Forcibly Drafted into the Academy - 2

It feels like my brain's taken a hike for a minute. Why the ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠hell am I headed to the academy? As far as I knew, the only one from Logres supposed to enroll there was Donnesia.

"Who said that?"

"Who else? The family head."

The family head's shoving me into the academy? Why?

The family head they're talking about here is Marshall de Logres. The current Northern Duke, one of the five pillars upholding the Astoria Empire. Father to Cassian and me, and a Sword Master standing in the superhuman realm, just like Alfred. Unlike Alfred, who's past his prime, this guy's still in his heyday despite his age—arguably the true superhuman. Sure, he's desk-bound shuffling papers these days, so his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠skills have dipped from their peak. But even now, whenever the question of who's the strongest in the empire comes up during the Gald Cup, his name's always in the mix.

He dodged politics because it was a hassle and hunkered down at the northern front, grinding monsters and barbarians to dust. That's why his fame's skyrocketed—it's spread even to foreign lands. Though in the back alleys, they whisper about some heart-eating monster, but that's just a fleeting early-game detail from Donnesia's story, so who knows if it's true.

More importantly, how? And digging through memories, I don't recall Ian ever taking the entrance exam.

"All the enrollment paperwork's done. You just need to show up."

"How's it done if I didn't agree? I didn't accept!"

"He said he won't listen to a son who just wastes food."

Why am I the food-wasting son? That's the old Ian before I possessed him. Aigoo, this is bullshit. The family head says I'm useless now—what's the point of living? Bring on the poison cup!

"If you don't go... he'll toss you into the infantry reserves..."

"Ugh, fine, I'm going."

Off we go, to Dawn Star Academia. A place teeming with youth and romance awaits. Better than the army anywhere. Plus, unlike Korea where you get out after a year and a half, this world has no discharge. It's the real deal isekai. And up here in the filthy cold north—the front lines. Meaning a year straight in a snowbound GP. This is dark fantasy right here. No need to look far.

Donnesia's errand for me was some invitation. Addressed to me, stamped with a flashy imperial seal. She said it's going out to all the new academy students. She handed it over and headed back to her room, leaving me staring at the lone envelope on the table.

Needed some thinking time.

Anyway, sending it through Donnesia probably means they want my face there. Defy it, and it's straight to wise infantry life.

This invite's from an imperial banquet—the empire's hosting it directly. Like a college opening ceremony back home. Honestly, it's just nobles schmoozing and sucking up. Basically an excuse for aristocrats to booze it up.

That's why no invites go to commoners. They'd hear nothing good anyway; better to rip it up on sight. (Pro tip: actually ripping it is a serious crime.)

This banquet's kinda important in the game. In Dawn Star Academia routes, it serves as a showcase for the male leads—like an interview for the heroine (aka the player). Almost all the capture targets show up, and as the opening OST plays, each one appears with their name, title, and traits popping up at the bottom. Total interview vibes.

Here, Donnesia needs to scope the opening dudes, butter up the ones she likes to spike affection, or chat everyone evenly. Or prioritize top-tier ones. But I can't help with that. I'm playing Donnesia maker right now, but this is reality, not a game. Can't tell her to chase some dot on the map. Especially since they're all big shots. Word gets to the family head? Academy's canceled, straight to GP—bad end reset.

Thought only Donnesia had bad ends. Who knew I did too?

Fuck this shit.

My biceps didn't just level up in Dreamland—they ballooned. Pushed my 180cm frame toward 195cm. Maybe that's why the tuxedo I tried on for the banquet exploded on contact.

Unlike my casuals that grew with me (treated as starter gear?), the tux didn't stretch. Ripped to shreds the second I squeezed in.

A tux that bursts on wearing. Even pricey ones turned to rags in my hands. My wild vibe? Straight beast cub. Probably wrecked 29 already. At this rate, the ducal house goes bankrupt on tuxes.

As I pondered that, with Alfred, the maids, and my hyper-focus, I finally picked one that survived.

But it was a shitty choice. Like a fighter manga character's getup—my bulging biceps clung tight, torturing the fabric. Buttons looked ready to snap like a train blockade.

Had to nerve every muscle, every move. One rip, and that psycho family head might GP me.

Donnesia dolled up fierce too. Prettiest I'd seen her, but all my focus was on this damn tux—no proper gander. One flex and boom.

Anyway, bloody effort paid off. Tux intact, we reached the capital, navigated twists, and hit the imperial banquet hall.

Donnesia cooed over capital views from the carriage, but tux panic blinded me. Fucking thing. Rip it off and change on the way home—brought casuals for that.

One thing I learned in the capital: way warmer than the north.

Entering the hall, magitech chandeliers—science-magic fusion—sparkled off jewels and baubles below, enveloping us. Banquet foods mixed with noble perfumes in weird harmony; soft classics blended with ha-ha-ho-ho laughs, grating my ears worse.

This is Dawn Star Academia's opening ceremony?

Murmurs spiked as we entered.

"That's Donnesia de Logres?"

"Runner-up in the entrance exam?"

"Summons spirits with all ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠attributes, right?"

"Logres family through and through."

The nobles' chatter pointed at Donnesia. No surprise. Logres— one of the five dukes guarding the empire. Spirit mage with two irregulars, exam runner-up talent, and a knockout beauty.

But no brave souls intro'd themselves. Next to the kingdom-toppling ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠beauty loomed a beast ready to crush any touch.

Tux warped over muscles, buttons teetering—grotesque factor doubled. Who calls this a ducal bastard? More like northern tribal chief.

Beauty and brute. Beauty and the Beast much?

"Smile a bit. They're all whispering."

"This is smiling."

"Ah."

They say first impressions matter in life. I sidled aside; dudes and ladies lined up for Donnesia chats. Me? Not a fly.

Good—she blocks the hassle. But why the shitty vibe?

#

A chill night breeze slapped my face lightly. Nobles' bullshit and fake laughs? Not my jam. Their voices as drinking snacks? Perfume overkill.

Grabbed wine, stepped out for air. No perfume, no gossip.

Peeking in, Donnesia brightly parried flirts like a pro. Male leads not here yet?

Sipping wine, gazing at her face. Be real—imperial banquet wine's gotta be pricey. But tastes like convenience store curiosity buy. Conclusion: I suck at wine. Gimme grape juice.

Something nags, though. Overheard in passing: Donnesia as exam runner-up. No way.

One irregular like Sanco? Fine. But two now. Rosidante—top-grade all-attribute irregular. Add Donnesia's north trek ordeals; no one tops her. First place normal, right? Why runner-up? Rosidante goofed?

Sipping, moon-gazing. Then footsteps joined my spot. Didn't care—balcony's not mine.

But.

"Sigh... Noisy. Annoying. All of them."

Couldn't ignore. Mundane words from the black-dress woman beside me. But that voice... familiar.

Convinced myself I misheard, glanced over—and froze.

Tall, long black hair, ruby-red eyes. Exact face from my past life's monitor, burned in.

And.

Insight Eye was telling me. This wasn't a hallucination.