Chapter 260: First Day (3)
By the time he reached the dormitory stairs, the adrenaline had faded. His hands slid into his pockets, his expression unreadable.
’Same arrogance,’ he thought. ’Every world, every story, people never change.’
He didn’t enjoy humiliating anyone. He hadn’t even fought, really, just reacted. But the look in Roland’s eyes lingered, that flash of anger and disbelief. It reminded him of something older, something he’d once read in the novel, how every character, every rival, every "test" was just a narrative device.
But these weren’t words on a page anymore. They were people. Real, breathing, feeling.
And that made it harder.
When he entered his dorm room, the soft hum of the mana lamp filled the quiet. Victoria wasn’t there; she’d returned to their city apartment for a few days to handle something with the landlord. For the first time in weeks, the room was his alone.
He sat by the window, watching the light fade beyond the academy walls. The horizon was painted in amber and violet, the city beyond just a faint shimmer.
His phone buzzed once. A message.
[Elara]: Heard you almost got into trouble. You okay?
[Merlin]: It wasn’t trouble. Just noise.
[Elara]: Noise still burns if you listen too long. Don’t let them get under your skin.
[Merlin]: I won’t. You at the dorms?
[Elara]: Library. You’d hate it here. Nathan’s snoring over an open book.
[Merlin]: Figures.
[Elara]: You coming by tomorrow?
[Merlin]: Maybe.
[Elara]: You always say maybe.
[Merlin]: And I always show up.
A pause.
[Elara]: ...Yeah. You do.
Merlin set the phone down, a small smile touching his lips. For a brief moment, the day’s tension dissolved into something quieter.
Outside, the courtyard lights flickered on, bathing the academy in a soft glow. The wind rustled through the trees, and far in the distance, laughter drifted faintly from the training grounds, younger students still sparring under the supervision of instructors.
Merlin leaned back in his chair, eyes half-closing.
Tomorrow would be another day. Another test.
But tonight, at least, the world was still.
The academy’s courtyard looked different after break.
The trees had shed their first gold, the fountains shimmered with faint mana light, and the air was thick with the hum of students returning, louder, sharper, full of post-vacation arrogance.
Merlin had forgotten how noisy this place could get.
He walked alone through the main hall, coat draped loosely around his shoulders, the faint wind following him like an obedient shadow.
His expression was unreadable, calm, detached, but his presence had weight. It wasn’t arrogance; it was stillness. The kind that drew eyes whether he wanted it or not.
And eyes followed.
Whispers too.
"That’s him, right? The kid from the exam."
"Yeah, the one who broke Professor Lyran’s mana test record."
"He looks so normal."
"Normal doesn’t walk like that."
He ignored them all.
He’d grown used to it, the attention, the way the academy bent around talent like gravity. He didn’t crave it. He didn’t reject it either. It was just noise.
He was heading toward the training field when the noise sharpened.
Three older students stepped into his path, third-years by their badges. They wore the dark blue cloaks of the combat division, polished, confident, and clearly aware of their seniority.
The one in front smirked. "Well, well. The famous first-year."
Merlin stopped, eyes flicking up lazily. "You’ll have to be more specific."
The smirk faltered for a heartbeat, just a heartbeat, before the leader chuckled, adjusting the silver clasp on his cloak. "You’ve got attitude, I’ll give you that. Not smart though. You walk through our court without even showing respect?"
"Respect," Merlin repeated, voice flat. "Do I owe you some?"
The second one, tall, wiry, with a scar across his jaw, stepped forward. "You owe every upperclassman respect, rookie. Especially those who kept this academy from being a playground for arrogant brats."
Merlin blinked once, then smiled faintly. "You mean like yourselves?"
That earned him a laugh, sharp, brittle.
The third one, quieter but broader, leaned on his staff. "You talk big for a first-year. Maybe you need a little... lesson in manners."
Merlin sighed. "You’re serious."
"We’re trying to help you," the leader said, taking another step forward. "We break in all the newcomers who think they’re special. Keeps the academy balanced, you know?"
"Balanced." Merlin’s tone was amused now. "That what you tell yourselves to sleep at night?"
The three stiffened.
Merlin could feel it, the shift in the air. Mana rising, faint and sharp, like the moment before a storm. A few nearby students had stopped to watch, whispering behind hands, sensing something was about to happen.
The leader’s smile disappeared. "You think you’re untouchable just because you made the rankings last year?"
Merlin tilted his head slightly. "I don’t think about it."
"Then maybe we should remind you where you stand."
They moved almost in sync, a coordinated motion born of experience. The leader’s hand flicked, and a gust of force magic cut through the air; the scarred one followed with a mana pulse meant to stagger; the third began a low chant, summoning a restraint circle.
Merlin didn’t flinch.
The first gust bent before it reached him, wind folding inward like it had struck a mirror. The mana pulse fizzled mid-air, drained before it could form. The circle beneath his feet cracked, its light shattering like glass.
He hadn’t moved.
He didn’t need to.
The air around him shimmered faintly, wind and space magic intertwined, forming a thin distortion barely visible to the eye.
When he spoke, his voice was soft. "That’s your lesson, then."
The leader staggered back a half-step. "What— what did you—?"
"I just showed you the difference between control and noise." Merlin’s gaze met his, calm but cutting. "You should practice."
A cold silence followed. The crowd didn’t breathe.
Then the third-year with the scar barked a laugh, hollow, defensive. "Lucky trick."
Merlin turned his head slightly. "Try your luck again, then."
None of them did.
The leader’s jaw tightened. His pride wanted to fight; his instincts screamed not to. He settled for a glare instead, muttering something under his breath before walking off, cloak snapping sharply in the wind.
The others followed, their steps a little too quick, their silence a little too forced.
When they were gone, the courtyard noise returned like a tide. Whispers rushed in.
"Did you see that?"
"He didn’t even move—"
"Third-years couldn’t even—"
Merlin exhaled and kept walking, ignoring them. He didn’t need their awe or their noise. He wanted quiet.