Ethan watched Misha go for just a heartbeat longer, then exhaled slowly.

  Damn it. Every single time I go to that café something happens!

  It must be cursed... or maybe it’s just me...

  He cursed inside his head, letting out a tired, bitter smile, feeling as if he were carrying the whole weight of the world on his back.

  Alright, he thought grimly. Time to do my part.

  Keeping his distance, he began trailing the group Angeline was with, his eyes sharp, heart pounding with a heavy, sinking sense of unease.

  They led him through increasingly empty streets until they arrived at a shabby, dimly lit tavern tucked away between rger buildings. Ethan hesitated for just a second—then pushed through the door, doing his best to blend into the background.

  He ordered a cheap drink and sat at a table not too close, but not too far either, watching them through the corner of his eye while pretending to mind his own business.

  Minutes dragged by.

  At first, nothing seemed to happen.

  The girls ughed and talked, and though Angeline’s smiles looked a little forced, it wasn’t anything Ethan could call outright suspicious.

  Maybe I’m just being paranoid, Ethan thought, rexing slightly.

  Then the tavern door opened—and a group of men sauntered in.

  Ethan’s stomach twisted immediately.

  Oh fuck. Here we go... he cursed silently.

  The men were vulgar and crude from the moment they arrived, spping backs, ughing loudly, tossing coins on the counter without care. They joined the girls’ table as if they belonged there—and judging by how easily the cssmates welcomed them, it was clear this hadn’t been a coincidence.

  The conversation grew rowdier. The men leaned too close. Their jokes grew uglier.

  And through it all, Angeline sat stiff and visibly uncomfortable, her smile growing thinner by the second.

  She tried to excuse herself, saying it was te. They ughed it off.

  She tried to stand and leave on her own. One of her own cssmates grabbed her arm, keeping her seated with a too-bright smile.

  Ethan’s hand tightened around his cup until his knuckles whitened.

  Minutes passed like hours.

  Finally, the group stood up to leave, making Angeline breathe a small, visible sigh of relief.

  But instead of heading back toward the Academy, they veered off—Deeper into the darker, quieter parts of town.

  Angeline hesitated, confusion fshing across her face.

  Then worry.

  And fear.

  When they stopped in front of a shabby, run-down inn, and one of the men casually slung his arm around Angeline’s shoulders with a leering grin—Ethan understood.

  Everything I feared... it’s happening.

  He didn't feel anger.

  There was no fire boiling in his blood.

  Only a cold, sinking weight in his gut.

  A grim acceptance.

  Truth be told, Ethan didn’t have a particurly close retionship with Angeline.

  To him, it didn’t matter who she dated, who she spent her time with.

  But Christopher—Christopher cared.

  Even if he didn’t love Angeline as a woman, he cherished her as family. As someone precious from his childhood.

  Ethan knew without a doubt— Christopher would never forgive himself if something happened to her.

  And if Ethan stood by and did nothing? He would never be able to face Christopher again.

  So he had to act. Not because he held any personal feelings for Angeline—But because it was the right thing to do.

  Because he was Christopher’s friend.

  Drawing a slow, steady breath, Ethan stepped out of the shadows into the open street. His heart pounded in his chest, but his face stayed calm.

  He squared his shoulders, lifted his voice, and called out:

  "Hey! What the hell do you think you’re doing?"

  The group froze, the sudden interruption cutting through the air like a bde.

  A dozen pairs of eyes turned toward him, full of surprise—then annoyance—then something darker.

  The air thickened instantly, the cheerful pretense snapping like brittle gss.

  But Ethan didn’t flinch.

  He stood there, alone, facing them all.

  Back at the men’s dormitory, Misha gathered her courage and knocked on Christopher’s door.

  The one to answer wasn’t Christopher. Instead, it was a boy she didn’t recognize—one of his roommates, apparently.

  "Love letters again?" the boy said zily, already extending his hand toward her. "Fine, give it here. I’ll deliver it."

  "N-No! That’s not it!" Misha blurted out, shaking her head urgently. "I have to talk to Christopher! It’s urgent!"

  The boy groaned, clearly used to dealing with starstruck admirers. "Look, girl, if I let every girl in here who came asking, we wouldn’t have room to breathe. Just give me the letter, and I’ll make sure he gets it, alright?"

  Misha clenched her fists, panic rising.

  "Th-That’s not it! Angeline’s in danger!" she shouted, voice shrill from desperation.

  Almost instantly, the boy was shoved violently aside, crashing into the wall with a startled yelp. In his pce stood Christopher, eyes bzing.

  "Angeline!?" Christopher barked, already tense.

  Misha wasted no time. She expined as quickly and clearly as she could—about Angeline, the suspicious group, Ethan’s instincts, and where they had st seen them.

  She wasn’t even halfway through before Christopher cut her off sharply: "Lead the way!"

  As he turned to follow her, the boy who had been knocked aside called out from the doorway, holding something out.

  "Hey, Christopher!"

  Christopher snapped his head around. "What!?"

  The boy tossed something at him—a familiar, worn sword.

  "Take this!" he said.

  Christopher caught it in one hand without missing a step. "Thanks," he said curtly.

  Without wasting another word, Christopher and Misha dashed out of the dormitory. They sprinted through the Academy gates and raced toward the market, arriving at the spot where Ethan and Misha had parted ways just a few minutes ter.

  But Ethan was nowhere in sight.

  Christopher scanned the area quickly, frowning.

  Then Misha spotted it—a small arrow drawn on a nearby wall, glistening faintly under the moonlight. The liquid was a strange golden color, catching the light.

  "An arrow...?" Christopher muttered.

  "Do you think Ethan left this for us to follow?" Misha asked.

  "It’s possible..." Christopher said, peering at it more closely.

  Misha leaned closer and sniffed—then her eyes widened slightly. "Yeah. It’s probably him. This is Fortification Tonic—the one we brewed in css!"

  Christopher raised an eyebrow. "And why was he carrying Fortification Tonic with him?"

  At that, Misha turned bright red, stammered, and avoided answering. Instead, she barked, "F-Follow the arrows!"

  Christopher wisely didn’t push it.

  The two of them hurried after the first arrow, which led to a second, then a third, then a fourth... Each arrow painted hastily but clearly enough to trace the path.

  By the time they reached the eleventh marker, they heard it—A commotion up ahead.

  Ethan stood in the middle of the alleyway, blocking the entrance to the inn with nothing but his body.

  The group of men towered over him, ughing, jeering, their breath heavy with alcohol and bad intentions.

  "You got up again?" one of them sneered, cracking his knuckles. "Didn’t you get the hint, little man? Scram before you we kill you!"

  Ethan said nothing.

  He just stood his ground, fists clenched at his sides, heart hammering wildly against his ribs.

  Every instinct screamed at him to run.

  He was outnumbered, outsized, outmatched.

  But he didn’t move.

  One of the thugs stepped forward—and punched him square in the gut.

  The air exploded from Ethan’s lungs, and he doubled over, coughing violently. Before he could straighten up, another blow caught him across the face, sending him sprawling onto the dirty cobblestone street.

  Laughter echoed around him.

  "Pathetic," one of the men said, kicking him lightly in the side.

  Ethan gritted his teeth against the pain and forced himself to get up.

  Slowly.

  Shakily.

  He wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand and stepped forward again, still blocking the inn’s door.

  "You’re going to regret this, kid," another man growled, stepping up and driving a fist into Ethan’s ribs with a sickening crunch.

  Ethan dropped to one knee, gasping—but he didn’t stay down.

  Gritting his teeth, he dragged himself back up again.

  The men exchanged amused gnces.

  This wasn’t even a fight—it was a beating.

  A joke.

  One of them grabbed Ethan by the colr and drove a knee into his stomach, lifting him off the ground for a second before throwing him back down like a ragdoll.

  Ethan hit the ground hard, stars exploding across his vision.

  He could barely breathe.

  Every part of him screamed in pain.

  But still, he pushed himself up again, trembling but defiant.

  He pnted himself once more between the thugs and the inn’s entrance, body swaying but unbroken.

  "No..." Ethan rasped through bloodied lips.

  "You’re not... getting past me."

  The thugs exchanged gnces.

  This wasn’t fun anymore.

  It was ridiculous.

  It was time to end it.

  "If you really want to die, I can help you," one of them sneered, stepping forward.

  The man pulled out a dagger with a wicked glint and grabbed Ethan roughly by the neck, pressing the cold bde close to his eye.

  "But first," he said with a grin, "will you turn a blind eye, or will your eyes really turn blind?"

  The others burst into raucous ughter, the sound cruel and ugly in the night air.

  But for the first time—Ethan felt true fear. The pure, paralyzing kind that wrapped around his spine and froze his blood.

  Was this really worth it?To die, just for this?

  He questioned his decision.

  Was he even doing the right thing?

  Should he have just stayed hidden and watched?

  Maybe just informing Christopher afterward would’ve been smarter—safer.

  Maybe stepping forward, putting himself in harm’s way, had been reckless and stupid.

  Was it truly necessary to get up time and time again, to throw himself against a wall he couldn't break?

  Was that bravery... or just stubbornness?

  He questioned his values.

  Was the justice he believed in even worth it?

  Was it right to risk so much, to suffer so much, just for the sake of a friend's friend?

  Shouldn’t he be prioritizing himself?

  His own life? His own safety?

  Was it foolish to cling so tightly to ideals when the world clearly didn’t care?

  He questioned whether everything he had already done wasn’t enough.

  Hadn’t he already done more than anyone could have asked?

  Hadn’t he deyed them long enough?

  Wasn’t lying broken in the street proof enough of his resolve?

  Would it really be so wrong to stay down now?

  To run if he could?

  To admit he had reached his limit and give up?

  The fear whispered that it would be easy.

  So easy to just stay down.

  But then—He imagined.

  Not Angeline.

  Misha.

  Misha, surrounded by guys like these.

  Misha, scared, desperate, calling for someone, anyone, to save her.

  Would he still hesitate then?

  Would he still sit in the shadows, telling himself he had done enough?

  The answer was instant, undeniable.

  "Take your best shot, you bastard!" Ethan snarled, his voice ragged but defiant.

  For a moment, the thug actually looked surprised, feeling almost admiration, and then...

  Then the bde plunged.

  Stab.

  Twist.

  "GAAAAAHHHH!!"

  Ethan’s scream tore through the night as he dropped, clutching his face—his eye—writhing in agony on the ground.

  His scream tore through the night, raw and animal, ripped straight from the depths of his soul.

  The world blurred violently.

  Pain exploded outward from his eye, white-hot, blinding. It was like a star had gone supernova inside his skull, burning away all other thoughts, all reason. He colpsed, clutching at his face—his eye, or what remained of it—rolling on the cold, filthy cobblestones.

  It hurts—it hurts it hurts it hurts—

  The only clear thought that pierced through the storm of agony was I can’t breathe. The pain was so intense it stole the air from his lungs, making him choke and gag. Each heartbeat pumped fresh fire through his veins, every pulse a new scream inside his head.

  He couldn’t tell if he was still screaming out loud, or if it was just trapped inside him.

  The ground spun around him dizzyingly. Up, down, right, left—nothing made sense anymore. It all blurred together into a nauseating whirl of color, shadow, and noise.

  The cold of the street seeped into his bones, but he barely felt it over the searing heat of pain.

  From somewhere, far away, like hearing through water, a voice reached him.

  "Ethan! NOOO!!!"

  And then—another voice.

  Roaring.

  Furious.

  Filled with the kind of rage that made the very ground tremble.

  "YOU BASTARDS!!!"

  Christopher.

  Like a lion unleashed, his roar shook the night.

  Through the searing fog of his mind, Ethan barely registered the slicing sounds of metal cutting through the flesh, the chaotic scrambling of bodies falling to the ground, the sudden shrieks of panic.

  The sounds of the world around him faded, growing dimmer and dimmer, as if he were sinking into deep water.

  But he felt her.

  Misha.

  Falling to her knees beside him, cradling him in her arms.

  Her body was warm, trembling against him.

  Her tears fell hot against his battered skin.

  "Ethan! Ethan! Ethan!"

  She sobbed his name over and over, holding him tightly as if trying to shield him from the very world.

  Her tears spilled freely, her voice trembling with anguish, as if his pain was her own.

  He reached up weakly, trying to reassure her, his bloody hand fumbling against her arm.

  "I’m... fine..." Ethan whispered hoarsely, forcing a small, broken smile, and darkness finally cimed him as he slipped into unconsciousness in her arms.

  "Ugh..."

  Letting out a pained groan, Ethan slowly opened his remaining eye, waking up in a familiar pce.

  Ha... back here again, Ethan mocked himself internally, recognizing the sterile white ceiling immediately.

  The infirmary. His second room.

  Every Wednesday, without fail, he ended up here—A direct result of Professor Rhea’s brutal training sessions.

  And like the stubborn ox he was, he would drag himself out of bed afterward and throw himself back into the grind without compint.

  It was useless. Yes, every single time. No grand breakthroughs. No dramatic improvements.But still, he did it anyway—Refusing to accept the limitations that fate seemed determined to impose on him.

  Getting up again. And again. And this time was no different.

  He had lost once more—But he hadn’t given up.

  Should I feel proud of myself? he thought weakly.

  Bullshit.

  He knew better than anyone that such pride was empty.

  Worthless.

  And yet—

  Why did it feel so warm?

  That lingering, stubborn warmth that curled quietly in his chest even as the pain throbbed through his body.

  It was then he noticed something odd.

  The world had shrunk. Tilted. Wrong.

  His left side—Dim. Blind.

  Right...

  He remembered now. He had lost an eye.

  No wonder everything felt... off. He tried to open it instinctively— But nothing changed.

  Panicked, he reached out to touch his face— And a firm hand caught his wrist.

  "What are you doing, idiot?"

  Professor Alric’s voice was cold. Colder than Ethan had ever heard before. So cold it felt like time itself froze around them.

  But Ethan knew better.

  Beneath that frigid exterior was a stubborn warmth— The warmth of someone who cared more than he let on.

  "Although I always say to come back if you lose a leg or an arm, who gave you the damn idea to lose your eye!?" Professor Alric snapped, his voice rising. "Do you have any idea how hard it is to restore an eye back!?"

  He continued scolding him relentlessly, his words sharper than any bde, until Ethan thought his ears would fall off from the sheer barrage. But even as he y there, exhausted and hurting, Ethan couldn’t help but smile faintly. Because he knew. This was just Professor Alric’s clumsy way of showing he cared.

  An odd old man—But one with a heart far warmer than he let the world see.

  Struggling against the dryness in his throat, Ethan croaked out: "M-Misha...?"

  Professor Alric clicked his tongue and jerked his thumb toward the curtained area beside the bed.

  "She's resting there," he grumbled. Then, as if unable to stop himself, unched into a new tirade: "Foolish girl! So foolish it’s almost unbelievable!"

  He crossed his arms, gring down at Ethan like it was somehow his fault.

  "During all this time she was sitting there like some personal nurse. Barely slept. Barely ate. Missed csses too. Stubborn as a mule."

  He let out a sharp huff.

  "In the end, I had to sedate her just to make her rest. Otherwise, she would’ve colpsed before you even woke up."

  Hearing that, worry gnawed at Ethan’s chest.

  "Is she... alright?" Ethan asked hoarsely, his throat dry and raw.

  Professor Alric gred down at him, arms crossed tightly. "You’re in no position to be worrying about anyone else!" he barked.

  Then, with a heavy, dramatic sigh, he added, "She’ll be fine now. Thanks to me."

  Ethan tried to move, but the sheer exhaustion in his body forced him still.

  Feeling frustrated, Professor Alric huffed and asked sharply, "Hey, boy—how long do you think you were out?"

  Ethan blinked slowly, mind sluggish. "A day?" he guessed.

  Professor Alric snorted, the sound sharp and full of disdain. "Three days, you idiot!"

  The words hit Ethan like a hammer.

  Three full days...?

  During those three days, Misha had barely slept, barely eaten, clinging to him like a lifeline.

  Professor Alric grumbled under his breath, shaking his head.

  "Your friends too. That bunch kept coming back more than once!" he snapped. "What the hell do they think this pce is!? Some kind of gathering hall!?"

  He scowled even deeper. "If they have that much free time, they should be spending it studying, not turning my infirmary into a damn social club!"

  Despite everything, Ethan managed a small, wry smile. Somehow, hearing Professor Alric’s endless compining made it all feel more normal. More real.

  Gathering his strength, Ethan rasped, "What about Christopher and Angeline?"

  At that, Professor Alric’s scowl turned darker, but he answered carefully:

  "Angeline’s fine. No injuries. She just needed a few calming pills—she’s back on her feet already."

  He paused.

  "But Christopher..." His voice lowered, grim.

  "...his case was different."

  Ethan’s heart clenched.

  Professor Alric let out a long breath. "He killed them. All six of them."

  Ethan’s stomach twisted sharply.

  "He—he was just defending me!" he protested immediately, trying to sit up.

  Professor Alric nodded firmly. "I know. And so does the Academy. But it doesn’t change the fact that he took six lives."

  A heavy silence settled between them.

  Swallowing hard, Ethan forced himself to ask: "What’s his punishment?"

  Professor Alric’s mouth twisted in clear disgust. "Community service. A full month of it," he said.

  Ethan sagged in relief— Until Professor Alric added, almost offhandedly:

  "And he's barred from participating in the first tournament against the Royal Academy this year."

  "BULLSHIT!" Ethan exploded, the words tearing from him before he could even think.

  His shout echoed off the infirmary walls like a gunshot.

  Somewhere behind the curtain, Misha stirred faintly in her sleep, shifting with a small, distressed sound.