The classroom's tension had only just eased from the chaos of introductions when their instructor announced the final task of the day—choosing a group leader. The declaration fell like a stone into Connor McCloud's chest.
Without hesitation, Professor Master Muscle declared the choice already made. The leader would be Connor.
Shock struck him silent, then came protest. He had never led anyone before. He had no desire to. His protests carried weight, for he pointed out the obvious—how could a common-born mercenary command an Imperial princess? Wouldn't every order he gave risk sparking a political storm that might even stain his mercenary band?
For a moment, hope stirred. The professor paused, considering. Perhaps Connor's words had found purchase. But Myael Astaroth herself shattered that fragile escape. With calm authority, she swore upon her family name that his leadership would not bring conflict to the Carleo Mercenaries. Her vow bound her as firmly as chains of iron.
The others followed suit. Lug approved of a mercenary's pragmatism. Anastasia, though wrapped in delusions of grandeur, accepted him with eerie enthusiasm. Lanius had no objections. Whipney, of course, remained asleep, her silence meaningless against the overwhelming consensus.
Cornered, Connor turned inward, questioning the echo of Kyle, the Regressor bound to him. But even the future offered no escape. He had been a leader before—and would be again.
Defeat weighed heavy on his shoulders. The mantle of leadership was his, not by ambition but by the crushing will of circumstance.
That night, far from the classroom, Myael sat in her dormitory atop Black Scale Hall, her maid Kur tending her hair. Kur was no ordinary servant. Beneath her composed exterior lay draconic wings and a tail wrapped in black scales—signs of her true bloodline. Only in the safety of their chambers did she reveal them, stretching with relief after a long day.
Their conversation drifted to Connor. Myael confessed openly: she wanted to know everything about him. His strange unease in her presence. His impossible victory in their match. His mysterious rune magic that silenced her demon blade. For her, curiosity was a fire that could not be quenched until all was laid bare.
Kur teased her with sharp words but also promised quiet support. If vengeance was needed, she would act. Yet Myael refused. If she were to confront Connor again, it would be by her own hand. Still, Kur's thoughts lingered darkly—how best to repay the one who had humiliated her beloved lady?
Elsewhere, deep in the principal's office, Professor Master Muscle stood before Principal Parcaso. The old man's questions were simple, but their weight lingered.
What was his impression of Connor?
The professor admitted what he had seen—unease, resistance, and above all, fear. Connor was not rejecting the work of leadership but the very concept of it. It was a fear unlike that of ordinary students.
The principal only smiled, speaking in cryptic riddles. To him, Connor was like a moth that knowingly flew into flames. Yet he wondered aloud: what if this one could escape without burning?
In the silence that followed, the principal whispered of what he had seen during the match—runes, ancient and unknown. His painter's soul longed to study them, for they were a mystery even fire could not consume.
And so, the academy's interest in Connor McCloud deepened, even as he bore a burden he never wished to carry.