Chapter 2
The bell for first period had not yet rung, but Room 9A was already alive with murmurs. Sunlight spilled across rows of polished oak desks, catching on gold-trimmed nameplates and scattering in warm pools across the marble floor. The air was faintly scented with lilies from the vases arranged along the window sills, part of the school's meticulous habit of rotating fresh flowers every morning.
Helios International Academy prided itself on the fact that no one was beneath anyone else — titles, fortunes, bloodlines meant nothing in how the teachers addressed their students. But to the students themselves, such things still mattered. They mattered in the way glances lingered, in the subtle pauses between words, in the weight of a name.
The room's buzz softened abruptly when the door opened. Mrs. Harrow stepped inside, her presence cutting through idle chatter like a taut string through water. She was not a woman of excess words — her voice, her posture, the precise cut of her charcoal suit all spoke of someone who expected the room to meet her standards, not the other way around.
"Settle down," she said, though the command was hardly necessary anymore.
She scanned the room once, as if measuring every pair of eyes before her. Then her gaze flicked to the roster in her hand, and her tone shifted ever so slightly.
"Before we begin," she said, "I'd like to introduce someone whom many of you have already heard of."
The murmurs began instantly, restrained but unmistakable. A few heads turned toward the door, others leaned back in their seats, pretending indifference.
"Vincent Blackwood."
The name didn't just land — it resonated. For some, it called to mind the sprawling Blackwood conglomerate, industries in steel, pharmaceuticals, and media. For others, it carried whispers of his father — the Italian-born magnate whose rumored dealings extended into places no newspapers printed, the so-called "King of Mafias" who never once saw the inside of a courtroom. And there were those who remembered the face of his mother, once crowned Miss Universe, still appearing in archival spreads with her soft brown hair and hazel eyes.
Vincent stepped forward.
His hair, blond with faint golden threads, caught the light as he moved. It was the shade of late summer wheat under sunlight — not pale enough to be called flaxen, not warm enough for gold, but something in between, a color that seemed alive. His green eyes, faintly brushed with hazel near the center, didn't wander restlessly. They were still, deliberate, as though he was taking in far more than the room itself.
He was tall for fourteen, though not so much that it seemed unnatural. His uniform — perfectly pressed, the blazer falling neatly across his shoulders — carried no visible crest of wealth, yet every detail, from the quality of the fabric to the understated cufflinks, whispered refinement.
Mrs. Harrow allowed the silence to linger, letting the weight of his presence settle. Then she said, "Yes, that Vincent Blackwood. The one you've likely read about, or heard mentioned over dinner tables you weren't meant to overhear. While Helios doesn't trade in gossip, it is no secret that Vincent is among the most gifted students of his generation — intellectually, strategically, and otherwise."
A few students exchanged glances, some openly intrigued, others measuring their own standing against the boy before them.
Mrs. Harrow turned toward the second row by the broad windows. "Vincent, you will take the seat beside Adrian Devereux."
Adrian looked up, his expression calm. The Devereux family, though less headline-catching than the Blackwoods, had an unbroken lineage of statesmen and scholars, their name carved into treaties, old universities, and quiet financial empires.
Vincent crossed the room without hurry. His footsteps were even, almost soundless against the marble. When he sat beside Adrian, his movements were unforced — neither guarded nor deliberately open.
Around them, the classroom returned to its low hum. Not everyone stared. In fact, most didn't — not directly. But Vincent could feel it. The quick glances, the hushed appraisals. Interest wasn't always loud.
The first lesson began. Without preamble, Mrs. Harrow turned to the board and began writing an equation — not simple algebra, but a multi-variable calculus problem that would have made most first-year university students pause.
In Helios, this was not cruelty. It was standard.
Pencils moved swiftly around the room. Vincent read the problem once. The path to the solution was clear — but more than that, the shape of other possible solutions unfolded in his mind, the way a map reveals multiple routes to the same destination. He began to write, his pen gliding across the page in precise, confident strokes.
Adrian noticed. Not just the speed, but the absence of hesitation. Vincent didn't pause to check his work because there was nothing to check — each number was placed as if it had always belonged there.
Halfway through, Vincent rewrote an entire section, not because it was wrong, but because he saw a cleaner approach. His handwriting was deliberate, each numeral formed with the same care as an artist tracing ink on parchment.
By the time Mrs. Harrow called for pens down, Vincent's page was complete — not just with the answer, but annotated with two alternative methods, each neatly labeled.
She walked past his desk, glanced at the page, and paused. "Interesting," she murmured, almost to herself. "Efficient."
There was no praise, no indulgence. Just that single word, but it was enough to make a few students glance at him again.
When the bell rang for lunch, Adrian set his pen down and studied him for a moment. "So the rumors are true," he said in a low voice, just for the two of them.
Vincent's lips curved slightly, though it wasn't quite a smile. "Rumors," he replied, "are like mirrors. They show something, but rarely the whole thing."
He rose from his seat, the sunlight catching in his hair once more, and stepped into the corridor. Behind him, the room filled again with conversation, but none of it was quite the same as before.