The First Step (1)
In a bedroom several dozen times larger than her small frame, a young girl sat before a vanity mirror, quietly combing through her ash-grey hair.
Without so much as a knock, two maids barged straight in.
"Lady Sylvia. A letter has arrived. Read it."
"..."
House Coutelli.
Among the nobility of the Ardelion Principality, they were an exceptionally wealthy and renowned family. As a count's household, their prestige ranked near the upper echelons, surpassed only by a rare few higher lineages. In any proper noble estate, the scene unfolding here would have made anyone furrow their brow in disbelief. A mere maid barging into the private quarters of a highborn young lady without knocking, casually offering a letter with a single, negligent hand—it was unthinkable.
I'm sick of this.
Her face a mask devoid of emotion, the ash-haired girl accepted the letter while quietly swallowing a long, weary sigh. How long was she condemned to endure this routine? Even as a daughter of a prestigious noble house, Sylvia knew full well she didn't deserve to be degraded simply for being an illegitimate child. But what power did she hold to change it? From the moment she entered the world born to a mother of lowly commoner stock, the gazes cast upon her had been colder than ice. The count kept Sylvia under his roof solely on the grounds that she might still be of some use; when and where she would be thrown away hung entirely upon his whim.
"...Why are there two?"
"Because you failed to handle matters properly, Lady Sylvia. Why else?"
"You cause such embarrassments because you fail to set a proper example of noble conduct. The other prospective heirs have long since—"
Here it came again. Breaking her spirit like this—
"My lady. Are you paying attention?"
"You seem particularly undisciplined today. A little corporal punishment is in order."
Whether she spoke back or kept silent, they would invent any excuse just to lay hands on her. Stripped bare, it was nothing more than their lingering resentment at having to look after the child of a filthy, lowborn commoner. A maid raised a cane, hitched up Sylvia's skirt, and began striking her calves. Yet for some time now, Sylvia had ceased to feel the pain. Her memories of those early years were distant and hazy. She remembered crying out in fury, demanding to know why she was being beaten when she had done nothing wrong; she remembered the day she resigned herself to the fact that taking the blows in silence was simply easier. From that day forth, she hadn't smiled, nor had she wept. She had become an emotionless doll, frozen in the same vacant expression day after day.
Once her calves were flushed angry red with welts, the maids finally brought their arbitrary punishment to an end. Met with that same unsettling silence, they tossed aside a jar of salve, threw out a few parting warnings, and left the room. Only then did Sylvia pick up the letter opener.
"...So Vesta and Pallas were beaten."
Vesta and Pallas.
Children of noble families allied with House Coutelli, sharing the same haughty disposition. They were hardly close friends, but as peers who moved in the same aristocratic circles with shared interests, she knew them well enough. The message detailed how Vesta had been ambushed and humiliated by Junon, the so-called 'weakest vanguard of Class E', and requested that Sylvia personally step in to resolve the disgrace. A letter from Pallas's family conveyed virtually identical demands. Even without reading further, her duty had already been decided for her.
It was all about keeping the rabble in line and asserting aristocratic authority to preserve their high-and-mighty status. Though she knew it was a hollow, pointless exercise, Sylvia had no choice but to obey. For an orphan who had lost even her mother, this precarious position was the only thing keeping her tethered to the world. She would do anything to avoid being abandoned to absolute isolation.
"Junon... Him again."
A doll-like girl stripped of every sentiment save lingering fear, she murmured the name of the boy she had suppressed several times before—and tossed the letters aside.
It had been exactly one full day since my regression.
Yesterday, the Grand Duke of Ardelion had dropped a bombshell, openly declaring war on the corrupt faculty conspiring with the noble factions and vowing to tear their deep-seated corruption out by the roots. Naturally, anyone at the academy would be bursting with questions: What does this mean? Who is implicated? What on earth is happening? In response, the professors had organized today's guest lecture. By splurging absurd sums to bring in a high-profile guest speaker, they were making a flashy display of their own supposed innocence. In truth, their aim was to pacify student unrest and snuff out brewing controversy before it could erupt. And to their credit, the ploy worked like a charm.
"Yaaawn..."
The real issue, of course, was that this lecture was designed so only a select few could understand a word of it. For students cast aside in a society bound tight by academic cartels, regional factions, and pure bloodlines, comprehending even a tenth of the discourse was an impossible ask, let alone half. On the surface, it masqueraded as an earnest attempt to nurture the students' thirst for knowledge; in reality, it was an exclusive salon tailored purely for the elite, deliberately excluding Classes D and E.
It was completely useless and irrelevant to me, yet I had come for one specific reason.
"Mhm... remarkably pure blue mana. And within it, I believe I can discern a scorching flame. Lady Michel, your specialty lies in fire, does it not?"
"Precisely."
—Ooooh...
Having deciphered Michel's innate mana at a glance, the lecturer basked in the students' collective awe, his smirk practically broadcasting how trivial he found their admiration. But the one who commanded my undivided attention was the student who had asked the question.
A second-year Class A student with a reddish-brown ponytail, someone who currently had no idea who I was. In the distant past, she had been my comrade as a core member of Team Tembris; in the normal flow of events, she was someone destined to cross paths with me very soon.
Well, she'll grow up fine on her own.
She wasn't someone I needed to lose sleep over. A few more exchanges passed between the lecturer and the students, though nothing of real practical substance came of it. And clearly unimpressed by the entire dog-and-pony show, another girl sitting nearby swept her medium-length brown hair over her shoulder, muttering sourly.
"Haah... why am I even sitting through this garbage?"
Realizing the lecture offered nothing of value, Senia of second-year Class D grumbled so quietly she could barely be heard. Under normal circumstances, she was slated to taste bitter defeat alongside me at the hands of a certain individual. I intended to personally step in and prevent that disaster from repeating, but I had zero desire to actually cross paths with her.
What was that core conclusion I had written in bold letters and pinned above my dorm desk?
Lebrant Academy must not fall.
That first line was the conclusion I reached after three agonizing hours of dissecting my past. But right beneath it, I had added one essential ironclad rule.
A condition bound to the very core of my death.
Make no mistake—it wasn't because I couldn't bear to watch my comrades die. The dagger driven straight through my heart... had been guided by the bitter resentment of the very companions I bled for. In plain terms, I was murdered by the comrades I trusted with my life.
It was deeply unfair, but what would taking revenge accomplish? Besides, they were the ones who would be fighting demonic beasts on the front lines in my stead; meddling with them would only bring me grief. Still, what they truly felt about me back then... was something I never wanted to dredge up again. In any case, having been granted a second chance at life, dying at the hands of my comrades was the last thing I wanted. Which meant that for me right now, Michel and Senia were people to be avoided at all costs. I wasn't close to Senia yet, and I had never spoken a single word to Michel. All I had to do was steer clear of them. Nothing complicated about that.
Oh, look at that. Finally wrapping up.
Offering one last piece of advice to Michel, the lecturer concluded his talk and opened the floor for a Q&A session.
"Now then, the lecture is officially finished. Those who wish to leave may do so."
The professors flanking the perimeter spoke candidly, glaring directly at the students seated in the back rows. Rest assured, not a single soul in the rear would dare walk down the aisle to ask a question. Look at the nobles up front, turning around with venomous scowls that sneered: Who do you think you are, daring to step forward? Look at the faculty right beside us, openly pressuring us to leave. By any rational measure, no one could breach that invisible glass wall. Professors who preached class advancement while working harder than anyone to suppress it—that was Lebrant Academy's greatest contradiction.
Swallowing that bitter reality, the students of Classes D and E stood in unison and filed out through the rear exit. I had every intention of slipping away myself, so I had no complaints. Except... the fact that someone was tailing me as I quietly slipped out was definitely an issue.
Figures. She's been following me since back then.
Abandoning the noble symposium early, a figure with long ash-grey hair was trailing right behind me out the back door. Looks like ditching Professor Jake's lecture today is officially set in stone. I'll just take a few thwacks across the knuckles from his attendance roll later.
Michel made sure to pay meticulous attention to the Q&A session that followed the lecture. While most students attending Lebrant Academy possessed a healthy appetite for learning, she in particular was driven by a desperate need to produce tangible results.
I need to graduate. As soon as humanly possible...
A noble. The only daughter of a count. A scion of a founding family of the Principality. A diligent genius. A prodigy blessed with innate magical talent.
A dazzling array of titles clung to the eighteen-year-old girl, yet she harbored not the slightest shred of interest in any of them.
—If I make a move, there is a risk they will catch on. Michel, this is something you must undertake as an individual after graduating from the academy.
In a reality where war orphans could not be acknowledged officially, and where the student mentioned in the Grand Duke's morning address could not even be granted a proper cremation, what Michel urgently needed was cold, hard cash.
Yet among that mountain of accolades, only one held any real utility: the top prospect among the second-years, boasting overwhelming magical metrics. In other words, nothing except her innate magic. Since the fundamental purpose of magic lay in hunting demonic beasts, one could amass vast sums by claiming bounties or selling off high-grade materials harvested from monster carcasses. But what kind of place was a real battlefield? People died left and right without warning; it was no playground for an uncertified student who hadn't even finished their coursework. Her family had already made it clear they could not lend their aid, and as a mere student of the academy, she lacked official deployment credentials. For Michel to earn substantial funds on her own, she had to either finish her curriculum or meet the criteria for early graduation.
She pushed herself relentlessly toward graduation, but the academic requirements were brutally strict. Graduation typically demanded completing the first semester of the fifth year, yet she was only nearing the close of her second. Early graduation was her only option, which posed a massive logistical headache.
There were only two paths to early graduation.
The first was placing in the top ten percent of Class B, or reaching Class A, completing a mock team battle, and participating in actual combat. That sounded simple enough on paper, but a strict caveat followed. Field combat deployments under faculty supervision typically occurred during the second semester of third year, held three times a year; even with grade skipping, it wouldn't happen until early third year. Even though she swept top honors in Class A—the academy's pinnacle—she was still months away from eligibility.
That route would take far too much time. By process of elimination, only one path remained.
The second condition: blooming a Unique Magic.
By awakening an innate magic born of one's disposition, personality, and individuality—akin to a personal masterpiece—a student could prove they possessed the maturity to survive on the battlefield. That was why Michel clung so desperately to every lecture and symposium, pouring every waking hour into her studies. Yet over a year had already slipped away. Even if her peers considered her extraordinary, an overwhelming sense of urgency gnawed at her insides.
And today was no exception.
"Haah... Why? I just don't understand."
Some had bloomed by expanding their sheer mana capacity; others, by obsessing over pure mana efficiency; and still others, through sheer, unyielding curiosity and research. She had retraced the footsteps of those who came before her, yet that elusive 'sensation' remained completely out of reach. Standing before the unyielding wall of Unique Magic, Michel felt utterly lost in the dark.
Right then, an empty ache rumbled in her stomach. Perhaps it was just as the research-obsessed professors often said—she had been so hyper-focused that she hadn't even realized she was starving. At times like this, she remembered hearing, it was best to rest and eat something delicious.
"...I should eat at the dining hall today."
Too late for lunch, far too early for dinner. The awkward hour of four in the afternoon—when few students wandered the cafeteria—drew Michel's steps toward the vicinity of Megrez Hall.
And then—
CLANG—!
"Huh...? Why would that sound be coming from here...?"
Near the deserted dining hall, an unmistakable, dissonant clang resonated through the air—a sound anyone passing by would immediately recognize.
It was the distinct resonance of mana crashing violently against mana.
"One side seems to be casting magic... and the other... a shield?"
The dull, heavy impact of a blunt surface deflecting something softer drew Michel's attention. At least two individuals were clashing using magic. Rumors had been circulating that secret duels were breaking out among the student body lately. If they wanted to test their might, they had the official sparring grounds; why choose such a clandestine method?
"I have to stop them."
Nothing good ever came of brawls like that; they only ended when one person accumulated too much damage and collapsed. Leaving aside the reckless waste of mana, if the faculty caught them, suspension was guaranteed. Stopping them was the only right course of action.
And so, Michel hurried toward the scene where the doll-like girl who knew only fear had clashed with the boy who had crossed time from a distant past.
Yet by the time she arrived, one of them had already vanished.
However, at the site of the duel, someone entirely unexpected had witnessed the whole thing from afar.
...Dear God.
It was a girl with a medium-length brown bob, covering her mouth in sheer disbelief at the spectacle she had just witnessed.