A Musty Attic Smell
A musty attic smell seeped into the young man's nose. When he barely regained his senses, the first thing he noticed was the cluster of stars peeking through the window frame. His eyes followed the trail of shattered starlight to the letter in his hand.
The stiff texture of the paper and the sharp handwriting stood out.
Another notice came from the academy. They say this time you made a spectacle throwing advances at the Second Princess.
I've never understood how you, who were so bright and serious since childhood, could act this way. Is it this new environment at Snowrobe that's turned you into this?
The faculty are even considering expelling you. You know that the heir's expulsion would bring shame to the company, right?
I believe in you, my son, the heir of Pictri Trading Company.
Maness
— Robert Pictri
The crude interior resembled a cabin, nothing like modern architecture. Sitting on the bedding, the young man felt even the air around him was different from usual. In this bizarre situation, all he could do was read the words right in front of him.
His gaze, skimming down quickly, suddenly stopped. He closed his eyes and gathered his thoughts. When he opened them again, his pupils fixed on a single word.
Snowrobe.
The public magic academy from the RPG he'd been enjoying just moments ago. The cradle of the continent where the game's protagonist, Kyle de Pantia, resided.
His eyes darted down again.
The faculty are even considering expelling you. You know that the heir's expulsion would bring shame to the company, right?
He still couldn't be sure. It was impossible to accept this freak phenomenon of entering the game just because a familiar name was on paper.
Such nonsense couldn't happen to him. But that thought crumbled at the final line.
I believe in you, my son, the heir of Pictri Trading Company.
Maness Pictri.
The heir of Pictri Trading Company, the largest trading firm in the Tales Saga world. An extra who made a name as a wastrel at Snowrobe magic academy and got expelled soon after.
"...Is this for real?"
Feeling a sense of alienation at the unfamiliar youthful voice, Maness rubbed his face.
*
A small room on the third floor of Snowrobe's dormitory. Maness pulled up a wooden chair to the desk and stared into the mirror for several dozen minutes, confronting his reflection.
No matter how long he looked, he couldn't accept the face he touched. Moonlight settled on his abundant white hair, enhancing the mystical aura. His eyes, like a winter sea, asserted their presence, while sharp features and angular contours gave a refined impression.
A face that would draw anyone's gaze. Yet Maness buried it in his hands.
Pictri heir. A wastrel—not even worth calling a third-rate villain—who vanished without a trace early in the game.
He could grudgingly accept being isekai'd into the game, but possessing Maness of all people? Unacceptable. There were plenty of better options, even if not the protagonist Kyle. Like Damon from the alchemy workshop, with decent grades and a gentle personality, welcomed anywhere. Or even Garon, son of a border noble.
But out of all those characters, it had to be wastrel Maness.
"A penniless peasant brat from a farm dares talk to me?"
"This is supposed to be food? Even a pig starved for three days would avoid it."
Just the lines he remembered offhand. These were only a fraction heard from Kyle's perspective. If this world perfectly mirrored the game, who knew what other trash he'd spewed.
"...Let's sort this out first."
After a deep sigh, Maness muttered like a vow and pulled the chair to the desk. The desk was far from the window, shrouded in darkness. Fumbling in the corner for the lamp, he lit it, and warm lantern light filled the room.
His eyes immediately caught the calendar. Below "Imperial Year 612," dates were listed in a modern format. Six had lines slashed through them.
Day 6 since enrollment. Snowrobe gave new students a 7-day adaptation period before classes—a precious time to acclimate to the vast, complex grounds. Equivalent to dozens of small villages, even by the in-game map.
"Too late already."
The slashed dates were the issue. Six days since enrollment meant his image was already set as a total wastrel.
His faint hope amid despair—"Maybe it's only day 3-ish"—was dashed. That was before he'd gone too wild, a point where he could still reform.
The letter from the company head proved it was late, but he'd clung to that sliver. Six days was plenty for Maness to cement his rep as a utter scumbag.
"Kyle, you're too nice, but stay away from that bastard."
On day 6, an extra trying to befriend protagonist Kyle spat contempt at Maness.
Tap. Tap.
His index fingernail drummed the wooden desk, echoing in the room. Thoughts refused to organize. A blank future loomed. Anxiety from the tangled mess expressed in rhythmic taps—until it tapped to a stop.
Dwelling on the past wouldn't change it. He was now Pictri heir, six days into Snowrobe. No immediate solutions, but a rough plan was needed.
Picking up the neatly arranged writing tools, Maness's blue eyes hardened with resolve.
*
Writing down his thoughts, Maness realized a few things. First, his body automatically wrote in an unknown script. Thoughts flowed into unfamiliar characters, yet he understood, wrote, and read them perfectly. Recalling, even his earlier mutterings were in a new language—but as familiar as his native tongue.
Only now, seeing it written, did it hit him.
Second, his unnatural calm. Suddenly thrown into another world, another body. Sure, anxiety and shock surfaced while sorting it out. But post such an unimaginable event, an inexplicable composure lingered.
Pondering both, Maness reached a conclusion: He'd partially assimilated with the original Maness. Nothing else fit.
The fancy pen scratched wildly to a period. He picked up the paper, scrutinizing the final line.
"Then, why?"
This calm, poise, stability—wasn't his original self. Before isekai, he startled at trifles, struggled with small changes.
So these traits were the original Maness's. Why act like a wastrel?
Robert's letter called his son bright and serious—ill-fitting for a wastrel. The Maness he knew was burning trash at best.
Something was off. Post-enrollment mental shift? People don't change that fast. And faking wastrel for gain? Pointless.
Questions mounted. For unknowns from the past, he underlined a note.
"Grasp the overall situation."
This world he'd indirectly experienced offered certainty amid uncertainty. His sole weapon: foreknowledge of the future, key to survival.
But limited to the academy. Tales Saga depicted Snowrobe daily life from Kyle's view. Expelled like canon? Back to the company—uncharted territory, no background knowledge.
Gather max info here while it lasted. Priority one.
"And..."
The pen found the line and underlined.
"Avoid main cast entanglements while grabbing what I can."
The Snowrobe he knew was "post-Maness expulsion." Unexpelled, he was an irregularity. Game had crises solved by protagonist and allies. Skirt that flow, spectate from sidelines.
Tangling with mains risked butterfly effects, altering known future—pointless hassle.
But idling? No. With info advantage, stockpile everything usable as Maness. Graduation essential.
Prep for worst: can't rely on company. Snowrobe grads had prestige perks.
Plus threats: anti-magic groups, racial tensions, returning demons. Build defenses: connections, magic, hidden relics.
"In summary..."
Maintain distance from mains, grab opportunities as wastrel body allows.
...Sounds damn tough.
*
Day 7 post-enrollment, adaptation period's end. Maness tucked his white shirt into slacks, topped with a navy cardigan. Wind through the open window carried winter's chill, but not coat-worthy. He neatened up before the mirror.
Why play wastrel? The mirror showed a refined youth matching gazes—mystery deepened.
Stepping out to the dormitory grounds, a fantastical sight greeted the freshman. Scattered blue roofs over pristine white brick walls unmarred by time. Sunlit roadside trees boasted vibrant green. Fitting the owl symbol. Snowrobe matched its in-game beauty.
Unlike shrouded night, daytime buzzed: students chatting in groups, fountains splashing, birds chirping—bright and lively.
The problem?
"......"
Students spotting the wastrel hurried away. Indifference's terror hit bone-deep. Treatment warranting a principal complaint on bullying—hard to endure.
"Karma, huh."
Original Maness's, but he'd bear those gazes ahead. No deep thought.
"Isn't that Maness?"
"...Let's take another way."
Like magnets repelling, passersby widened gaps en route to central square. Per memory, class assignments posted on the bulletin there.
Steps heavier with bitterness, a raised voice halted him.
"Hey, Pictri heir, right?"