The next morning dawned unusually quiet in the Academy. Michael sat behind the desk in the newly refurbished Disciplinary Committee office, papers stacked like small towers to either side.

The smell of fresh ink clung to the room, mixing with the faint scent of polished wood.

For the first time since his appointment, he felt the real weight of authority pressing against his shoulders not the thrill of elections or debates, but the dull, relentless responsibility of order.

"Ugh," he muttered, rubbing his temple as he stared at the endless forms.

"Student conduct reports, violation slips, mana-use permits… this is more punishing than any dungeon."

Maria, seated opposite him, smirked over the rim of her teacup. "That's because you're trying to do it all at once, Michael. Paperwork requires patience. And neat handwriting."

He shot her a look. "Are you saying my handwriting isn't neat?"

Maria delicately placed her cup down, leaned across the desk, and picked up one of the forms he had signed earlier. The page was covered in hurried strokes, some letters collapsing into each other like they were at war. She raised an eyebrow.

"This," she said flatly, "is what they call chicken scratch."

Michael sighed and dropped his pen. "…Fine. You're officially my assistant. Happy?"

Maria's lips curved upward into a victorious little smile.

"I was waiting for you to realize it. I'll handle the paperwork. You handle… whatever disasters happen outside."

-----

The morning had just slipped into late noon by the time Michael finally left the Disciplinary Committee office.

His head still buzzed faintly from staring at papers for too long, the ink smudges on his fingertips proof of Maria's relentless drilling.

The campus was alive. Students crossed the courtyards in clusters, their laughter and chatter carried by the crisp autumn breeze.

Golden leaves spun lazily through the air, carpeting the cobblestones in warm colors. From a distance, the ringing of practice swords clashed in rhythm with bursts of mana at the training grounds.

It was the kind of scene you'd find on a recruitment brochure with idyllic, prestigious, safe.

But Michael had lived long enough in this world, and in another, to know: where there was beauty, there were shadows waiting underneath.

He adjusted his uniform jacket, hands tucked into his pockets as he made his way down one of the side paths. This route was quieter, shaded by rows of towering elms. His eyes flicked over the neat brick walls, the posted notices about club events, the faint magical wards humming under the pavement. Everything screamed order.

And yet…

A sound pricked his ears. Not laughter. Not training.

Mocking jeers.

"…Pathetic. Can't even stand properly."

"Look at you—rolling in the mud like a pig."

"Haha, did you think you could talk back to us?!"

Michael's steps slowed. His jaw tightened.

He moved closer, slipping past the last row of trees until the path opened into a smaller courtyard.

There they were.

Four upperclassmen, their uniforms sharp and polished, faces carrying the smug air of nobles who had never known consequences. They surrounded a boy no older than fifteen, his hair plastered to his forehead with sweat and mud. His lip was split, blood trailing down his chin. His trembling hands clutched at the dirt as if the ground might swallow him for mercy.

The leader, a blond with a sharp jaw and an expensive ring glittering on his finger, nudged the boy's ribs with the toe of his boot. The victim wheezed in pain, curling tighter.

"Can't even beg properly," the blond sneered. "Maybe we should give you a lesson worth remembering."

The green-haired boy beside him laughed, crossing his arms. "He's already half-dead. What's the point? Commoners like him never learn."

Michael's stomach burned. His hand twitched toward Darken at his side, but he held himself still, watching.

The crowd of onlookers their classmates stood at a distance. Some whispered. Some chuckled nervously. Not one of them stepped forward.

So this is what's festering under the Academy's perfect surface, Michael thought grimly.

The Vice Principal talks of unity, of discipline, but if instructors don't keep watch, if rules are twisted by arrogance…

His boots shifted against the gravel.

It was time to act.

Michael bent his knees slightly, then pushed off. His body lifted smoothly, sailing over the short stone railing. He landed hard enough to echo across the courtyard, dust puffing around his feet.

The crowd gasped. The bullies turned sharply at the sound.

Michael's voice cut through the air, sharper than any blade.

"What do you think you're doing?!"

The blond blinked, then smirked as recognition dawned. "Well, well. Look who we have here. The Academy's little Rank 1 showpiece."

Michael's eyes narrowed. He ignored the sting of mockery in the boy's tone. His gaze went to the victim, still curled on the ground, then back to the ring of bullies.

"I'll ask again," he said, voice low and dangerous. "What do you think you're doing?"

The green-haired one spat at the dirt. "Tch. What's it look like? Teaching trash their place. You think rules apply to us?"

His grin widened. "Those are for commoners. Not nobles."

A ripple of agreement ran through the other two boys. One cracked his knuckles; the other snickered as though the whole scene was a joke.

Michael's shoulders rose and fell slowly with his breath. He could feel the eyes of the crowd boring into him, waiting.

Testing.

He stepped forward. The air seemed to thicken with each measured step.

"So… strength is all that matters to you?" His words came like calm steel.

The blond leader smirked wider, arrogance radiating from every pore. "Finally, you get it. Rank 1 or not, you're alone. We're four. You can't take us all."

His hand snapped up. "Boys—let's show this commoner his place. Get him!"

Four shadows lunged at Michael with reckless confidence, their polished boots thudding against the courtyard stones. The onlookers gasped, pulling back as mana flared faintly around the attackers' fists and legs. These weren't untrained thugs—they'd at least gone through Academy combat classes.

Michael's eyes narrowed.

E– ranks, he assessed instantly. Their mana flow is shallow, sloppy. Two full levels beneath me. Still… four at once could overwhelm a normal opponent.

His lips curled into a thin, humorless smile.

"But I'm not normal."

The first boy, the green-haired one, reached him first, swinging a wide hook at Michael's jaw. Michael tilted his head just enough—the fist whooshed past his cheek, the air stirring his hair.

Before the boy could recover, Michael drove his knee upward into the exposed ribs. A sharp crack echoed. The boy's breath left him in a strangled cough as his body folded.

Michael stepped aside. The green-haired one collapsed to the ground, wheezing.

"Too slow," Michael muttered.

The second attacker, tall and broad-shouldered, tried to capitalize on the distraction, raising both fists overhead for a hammer blow.

Michael didn't wait. His boot shot up in a clean arc, connecting with the boy's shin. Bone met bone with a sickening crack. The boy screamed, collapsing sideways as his leg bent unnaturally.

Michael spun with the momentum, pivoting on his heel. His elbow slammed into the jaw of the third boy mid-charge. Blood sprayed as teeth snapped loose, the boy's head whipping back. He crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.

The crowd erupted in shouts and gasps.

It hadn't even been ten seconds. Three were already down.

The blond leader's smirk wavered.

"You bastards—get up!" he shouted, but his lackeys were in no state to obey. One clutched his ribs, another screamed over his leg, the third spat blood and teeth onto the stones.

Michael turned his gaze on the leader. Cold. Unflinching.

"You're the last one."

The blond's jaw clenched. His pride bristled, mana flaring angrily around him in a faint golden glow. He stepped forward, fists raised.

"You think you can humiliate me? Do you know I am Nobel!" His voice rose with indignation. "You'll pay for this arrogance, commoner!"

Michael's expression didn't shift.

"Then stop barking." His hand gestured. "Come at me."

The blond roared, charging forward with a burst of mana. His punch cut through the air, sharp and practiced. Michael sidestepped neatly, catching the boy's wrist with iron grip.

He twisted.

The blond cried out as his arm bent unnaturally, his shoulder straining. Michael didn't stop—his other fist slammed into the boy's gut. Air burst from the noble's lungs, his body folding.

Michael released the wrist, and as the blond staggered, gasping, he planted his palm against his chest.

"Fall."

A push backed with mana. The blond's body flew backward, crashing onto the cobblestones with a heavy thud.

Silence.

Every eye in the courtyard widened, mouths agape. The four "untouchable" nobles now lay scattered on the ground, groaning and broken.

Michael straightened his jacket, exhaling slowly. His movements had been efficient, calculated. Not excessive but just enough to crush their arrogance.

His gaze shifted to the boy they'd been bullying. The victim still sat frozen, eyes wide in disbelief. His mud-smeared face trembled as though he'd just witnessed a god descend.

Michael stepped closer, extending a hand. His voice softened.

"Are you alright?"

The boy flinched at first, then hesitated. His bloodied lip quivered.

Slowly, almost fearfully, he reached out and took Michael's hand.

"I-I'm fine…" His voice cracked, quiet as a whisper.

Michael helped him to his feet, steadying him. The boy's knees shook, but he managed to stand.

"What's your name?" Michael asked gently.

The boy opened his mouth—

Before he can asker some body shout at them

"WHAT is happening here?!"

The shout cut through the air.

Michael turned. A middle-aged instructor strode toward them, his fox-like features twisting into irritation. His sharp eyes darted between the unconscious nobles and Michael, then settled on the bloodied victim.

"Who beat them?" the instructor demanded.

Michael rose calmly, squaring his shoulders. "I did. Chief Inspector of the Disciplinary Committee."

For a moment, the man froze. Surprise flickered across his face—clearly, news of Michael's appointment hadn't reached every corner of the faculty.

Then his expression hardened again. "Your status doesn't justify brawling on Academy grounds. What gives you the right—"

"I don't need to justify saving a student from bullies," Michael cut in sharply. He gestured at the trembling boy. "We have a witness. And I'll be submitting a full report to Vice Principal Sophia Emberheart. These four will be suspended."

The instructor flinched slightly at the Vice Principal's name. His tone shifted instantly, becoming falsely smooth.

"Ah, yes, yes. Of course. Don't trouble yourself, Chief Inspector. I'll take care of these foolish boys personally."

He turned, fixing the victim with a predatory smile. "You don't mind, do you?"

The boy shivered under the gaze, his voice barely a whisper. "…N-no, Instructor."

Michael's instincts screamed. The instructor's eagerness to brush the matter aside, the fear in the boy's eyes—it didn't sit right. But pushing further here would only corner the victim.

So Michael forced a polite smile and inclined his head. "Very well. Thank you for your cooperation, Instructor."

The instructor's smile twitched. "Yes, yes. Now, off you go to your classes."

Michael didn't argue. He placed a reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder and guided him away, back toward the Disciplinary Committee office.

But inside, his thoughts churned darkly.

'Something is wrong here. Very wrong.'

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