Nightbloom Mansion

  Selene Nightbloom woke at precisely 5:00 a.m., as she did every day.

  Daughter of Thalen Nightbloom — president of the fourth-ranked guild in the world — she had been raised on discipline, precision, and presentation. Nothing important was left to chance.

  “Did you pack everything?” she asked, reviewing her schedule.

  “Yes, ma’am,” the butler replied.

  “Double-check.”

  “It has already been double-checked.”

  “Bath ready?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Salon?”

  “On the way. Arrival before seven.”

  Two hours later, the stylist bowed.

  “I want everything perfect,” Selene said calmly. “My first impression must be flawless.”

  After meticulous preparation, she examined herself in the mirror. Hair aligned. Uniform immaculate. Expression composed.

  Acceptable.

  Genetics, properly maintained, were a valuable asset.

  “Transport ready,” the butler announced. “Your luggage has been sent ahead.”

  “Good.”

  She stepped through the transport gate and entered the car waiting on the other side.

  “Stop before the campus gate.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Her goal was clear: elevate Nightbloom Guild to the number one position in the world. Influence began with perception, and perception began with a flawless entrance.

  “Send my luggage ahead. I’ll walk from here.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  She stepped forward, posture straight, expression calm.

  Mission begins.

  Her first step toward the academy—

  “Crash.”

  Selene POV — After the Collision

  The impact knocked her backward. For a brief, disorienting moment she found herself on the ground, staring up at the sky.

  What just happened?

  Her first impression — destroyed before it even began.

  She rose immediately, smoothing her uniform as though nothing unusual had occurred.

  People were staring.

  Control the situation.

  Control the narrative.

  A boy lay nearby beside a fallen bicycle, clutching his head and blinking unfocused eyes.

  “Hello,” she said, carefully composed. “Are you alright? You should be more careful while cycling. Are you hurt?”

  No response.

  He wasn’t even looking at her — his gaze drifted past her shoulder, unfixed, searching.

  Was he… blind?

  She frowned slightly.

  “Hello,” she repeated, more firmly. “I said, are you hurt?”

  “Oh… I’m okay. Thanks.”

  Thanks?

  Stolen story; please report.

  Not sorry?

  He didn’t even look at her.

  Annoyance flickered beneath her calm exterior, but she suppressed it. Engaging further would only draw attention.

  This is beneath you.

  Without another word, Selene turned and walked away.

  Mission first.

  Korin POV — Immediately After

  What a start.

  First day at the academy and I’m already horizontal.

  My vision was a smeared blur of color and light, which made determining basic facts — such as who I had crashed into — essentially impossible. For all I knew, I might have collided with a statue.

  “Hello. Are you alright? You should be more careful while cycling. Are you hurt?”

  A voice reached me through the haze. Female, composed, faintly irritated.

  Probably a bystander.

  “Oh… I’m okay. Thanks.”

  The voice didn’t respond.

  Footsteps retreated.

  Good. Situation resolved.

  I slowly pushed myself upright, trying to appear functional despite the fact that the world looked like wet paint.

  “Are you hurt?” I asked cautiously, directing the question toward the vague shape in front of me.

  No answer.

  Excellent.

  I had apparently apologized to empty space.

  “I’m really sorry about the accident,” I continued anyway. “My glasses fell off suddenly. Maybe a rock hit the wheel. I was going fast and couldn’t control the cycle.”

  Still nothing.

  So either they had already left…

  Or I was facing the wrong direction.

  Both were plausible.

  “I understand if you don’t want to talk to me, but it wasn’t intentional.”

  Silence.

  Statistically speaking, people were staring.

  I couldn’t see them, but that didn’t mean they weren’t there.

  Completing my admission process while effectively blind was not part of my original plan.

  “Korin? What are you doing sitting here like that?”

  A new voice — male this time.

  Finally, someone who actually existed in my field of vision.

  “I suddenly felt weak and fell off the cycle,” I said carefully. “I don’t think I can stand yet.”

  Not entirely false. Mostly dignity preservation.

  “Oh. Let me help you.”

  A hand grasped my arm and pulled me upright.

  “Please,” I added quickly, “I need to complete my admission procedure.”

  “Don’t worry about that. I’ll handle it. You should go to the academy hospital first.”

  Unexpected kindness always carried a small statistical risk of hidden complications, but I was in no position to refuse.

  “Okay. Thanks, man. I really appreciate it.”

  He hesitated.

  “Why are you talking so formally?”

  “I’ve decided to change my image,” I said smoothly. “Old Korin is gone. New Korin is here.”

  Announce personality reboot. Very convincing.

  “…Okay.”

  Confusion achieved. Suspicion avoided.

  Academy Hospital

  The nurse examined me thoroughly while my vision slowly stabilized. Shapes sharpened, colors separated, outlines returned.

  Time: 10:24 a.m.

  Approximately one hour of impairment.

  Silent Eclipse had very clear boundaries.

  “Hey, Korin. What did the doctor say?”

  I finally saw my rescuer properly: chubby build, long brown hair, double chin, friendly expression.

  “Everything’s fine. Did you finish the admission procedure?”

  “Yes. Here’s your room key card. Your uniform and essentials are already delivered.”

  Efficient. I liked him immediately.

  Room numbers corresponded to rank.

  Korin Kai

  Class A

  Rank 431

  Rank 431.

  I had been first in school. First in college.

  Now I was four hundred thirty-one.

  Painful.

  Rael Cross — my new acquaintance — was Rank 415.

  Unacceptable, but currently unavoidable.

  Room 431

  The room was modest but clean: single bed, study desk, attached bathroom, and a large supply box.

  Compared to my previous life’s cramped rental room, this felt luxurious.

  Progress, however incremental, was still progress.

  After settling into my room, I checked my phone and found a system notification waiting.

  [Agility has increased by 0.3]

  [Endurance has increased by 0.1]

  So the crash had not been entirely pointless. Pain, apparently, had measurable value.

  Encouraging.

  Physical training worked — or at least physical suffering did. Either way, the path forward was clear: build strength until I stopped looking like a civilian who had wandered into a military exercise by mistake.

  I took a long shower to wash off the sweat and dust, then allowed myself a precise fifteen-minute nap. Efficiency mattered; recovery was as important as effort, especially in an unfamiliar body that had already demonstrated its fragility.

  When I woke, the dull ache in my muscles had softened into something tolerable, so I headed to the cafeteria just outside the dorm building.

  The interior resembled a luxury hotel buffet rather than a school dining hall. Marble floors reflected soft overhead lighting, high ceilings created a sense of space rather than crowding, and rows of food counters stretched farther than necessary for an ordinary student population. Everything was self-service — no waiters, no attendants — as if independence were part of the curriculum.

  Apparently heroes carried their own plates.

  Despite the scale, fewer than a hundred students occupied a space that could easily hold two thousand. The emptiness amplified every footstep and clatter of dishes.

  I spotted Rael almost immediately. Low population density made social detection trivial.

  I filled a tray with boiled chicken thighs — reliable, predictable, difficult to sabotage — and sat beside him.

  “You’re here,” he said with relief. “I was waiting.”

  “Needed a nap.”

  His gaze dropped to my plate. “…Why only boiled chicken?”

  “Protein.”

  And paranoia, but that felt impolite to say aloud.

  “Forget the chicken,” he said, lowering his voice. “Why are there so few people?”

  “Well, the cafeteria offers room service,” he explained. “Most students are eating in their rooms while preparing to climb the ranks. And nobles usually eat outside — apparently they can’t digest normal food.”

  Remarkable condition. Wealth apparently causes dietary intolerance.

  “Why prepare to climb rank on the first day?” I asked.

  Rael blinked as if the answer should be obvious.

  “Because six hundred students fail every year.”

  “…What?”

  “This academy has a fifty percent progression rate,” he continued. “Out of twelve hundred students, six hundred advance to second year, three hundred to third, one hundred fifty to fourth, and only seventy-five graduate as heroes.”

  So this wasn’t education — it was filtration.

  A survival funnel disguised as a school.

  I speared a piece of chicken and considered the implications. Did it even matter whether I became a hero? There was almost certainly someone else here destined to be the legendary protagonist.

  My goal was simpler.

  Survive.