The next day, I went to class—more out of boredom than duty. I had already skipped the first day, and while I didn't particularly enjoy the lessons, after yesterday's spectacle it seemed wiser to attend. Perhaps that way I could avoid other problems knocking on my door too soon.
However, the matter of Cassane was far from resolved with yesterday's childish display. When I think about the trouble that woman has dragged me into…
"Cassian! Let's head to the dining hall with Klaus now that class is over—coming?"
Sera looked unaffected by what had happened to her brother, but I knew that once the break days came, her family wouldn't treat her kindly. Truth be told, even if Cassane hadn't turned the Sterlings against me, my path would have eventually clashed with theirs anyway—because of Seraphine.
We met Sera in my third year in this body. By then, I had already adapted to this world, but at the Academy, it was just Klaus Traff—with his muscles—and me.
I still remember the day she arrived in our class, resigned to being downgraded to the lowest-ranking course in the institution's history. This place was filled with students who, at best, would reach the first level of Aura or the first circle of magic. There were exceptions like Klaus, who stood out among the mediocrity—but not enough to truly change his situation.
At first, Sera didn't want to associate with anyone. Maybe it was the harsh realization that her family would never value her, or perhaps it was the day we stopped one of the many Valois heirs from harassing her. From then on, the "useless one," the "musclehead," and the "rejected Sterling" became inseparable.
The moment we stepped into the dining hall, the clatter of trays and conversations died out, replaced by a tense silence. My victory yesterday had clearly not gone unnoticed. As we walked toward our usual table, whispers began to sprout like weeds.
"You should've seen it… I've never witnessed luck like that," said a low-ranking noble, shaking his head. "Julius tripped over his own shadow."
"What luck?" another countered, lowering his voice but speaking firmly. "The Sword Queen herself said it was pure skill. They're saying he's a hidden Sword Genius."
Both sides of the story clashed in the air. To most, I was still a fool blessed by chance; to those who understood combat, I had become an unsolved enigma.
Klaus puffed out his chest, enjoying the attention, while Sera walked beside me with her head held high, ignoring the hateful stares from her distant Sterling relatives seated at the central tables.
"Looks like your 'luck' is today's topic, Cass," Klaus muttered as we sat down. "Though some people here seem eager to test whether that luck is eternal."
I cast a quick glance around the hall. At the elite table, Cassane Windsteel was eating in cold isolation, though I noticed her gaze briefly drift toward us.
"They'll forget soon enough once a more interesting rumor comes along," I said, brushing it off with a casual wave.
"Oh, but the Valois don't seem interested in forgetting," Sera murmured, casting an icy glance toward a side table. "For three years now, they've kept coming back to bother us—as if their minor status within the duchy makes them better than everyone else."
The truth was that, from that vast family, only two individuals truly stood out: the eldest children of the main wife. She used to be a princess of the Empire, so she still held considerable status. Perhaps that was why her two children—Morgana and Victorio—had grown up so differently from the specimens sitting in front of us.
Julius was another perfect example: how even in the greatest families, someone can be born with so little decency—or awareness of their own position.
"I guess having gold in your pockets doesn't always buy you brains," Klaus added, letting out a laugh that drew hostile glances from the Valois. "Look at that one—the guy with the silk cloak. That's Damian Valois. Thinks he's the successor of a secondary branch, but his mana is as unstable as his temper."
Damian Valois was staring straight at us, gripping his crystal glass so tightly his knuckles had turned white. The incident from three years ago—when we stopped him from harassing Sera—remained a stain on his "prestige" that he refused to let go, especially now that the one who humiliated him back then was on everyone's lips.
For Damian, the fact that I was a "useless" man without magic made his past defeat a constant poison gnawing at his pride.
"Looks like that glass is going to shatter before he finishes his meal," I remarked indifferently, not even bothering to meet his gaze. "It's fascinating how some people dedicate years of their lives to hating someone who doesn't even remember their full name."
Sera let out a nervous chuckle, but Klaus tensed. Damian stood up abruptly, his chair scraping loudly against the marble floor, drawing attention from nearby tables.
"Varkas…" Damian's voice came loaded with wounded arrogance. "I heard you got lucky yesterday against that Sterling idiot."
"Didn't I get lucky against you three years ago as well?" I replied with a languid smile, deliberately provoking him in front of the entire dining hall.
"Heh. Don't think I've forgotten just because I've kept quiet these past years," Damian spat, clenching his teeth.
Clearly, he hadn't. Every time we crossed paths in the corridors, he made sure to remind us—with that hateful glare that seemed ready to burn us alive.
"I wonder… Damian, was it?" I said, pretending to struggle to remember his name. "If you've already heard I defeated someone much stronger than you, what exactly are you doing here?
Did you come to ask for an autograph, or just to remind me that your mana level is still as mediocre as it was three years ago?"
The dining hall fell into a deathly silence.
Sera let out a stifled laugh that was like pouring fuel onto the fire, while Klaus braced himself, his muscles tensing beneath his uniform.
Damian went pale. For a "useless" man to not even remember his name properly was the ultimate humiliation. His unstable mana began to surge, causing the water glasses on our table to vibrate with a metallic rattle.
"Damn you, Varkas!" Damian roared, a bluish bolt forming in his hand, stabilizing as it prepared to unleash his fury upon our table.
But before the first spark could leave his fingers, an overwhelming presence—dense and laden with an authority that did not come from any noble lineage—descended upon the dining hall like a slab of granite.
Damian's mana vanished instantly—not from lack of will, but because the very air seemed to have been sucked out of the room.