Leonhardt did not return to the estate immediately.
Instead, he allowed the capital to absorb him.
The streets near the academy were crowded in the late afternoon, students dispersing into cafés, bookstores, and shaded walkways that catered to young nobles with time to waste and futures to posture about. Leonhardt moved among them without destination, his pace neither hurried nor idle.
He stopped when raised voices cut through the ambient noise.
Not angry.
Excited.
A small crowd had gathered near the edge of a public square, attention focused inward. Leonhardt recognized the cadence before he saw the face.
Caelum Brightward stood at the center.
He was speaking to a merchant—an older man with flushed cheeks and animated gestures. A crate lay overturned nearby, its contents scattered across the stone.
In the novel, this scene ended badly.
The merchant accused a student of damage. Tempers flared. Caelum intervened too forcefully. Guards were called. The incident earned him a quiet reprimand and his first lesson in restraint.
Leonhardt slowed.
This time, Caelum listened.
He let the merchant speak uninterrupted, nodding at the right moments. When he finally replied, his voice carried just enough volume to reach the surrounding onlookers without sounding performative.
"I understand your frustration," Caelum said. "Let me make this right."
He knelt without hesitation, gathering fallen goods and placing them carefully back into the crate. One of his companions produced a pouch—coin exchanged hands.
The merchant blinked, confusion overtaking anger.
"That's not necessary," the man muttered, but his voice had lost its edge.
Caelum smiled. Not triumphant. Reassuring.
"Then consider it insurance," he said lightly. "For both of us."
The crowd relaxed. A few murmured approval. Someone laughed. The tension dissolved completely.
No guards.
No reprimand.
No lesson.
Leonhardt watched from the periphery, expression unchanged.
Too smooth, he thought.
Canon had redistributed friction.
The setback Caelum was meant to experience—meant to temper his idealism—had been erased. In its place, he gained approval, momentum, confidence.
A clean victory.
Leonhardt turned away before the scene fully concluded. He did not need to watch the aftermath. The shape of it was already clear.
If obstacles vanished here, they would resurface elsewhere.
The story demanded balance.
He continued down the street, the sounds of the square fading behind him. His reflection flickered in shop windows—present, unremarkable, real.
By surviving, he had not weakened the narrative.
He had sharpened it.
Leonhardt stopped at a street corner, the setting sun painting the stone buildings in amber light. Carriages passed, their shadows stretching long across the road.
He felt it then—a faint sense of being measured.
Not watched.
Evaluated.
As if something abstract had taken note of discrepancies and was adjusting parameters accordingly.
The protagonist advanced without resistance.
The villainess adapted without collapse.
And Leonhardt—
Leonhardt remained unaccounted for.
He crossed the street when the flow allowed, posture composed, thoughts steady.
The debt was still unpaid.
It was simply being reassigned.
Evening settled over the capital with practiced grace.
Leonhardt rode the carriage back toward the Virellion estate as lamplighters moved along the streets, igniting glass orbs one by one. Light followed him in measured intervals, never quite catching up, never falling fully behind.
The carriage slowed near the inner district.
"Hold," a calm voice said from outside.
The driver obeyed immediately.
Leonhardt did not tense. Sudden stops happened in the capital. Inspections were routine. He adjusted his posture, gaze lowering respectfully as the carriage door opened.
A woman stood there.
Not a guard. Not a noblewoman.
Her attire was understated but precise—dark coat, silver-threaded insignia pinned at the collar. Administrative. The kind of uniform worn by those who did not need to display power because they recorded it.
"Leonhardt Virellion," she said, consulting a slim ledger. "Minor noble. First-year academy enrollee."
"Yes," Leonhardt replied.
Her eyes lifted—not sharp, not cold. Simply attentive.
"You were present at the academy courtyard this morning."
It was not a question.
Leonhardt inclined his head slightly. "Briefly."
She nodded once, as if confirming a figure in a column. "No disciplinary report filed. No injury recorded."
"No," Leonhardt said again.
A pause followed.
The woman closed the ledger.
"Curious," she said, not to him, but to the air between them.
Leonhardt remained silent.
"I'm with the Office of Imperial Records," she continued. "We track incidents, outcomes, and deviations."
The word was delivered gently.
"In most cases," she went on, "events of that nature produce documentation. Names. Consequences."
Her gaze returned to him, measured.
"Today did not."
Leonhardt met her eyes—briefly, respectfully—and then looked away.
"I didn't think it was unusual," he said.
"No," she agreed. "Individually, it isn't."
Another pause.
"But patterns," she added, "rarely announce themselves all at once."
The lamplight flickered, reflecting in the silver thread of her insignia.
"Go on," she said, stepping back from the carriage. "This isn't an inquiry."
Not yet.
Leonhardt inclined his head again. "Thank you."
The door closed. The carriage moved.
As the wheels rolled forward, Leonhardt exhaled slowly, careful not to let it sound like relief.
The world had not corrected him.
But it had noticed the gap where a name should have been written.
Somewhere behind him, a ledger remained open—one line left blank.