Evan POV
I've been chewing this over since the dungeon test, the unknown gnawing at me like a burr under the skin.
If I'd been one of those dedicated readers, the type who never drops a story and devours every chapter the moment it drops, maybe this would've been easier. I would have known the beats, the turning points, the secret auras of the world's major players.
But that's the problem with being a casual fan. You remember the broad strokes, the major plot lines, but the smaller details—the foreshadowing, the clever bits of world-building, the clues that are hiding in plain sight—are lost in the hazy blur of a half-remembered narrative.
Not knowing the plot is dangerous. If I'd known a surprise beast would appear in the dungeon, I could have prepared for it.
If I'd known where the "cheat" items were hidden, I would have taken first place. Knowing the arc ahead of time is a weapon, and I hate not having one.
So I forced my memory, fishing up every scrap of the story I could remember, even the small stuff. The little details add up. Patterns form.
Sometimes it's nothing. Sometimes it's everything. This time, it hit. The memory slid into place—not a huge, world-shaking reveal, but the kind that makes your skin crawl with a quiet sense of dread.
Princess-kidnap arc.
A low-stakes, classical cringe you still end up reading anyway.
Some shadow organization. Workers in disguise. Maintenance crews that aren't maintenance.
The plan: snatch the princess, blow up the treaty, watch the capital burn while the real players move the pieces. Simple. Brutal. Effective.
And now I'm looking at those "technicians" with new eyes. The way they spoke, the way they moved, the way they seemed so unbothered by the tedious, repetitive work—it all made sense now.
The new lamps they installed, the maintenance they performed, the constant checking of manifests and schedules—it all fit too cleanly. They weren't just replacing bulbs.
They were setting the stage. Planting the seeds of chaos in the academy's foundation.
This arc, I remember it now. Nothing groundbreaking, nothing world-shaking—just the sort of classical cringe you still end up reading anyway.
You know the type: you already know exactly how it'll end, yet you keep turning the pages, caught in the inevitability of the plot.
So, where was I? Ah, right. This arc's spotlight isn't on the protagonist, but on the elven princess—our so-called second heroine.
She's more than just eye candy for the narrative. Both in the novel and here at the academy, she's a central piece. Why? Simple: politics.
A long time ago—back when dimensional cracks still split the sky and humanity was barely crawling out of the mud—survival was a daily lottery.
Every monster wanted you dead, and every day was just another gamble with extinction. Humanity was in its infancy, a fledgling race fighting for every inch of ground. And then, out of one of those cracks, they arrived.
A new race, stepping onto this planet like they owned the place. They looked almost human, but sharper, prettier—dangerously graceful. The kind of beauty that could slice through you just as easily as a blade. And of course, the long, elegant ears. You guessed it: elves.
Here's the kicker—they're not even native to this world. They abandoned their own planet for reasons never spelled out (or maybe the author just got lazy, who knows) and decided to squat here instead. They didn't ask, they didn't negotiate—they simply arrived, an uninvited guest who then acted as the lord of the house.
Their first meeting with humans? Yeah, disaster. Picture this: elves standing tall, smug as hell, with their ethereal beauty and their condescending smiles, saying, "We're the chosen race. We live for centuries. Even our so-called loli is older than your great-grandma."
Meanwhile, humanity at the time was barely holding on with sticks and fire, their lives a fleeting wisp of smoke compared to the elves' longevity.
So when humans, in their desperation, came crawling for help, the elves looked down their perfect little noses and said, "Nah, you'll all go extinct anyway."
Arrogant. Condescending. Too busy polishing their image to care. They saw humanity as a temporary inconvenience, a fleeting anomaly that would eventually die out, so why waste their time?
But humans didn't go extinct. Far from it. Through sheer, stubborn desperation and a knack for using mana in ways the elves hadn't even considered, they clawed their way back up.
Struggle after struggle, invention after invention—from clumsy sticks to rudimentary tools, from basic fire to complex mana-infused weaponry—until one day, humanity was no longer the pitiful, fleeting race the elves had dismissed.
And that's when resentment set in.
Because if you think humans were going to forget being snubbed at their lowest point, you'd be dead wrong. They were a species fueled by defiance, by a refusal to go extinct.
They remembered every cold shoulder, every condescending look, every cruel word.
Back then, humans didn't forgive. Not when survival was on the line, not when the sting of rejection burned in their pride.
With all that pent-up rage, they stormed into elven territory, a furious, desperate swarm.
Couldn't match the adults? Fine. They went after the "kids." Except here's the thing—an elven "child" was still fifty, maybe seventy years old. Still stronger, still sharper, still more magically incline.
But in human eyes? Fair game. You can imagine how bloody things got.
That period was nothing short of carnage. Human stubbornness clashing with elven arrogance.
Blades crossing, mana flaring, corpses piling. Thousands died on both sides, and for what? Ego. Grudge. Pride. Each convinced the other race had wronged them first. The elves mourned their children, and the humans remembered their struggle.
But time wears down even the sharpest of hatreds.
After centuries of pointless bloodshed, both sides realized that if they kept it up, neither race would thrive. The world was too big, too dangerous, and their shared history was a chain pulling them both down.
So, they swallowed their pride—at least officially—and sat down to negotiate.
What came out of that was a shaky truce.
A fragile agreement hammered together from desperation and politics rather than genuine trust. On paper, it looked simple:
•Share the same world.
•Stop stabbing each other in the back.
•Pretend to be civilized.
Cohabitation, coexistence, cohesion—whatever pretty words they wanted to use.
The reality? It was a peace made of glass. One wrong move and it would shatter into a million bitter pieces.
And to "prove" this newfound friendship, the elves sent a representative.
Not just any representative—their princess. She was placed in the heart of the human realm, at the Royal Academy.
Why the academy? Because it's not just a school. It's the stage where the future of both nations is shaped.
Every noble, every prodigy, every future leader passes through its halls. If you want symbolism, you can't get any louder than that.
If the peace could be proven here, among the future of both races, it would be ironclad.
So the elven princess became more than just another student. She became the living embodiment of the treaty itself. She represents that fragile peace—delicate, precious, and irreplaceable.
Which, of course, makes her the perfect target for anyone who wants to see that peace fail. And in stories like this?
Targets always invite trouble.
So yeah, here's the thing—peace doesn't sit well with everyone. Not back then, not now.
There are still plenty of people, plenty of so-called ideologists, who don't buy into this whole "cohabitation" dream. Some scream about racial superiority, others cling to old grudges, and a few just hate the idea of compromise.
Of course, they raised their objections. Speeches, protests, political noise—you name it. And what happened? They got shut down.
Rejected. Because when the higher-ups want peace, the voices of dissent are nothing more than background noise.
But rejection doesn't kill motive. It just festers. It turns to resentment, and resentment turns to quiet plotting. And when you can't topple the system head-on, you look for cracks in it. The weak points. The pieces that hold everything together.
And what better way to test the strength of this so-called peace than to strike at its most fragile symbol?
That's exactly what these infiltrators are after. Disguised as workers, slipping in under everyone's noses, acting all professional while setting the stage. Their goal? Simple. Kidnap the princess.
Just one girl. One target.
But the chaos that'll follow? That's the real prize.
Because when the symbol of peace falls into enemy hands, even for a moment, everything else starts to crumble.
___
So yeah—everyone knows the play now: fake techs, planted lamps, a princess on a string, and the capital ready to choke on the fallout.
Cool. But where the hell do I fit into this?
Do I run squealing to the teachers? "Hey Teacher, there's a bunch of kidnappers disguised as electricians!" Right. I can see it now: Instructor pats my head, hands me a participation ribbon, then the kidnappers finish the job while we clap.
Option two: swing in as the shiny knight. Armor glints, trumpets blast, I pluck the princess from peril and get my crown of fanservice. "Don't worry, my lady—I've come to save you." Then I nibble her long elf-ears because apparently that's romance now. No. Fuck that.
Both are garbage. Predictable. Written. Played out. I refuse to be a prop in someone else's damn plot.
So what do I do?
I already had the answer before I finished asking the question.
Option No. 3: join the kidnappers. Let the princess get snatched. Walk with them. Watch them work from the inside.
Perfect. That's the kind of fucked-up move someone like me would pick.
Why? Do I have some deep-seated vendetta against elves? Nah. Not personal. I'm not a crusader. I'm doing it because it's interesting.
Because I read a drop novel once where some character—Ren, I think—slid into the kidnappers' ring and pulled off something beautiful. Why not steal that arc and make it mine? I live in a story-world—might as well write my own damn scene.
So I made my plan.
First: observe. I watched the "technicians" while they installed the lamps. Six of them. Professional on the surface, clumsy in the margins. The leader with the thick arms, the bossy tones, the quiet ones who kept their heads down. All of them had a role—but one of them gave me the kind of angle I love.
The newbie.
Not the flashy one. Not the expert. The kid they called "newbie" whenever they wanted someone to fetch, screw, or shut up.
He stuck out, not because he was special, but because he was sloppy. Little mistakes: the way he tightened a screw too hard, the way he fumbled the ritual component when they planted a lamp, the way he blinked when someone barked his title instead of his name.
They didn't use names in that crew—just ranks and functions. The leader, the tech, the lackey, the newbie.
And he had a habit I could use: cigarettes.
He'd get chewed out by academy staff for smoking on the grounds, then slink off to an isolated corner to finish his stick while he watched the sun die. He always chose the same little patch of grass, like it was his private bench.
He'd sit, light up, cough once or twice, then relax into the nicotine like everything in the world softened.
That part hit me. In my past life I'd been a smoker too. I knew the ritual—the flick, the inhale, the way the lungs unclench and the brain eases out of panic for thirty seconds.
It's such a stupid, human comfort; I recognized it instantly in him.
Perfect replacement. Perfect entry.
I'd been watching him long enough to learn his rhythms—where he went when the guards shifted, which stall he picked when he needed to disappear, how often he checked his pockets for the pack. Small things.
Tiny windows of routine most people miss. The sort of details a sloppy crew forgets to hide.
And so, I did exactly what I'd been planning in my head.
I waited until he was alone, hunched over that same patch of grass with a cheap cigarette tucked between his fingers. He coughed once, looked off at the dying sun, and let the smoke roll out like it was a prayer.
Approach like you belong. That's rule one. Don't act nervous. Don't act interested. Just slide into the scene like you own the bench.
"Hey," I said, dropping into the grass beside him like we were old drinking buddies.
He looked up, startled, then relaxed when he saw my face. Newbie didn't know me. That was part of the plan.
Then I made my move. I offered him a cigarette. Simple, harmless on the surface. That's the beauty of it: a person might refuse money, turn down women, shrug off kindness—but a smoker? A smoker almost never rejects a free cigarette. That was my gamble.
The ones I handed him weren't just regular smokes, though. On the outside, they were premium quality, smooth and fragrant—enough to make a poor man feel rich for a moment. But hidden in the mix was my little twist.
First, a touch of looseleaf herb—the kind usually given to patients with constipation.
A harmless laxative if taken normally, but when rolled into a cigarette? Let's just say it has a way of loosening gates that were meant to stay closed.
Second, a dusting of something far less innocent: the mana-suppression powder. The same trick I'd once used with Emilia.
Just a pinch, nothing that would kill him, but enough to dull his energy, sap his strength, and make him vulnerable.
Here's the thing most people don't realize: smoking isn't always about style or stress relief. For some, yes, it's a way to calm the nerves, kill time, or look cool.
But there's another type of smoker—the morning kind. The ones who light up before they've even had breakfast. Why? Because without that smoke, their body doesn't move. Literally. No cigarette, no release. The stick becomes their bathroom key.
So, put it all together: a man who depends on his cigarette, suddenly offered something richer, smoother, irresistible.
And inside that gift, a cocktail that relaxes the body and chains the mana. A perfect trap wrapped in generosity.
And so, everything I'd set in motion finally came together.
Today, I sat quietly near the guest dorm bathrooms, waiting. The spot was perfect—close enough to see, far enough to not look suspicious.
And when I saw the "newbie" rushing in, clutching his stomach like his life depended on it, I didn't even bother to move. He was too unfocused, too desperate, to notice me
.
I waited. Counted the seconds. Let him think he was safe.
Then, with a deliberate step, I moved to the door.
Knock knock.
"It's in use!" came the strained voice inside.
Knock knock.
"Hey! Didn't I say it's in use? Go use another one!"
I let the silence stretch, just enough for him to think I was gone. To let him relax, even for a moment.
Then—BAM!
My boot slammed against the door, blowing it off its weak hinges. The crash echoed through the bathroom, and there he was: the newbie, frozen mid-squat, pants down, looking like the world's most pitiful creature.
No comments. None needed.
"Oi, hola, mate! Looks like you've been… busy. Shitting like a demon, huh?"
His wide eyes snapped to me. "You…"
"So you do remember me, huh?" I grinned, tilting my head. "Well, we only met yesterday. And now… where was I? Right—simple. Let me take your place."