The weeks after the ruin exploration dragged on like a slow, suffocating countdown, the air of the floating islands growing progressively hotter and more humid as the extended May holiday approached. Aria worked without pause or rest in the secret hideout she herself had carved into the underside of our peripheral island—a camouflaged dock beneath rocky cliffs, where tiny worker robots, fabricated from parts salvaged from the ancient ruins, assembled the airship piece by piece. The overpowered structure took shape slowly but relentlessly: a reinforced hull made of lost alloys that absorbed ambient mana for total stealth, retractable plasma cannons hidden along the sides, a luxurious internal cabin with intuitive controls designed for a single pilot. Real independence materializing—a personal flying base, far from the clutches of the matriarchal family, ready to take me wherever I wanted without becoming a trophy or servant to some arrogant heiress.
Meanwhile, my Vital Points fluctuated dangerously between 6500 and 7200, kept high thanks to the intense, hidden nights with Lila. The commoner servant had truly become a permanent partner—addicted to the system just as much as I was to the need, returning to my room every night with hungry brown eyes and a body trembling in anticipation. Simple uniform tossed on the floor, muffled moans against the pillow as I took her hard and without mercy on the creaking bed, multipliers making every session yield high: +800 for repeated vaginal, +1200 when anal became routine, her begging hoarsely for deeper, faster, nails digging into my back. The system addicts both sides—she came multiple times, body convulsing like she never wanted to stop, and I gained weeks of extended time. But the consumption ticked relentlessly in the back of my mind, 1 point per minute, a constant reminder that stopping meant a slow, painful death.
My mother, always calculating and cold, accelerated all the plans after I showed her the rank C mana core from the guardian beast. She sold part of the ruin loot—scales for armor, claws for enchanted blades—for enough to send me to the central academy as the "promising Awakened of the Bartfort family." Official guild registration, new male student uniform (simple gray fabric, no rich mana embellishments), passage on a crowded merchant airship full of minor nobles and scholarship commoners. Jenna mocked me until the last second at the mansion gate, her sharp, venomous voice echoing in the dusty courtyard.
"You'll end up a sex toy for some sadistic duchess, useless mob. Don't shame the Bartfort name by coming back enslaved or worse."
I ignored her venom, backpack slung over my shoulder with the essentials—sword upgraded with beast claws, basic potions, and Aria floating invisibly at my side in stealth mode, her single red eye blinking only for me occasionally. The airship journey lasted days, strong winds rocking the rusted hull, views of floating islands passing below like a sea of green and stone suspended in the infinite sky.
I finally landed on the kingdom's massive central island—Holfort proper, the pulsing heart where the academy rose imposingly with interlinked floating towers connected by mana bridges, hanging gardens full of exotic flowers that glowed at night, aerial duel arenas where student airships collided in brutal simulations. The air here was pure and rich in ambient mana, unlike the dry, poor periphery—breathing easy, body invigorated just from being in the place. But the social oppression hit harder: noble female students parading in elegant uniforms with golden details, commanding groups of male servants or loyal Awakened; men following like useful shadows or gleaming trophies, eyes lowered so as not to challenge.
As a poor peripheral-origin mob Awakened, I was assigned to the basic male dormitory—a gray, functional building at the back of campus, cramped rooms shared by four, hard wooden beds with thin mattresses, view overlooking the training fields where men toiled under female instructors' orders. No bombastic events or dramatic triggers for someone like me yet—in the "game" timeline I knew from my previous life, the main protagonist was probably arriving or had already met the five shining capture targets, setting romantic flags, the rival villainess likely debuting with classic lines like "Know your place, commoner!" to the scholarship girls.
I skipped those boring texts in my first playthrough of my previous life, so the main story details are blurry in my memory. Better to avoid the spotlight anyway—stay in the shadows, observe, use meta knowledge to survive without turning into cannon fodder or a marriage slave.
I adjusted quickly to the oppressive daily routine: morning classes on basic mana theory (where men sat in the back, women up front), mandatory physical training for males—runs on floating tracks, simulated duels with enchanted weapons where Awakened like me served as "utility" for the female students to practice commands. I spent hours talking with two guys in the same shit as me—Daniel and Raymond, peripheral nobles from agricultural islands like mine, poor families with no mana for luxuries, bodies toned from years of manual labor in the fields, plain faces that didn't stand out at all among the shining capture-target princes.
We often sat on an old bench in the wide campus courtyard, under tall mana trees whose flowering leaves scattered pink petals on the polished stone ground, sweet scent mixed with the smell of distant training sweat. We discussed the inevitable bullshit of being a man in this academy—and in the whole kingdom.
"The tea party at the start of May… fuck, what the hell are we even supposed to do?"
Daniel asked worriedly that particular afternoon, scratching his short, messy brown hair, arm muscles flexing under the simple uniform. He was the tallest of the three, voice deep with the same peripheral accent as mine.
"The women completely relax during the long holiday—they go to exclusive floating spas, private parties on summer islands, banquets on their own airships. Us men? We're obligated to invite some girl to a dance, tea, or social event. Otherwise, we get labeled 'socially defective.' Single or without a good invitation by graduation? Damaged goods, nobody wants to marry you, career dead."
Raymond snorted bitterly beside him, slouched lazily against the bench, tired black eyes watching the female students passing in the distance—groups laughing loudly, hair gleaming in the sun, uniforms accentuating curves.
"Exactly. Wrong invitation and it's public humiliation—invite someone too high-ranking, she laughs in your face or uses you as a tea servant for a day. Invite someone too low, her friends mock you and your reputation sinks even lower. I barely have coins for a decent gift, let alone mana to impress."
I nodded slowly, mind racing as I processed the familiar script. In the original game, events like the tea party triggered romantic routes for the protagonists—balls, confessions, jealousy duels. For mobs like us, it was pure social trap: slim chance of climbing by marrying a mid-tier noble, or risk of becoming an eternal joke.
"We choose with extreme caution. Target someone of similar rank—daughters of peripheral baronets, ambitious scholarship commoners. Avoid the campus tops: the rival villainess, the protagonist's friends, Prince Julian and the four main capture targets with their radiant auras."
They laughed lowly, the sound as bitter as my internal cynicism.
"You know all the rumors and names, Shade. Like you've been playing this board your whole life before you were even born."
I smirked sideways, revealing nothing. I did know—previous-life memory saving the day.
But as we talked, the hunger grew slowly and treacherously in my veins, a low heat rising out of nowhere. Points at 6380 now, consumption gnawing constantly without Lila nearby—academy strictly gender-separated, dorms watched, nighttime meetings impossible without risk of expulsion. Primal desire whispering louder with every hour, the Beast brushing the edges of control, random poison threatening to trigger at the worst possible moment.
A scholarship girl passed close to the bench—ordinary commoner, discreet but attractive curves under the standard uniform, brown hair tied back practically, eyes lowered to avoid the noble groups. Quick, innocent glance in our direction, interface flashing teasingly immediately: [Elevated potential task: Intimate touch with virgin student — estimated 250 points. (She's tight, innocent, perfect for quick relief. Imagine her moaning your name.)]
Heat exploded hard in my veins, heart racing, hands trembling subtly on the bench, cock hardening against my will under the uniform.
Fuck, not here. Not in the crowded courtyard. Not yet.
I breathed deep, forcing control. The party was approaching fast. Social events triggering everything. And at night, heavy sleep creeping in—subtle tease of a cold mechanical voice in the back of my mind, the Second Nightmare lurking.
Time running double: points and fate.