tedious routine of academy life ended.
Students scattered—some trudging back to their dorms, others hurrying to catch a ride home if they lived close enough.
The golden light of late afternoon slanted through the grand arches of the campus, painting the scene in a peaceful, almost idyllic glow.
But the work didn't stop.
"Hey, look at that—the lamps are shining beautifully, huh?"
"Oi, this one's not working."
"Do your job properly, dumbass. Don't just stand there looking for something to bitch about."
The banter was rough and familiar, a well-worn rhythm of complaints and insults that was as much a part of their uniform as the dirty coveralls they wore.
When the day's work finally wrapped up, the crew trudged back to their designated rest quarters, their bodies aching with the exhaustion of forced labor.
All except one.
He didn't follow the herd. Instead, he slipped into a quiet, isolated corner behind the campus's old arboretum.
The air was cool here, fragrant with the scent of damp earth and old leaves. The spot was his sanctuary, a small pocket of peace where he could be alone with his thoughts.
"Haaah… fuck this life," he muttered, the words a weary exhalation.
A cigarette slipped between his lips, a familiar comfort. With a flick of his lighter, a small flame danced to life, illuminating the tired lines on his face for a brief moment. Smoke curled upward, a thin, ghostlike wisp in the evening air.
"Can't believe I can't even smoke while working. Fucking academy staff, always nagging—'Don't smoke on academy grounds, students might see and get influenced.'"
He spat to the side, the sound a small, defiant protest. "Like I give a shit if these pampered brats see me. What, you think I'm out here trying to recruit them? 'Hey kid, wanna ruin your lungs like me?' Pfft… bunch of pricks."
He leaned against the rough bark of a sycamore tree, letting the cigarette burn low between his fingers.
The work was done for the day, at least on paper. The new mana lamps were in place, the tools were packed, and the uniforms were shed. Tomorrow was the day. The day the masquerade ended and the real job began. For now, this was his little escape.
A soft rustle of leaves snapped his head to the side. The grass stirred near a cluster of ferns.
He saw nothing, just the faint tremor of wind. Probably just an animal, he thought, cursing under his breath. He took another drag, letting the familiar taste of cheap tobacco fill his mouth.
Then—tap.
A hand on his shoulder.
"Shit!" he jumped, the cigarette tumbling from his fingers.
A boy stood there. Black hair, cut short but styled with a casual grace, framed a face that was impossibly young. His eyes, the color of wet slate, held a lazy but composed expression that screamed 'noble brat.'
"What's with the reaction?" the boy asked, unimpressed.
The man grunted, picking up his cigarette. "What the hell are you doing here?"
"That's my question," the boy shot back without blinking. "This is my spot. I come here every evening. And now you're sitting in it."
The man scoffed. Tch, a damn student claiming grass like it's his territory. Still, he didn't want trouble. "Didn't know. I'm done anyway, so I'll be going."
"Not so fast." The boy reached into the pocket of his tailored academy uniform, his movements fluid and deliberate.
He pulled out a sleek silver pack of cigarettes and shook one free. He held it between two fingers, casual and effortless. "Take it."
The man frowned, confused. "What?"
"You smoke, don't you? I can smell it on you from ten feet away. Go on."
"I… yeah, I do." He hesitated, then reached into his own pocket, pulling out a cheap, crumpled pack that felt embarrassing in his hand.
The boy's gaze flicked to it with disdain, and a ghost of a smirk played on his lips.
He plucked the cheap pack from the man's hand and tossed it aside, where it landed with a soft rustle. "This garbage? No wonder you smell like a roadside drunk. Try mine."
He flicked a custom-engraved lighter, its flame a steady, clean blue, and offered it to the man.
The man stared for a second, then, against his better judgment, gave in.
He lit up and took a long drag. The difference was immediate and shocking—sharp, bitter at first, then smooth with a cooling mint finish that left a clean aftertaste on his tongue.
The nicotine washed over him stronger than anything he'd ever bought. He exhaled slowly, watching the thick smoke curl around the boy's unbothered face. "Damn. That's… good."
The boy's smirk widened. "Premium. Next time, don't poison yourself with gutter tobacco."
The man chuckled awkwardly, a genuine sound of surprise. "You talk like you've been smoking longer than me."
"Maybe I have. Or maybe I just don't settle for cheap things." The boy took a drag from his own cigarette, the glowing ember a tiny, hungry eye in the dim light.
He exhaled without a care. "By the way, one of your lamps isn't working. The one near the east walkway."
"We already fixed that," the man muttered, a defensive edge in his voice.
"Then fix it again." The boy's tone didn't rise, but it left no room for argument. It was the cold, flat sound of unquestionable authority. "The academy doesn't tolerate sloppy work. And neither do I."
The man narrowed his eyes. "You don't sound like a student."
The boy turned his gaze on him, and the smile vanished. His face was a mask of cold indifference, his grey eyes unreadable "And you don't sound like a worker. Funny, isn't it?"
The silence that followed pressed heavier than the smoke in the air, a tension so thick it was almost tangible.
The man forced a laugh, a hollow, rattling sound. "Anyway… I should get going."
The boy flicked ash onto the grass, his attention seemingly elsewhere. "Do that. And don't linger around here again. This is my time, my spot. You understand?"
"…Yeah. Got it." The man crushed the cigarette butt under his heel, its glowing ember a final, silent protest against the dirt.
As the man walked away, he still felt the weight of those cold grey eyes on his back. That student… wasn't normal. He was too poised, too calm, too old for his age.
"Hey," the boy called after him. "Catch."
Instinctively, the man turned. Something small flew his way—a blur of silver against the deepening twilight.
He caught it with both hands and blinked, staring at the object in his palm. A full, untouched pack of the same premium cigarettes.
"Take it," the boy said, a lazy grin tugging at his lips once more. "A gift. From this young master… to a common flock." His tone was light, but it carried that smug, casual authority only a noble could make sound natural. "Now—where's my thanks?"
The man hesitated. His pride stung, a hot, bitter twist in his gut, but—who rejects cigarettes? He bowed his head slightly, a small, deferential gesture. "…Thank you, generous young master."
"Yeah, yeah." The boy waved him off, clearly done with the exchange. "Now run along. Don't loiter."
The man slipped the pack into his pocket and left quickly, his boots crunching on the gravel path. He didn't dare look back.
Behind him, the boy leaned against the tree, smoke curling around his face. The cigarette glowed faintly in the dimming light, as if nothing unusual had happened.
As the man's footsteps faded and the distance between them stretched into silence, the boy finally dropped the act.
He pulled the cigarette from his lips, a grimace on his face.
"Cough—cough—haaah… damn it." He winced, rubbing his chest. "Should've guessed. After so long, my lungs can't handle this crap."
He studied the burning stick between his fingers, the faint ember swaying with the breeze.
"In my past life, I was addicted. Chain-smoker till the end." His lip curled, half bitter, half amused. "Now? Fresh body, clean start… and I'm already dragging old habits back."
He exhaled sharply through his nose, a puff of air. "Tch. Should I quit… or keep going? Doesn't matter. Either way, it's still me."
For a while he simply stood there, eyes following the drifting smoke against the darkening sky. The academy, with its peaceful lights and silent halls, seemed to be holding its breath. Then his expression shifted, colder, more thoughtful.
"Anyway… looks like the story's finally moving." His gaze narrowed, distant, as though he could already see the threads of fate unraveling before him. "The classic plot's about to unfold. The hero's journey, the damsel in distress…"
He chuckled under his breath, a cynical, humorless sound.
"So… what role do I play this time? Do I intervene? Or just watch the stage burn?"
The words lingered in the quiet, like smoke that refused to fade.
----
--
The next day, Sunday, a false peace lay over the academy grounds.
They'd spent days wearing the worker act like a second skin—ladders, lamps, fake uniforms—and now, with the campus quiet, everything was in place. In their cramped dorm-room hideout, the air tasted of adrenaline and cheap whiskey, a potent cocktail of fear and anticipation.
aces were tight, hands jittery. No one wasted words.
"All right, everyone," the leader barked, his voice low and tight. "You all know the plan. Do I need to repeat it?"
"Nope." A chorus of bored murmurs and sighs. They'd heard it enough to recite it in their sleep.
"Good. Prep's done. Everything's set in motion." He paced a slow circle, his eyes, dark and sharp, checking the faces in the room more than their equipment.
"Today's Sunday—teachers are off-site or asleep in their wards. Guard rotations are thin. It's the perfect window. First target: the girls' dorms. We move fast. We move clean."
"Yeah!" a few of them spat, the bravado thin and brittle, a fragile shell over their nerves.
"Don't get cute," the leader snapped, his gaze sweeping over them like a blade. "We're not doing this for kicks. We move on the perfect opportunity, we grab the target, and we vanish. We're in, we're out. No heroes. No martyrs."
"Boss—what about academy security? Soldiers, patrols, teachers?" someone asked, their voice tight with worry.
"You weren't listening when we installed the lamps?" the leader shot back, his tone laced with a cold sarcasm. "Those things weren't just lamps. They're artifacts the organization handed us. We planted them in instructor wards and security posts during the night shifts. When we flip the trigger, those wards isolate their posts—create a temporal distortion barrier that keeps reinforcements from coming fast. If they try to break through it, fine. We've already timed that. By the time they dig through, we'll be gone."
"Right, but what about the students? They'll freak out. They'll run." another man worried, wringing his hands.
"So what? Some brat or two?" The leader's voice was as cold as a stone. "Did I not tell you we took measures? We've got crowd routes on the feed. We've staged distractions. We made sure the dorm areas will be half-empty. And if any kid gets in the way—move them, don't kill them. We don't need the attention that comes with a body count."
Silence. Everyone nodded, some more convincingly than others. The reality of what they were about to do, the sheer scale of the chaos they were about to unleash, was settling in, a heavy weight in the room.
"Questions?" the leader asked.
"Uh—" The newbie's hand shot up, his voice small and trembling. "Boss… can I—uh—use the loo? My stomach's acting up."
A few snorts, half-laughter, half-relief, rolled around the room. "You nervous?" someone teased, elbowing him.
"Look, go. But don't take forever." The leader's tone softened only a touch, a brief flicker of weary understanding. "If you're gonna puke, do it quick. We leave in twenty."
The newbie scrambled up, muttering a frantic thanks, and practically sprinted from the room, leaving behind the heavy silence and the grim preparations.
The others refocused, tightening straps, checking the weight of their knives, steadying their breaths.
Outside the window, the academy lay golden and peaceful—unaware, quiet—the perfect mask before the storm.
"Remember," the leader said as they fell into a final silence. "Fast in, faster out. Stick to the plan. No heroics. If any of you make noise, we cut the loss and move. Understood?"
"Understood," the room answered, but the words didn't erase the tremble under a few voices. The adrenaline was a living thing in the room now, a silent, electric charge that promised violence.
___
As the others finished their work, the newbie practically sprinted through the halls, his heart hammering against his ribs.
He nearly burst into the toilets and slammed the door behind him with a thud, leaning against it, his breath coming in ragged gasps.
"Haaah… what's going on today? Why's my stomach acting up? I didn't eat anything fishy… am I really this nervous for… what?" he muttered to himself, his voice a frantic whisper.
This is it. Do the job. Make a name. Climb in the ranks.
He tried to focus, to calm his racing heart, but the door was knocked.
"Knock knock."
"It's in use!" he shouted, his voice cracking with nerves.
"Knock knock."
"Hey! Didn't I say it's in use? Go use another one!"
Then silence. Whoever it was had gone. A wave of relief washed over him, and he took a deep, shuddering breath.
"Fuu… let's finish quickly. Better not be late."
The only sound now was the occasional drip of water from a leaky faucet. Then—a loud, jarring thud.
"Huh?"
The toilet door flew off its hinges, splintering against the tile wall with a deafening crack.
He looked up, stunned, only to see a familiar face standing in the doorway. A boy with black hair, grey eyes, and a look of cold amusement on his face.
"Oi, hola mate! Looks like you've been… busy. Shitting like a demon, huh?" the boy teased, his voice lazy and unbothered.
"You…"
"So you do remember me, huh? Well, we only met yesterday," the boy said with a smirk, stepping over the splintered wood. "So, where was I? Hmm… simple. Let me take your place." The boy's gaze moved from the newbie to the window, his eyes narrowed in cold calculation.