The morning sun punched through the curtains like it had a personal vendetta against me. I blinked against the harsh light, instantly regretting ever opening my eyes.
"Good morning, Young Lord," Nurse Vivianne said softly. She stood by the bed with her usual expression — calm, stern, and vaguely threatening in a grandmotherly way. She always looked like she was one step away from slipping me funeral pamphlets. Maybe that was her version of motivation.
"Today's the day, Noah," she said, folding her arms. "Headmaster Graymoor expects your punctuality at orientation. No excuses."
I groaned internally. Orientation at Cyran Academy — the place where nobles polished their egos and commoners fought tooth and nail for scraps of prestige. And me? I was somewhere in between. Technically noble, but without power, status, or a future.
I sat up slowly, my muscles groaning like rusted hinges. My body still felt like it had been steamrolled — which, again, it had. By a truck. A literal one. Not a metaphor.
Vivianne handed me a glass of water. "Take it slow. Your mana core is still fractured, and the Academy isn't known for its mercy."
"Yeah, I'm sure I'll fit right in," I muttered, dragging myself upright.
Outside, a black carriage waited. The Drakopoulos crest — a chained serpent wrapped in cold silver — gleamed on the door. The mountain air bit into my skin, and the pine-scented breeze did little to calm the storm in my gut.
The road to Cyran Academy was long and bumpy, and each jolt rattled my bones like dice in a cup. I stared out the window, watching stone towers rise from behind ancient trees.
Cyran Academy looked exactly as I remembered from the novel: a sprawling castle of obsidian and white marble, forged from ancient stone and starfire enchantments. Its banners flapped high, each one bearing a family sigil — lions, phoenixes, thorns… and, to my dismay, the chained serpent of House Drakopoulos.
The crest hung near the entrance, weathered and overlooked, as if even the stone was embarrassed to display it.
The grand gates creaked open.
Inside the main atrium, students gathered in clusters. Nobles in tailored cloaks. Commoners with hopeful eyes. And me — the sickly shadow of House Drakopoulos. Most avoided my gaze. Others stared, as if trying to remember if I was the one who died last semester.
Headmaster Dorian Graymoor stood like a black obelisk near the podium. Tall, sharp-featured, and wrapped in ceremonial robes that shimmered with threads of starlight. His silver hair framed a face carved from stone.
When his gaze landed on me, my spine straightened involuntarily.
"Noah Drakopoulos," he said, voice cold as winter steel. "You are late."
"I arrived the moment I was able, Headmaster," I said, steadying my voice.
His frown didn't deepen, which was the closest thing to approval I'd get.
The orientation was held in the Grand Constellation Hall — a vaulted chamber where starlight spells danced across the ceiling. Rows of students sat on stone benches, eyes locked on the blindfolded professor at the front.
Professor Elira Thorne — the Head Seer of Cyran's Astral Division — looked otherworldly. Her blindfold was laced with runes, and her voice echoed like prophecy.
"Welcome," she said, "to Cyran Academy — where mana flows, stars judge, and only the worthy rise."
She turned her head slightly, blind eyes somehow finding me. "And for those who come from broken Veins or cursed bloodlines… know this: weakness here is not forgiven. You either conquer your fate — or are consumed by it."
No one laughed. Not even Silas Dregan, who was already watching me with thinly veiled.
One by one, students stood and announced their names, their Crests, and magical affinities.
"Silas Dregan," he said proudly, lightning crackling between his fingers. "Heir to House Dregan. Silver Star Crest. Specialization: Lightning and Martial Channeling."
He glanced at me. "And I look forward to seeing how long the Drakopoulos runt lasts."
I smiled weakly. "Hopefully just long enough to disappoint you."
Several nobles chuckled.
Next came Lyra Windmere. A cheerful air mage with healing affinity and a face that belonged on a festival poster.
"I'm Lyra! House Windmere. Crest: Silver Star. Healing and Wind Support. I'm excited to study with everyone—yes, even you, Noah."
Even me. How sweet.
Then Kara Voss — icy, unreadable, and rumored to have blood ties to the old frost clans of the north. She merely gave her name, nodded once, and sat.
Bennett Gorran followed, a golden-haired enchantment prodigy from House Gorran.
"Hiya! Enchantments, illusions, and moderate pyromancy. I love cursed objects, so if you're hiding a family curse, we should definitely hang out."
"I'll check my schedule," I said dryly.
Then came Celia Rae, whispering something about forbidden healing magic — she barely made eye contact.
And finally, Ren O'Shae. A silent swordsman from the border provinces. No magic, no flashy intro. Just a nod and a seat.
Aeron Valestar didn't introduce himself. He didn't need to.
He stood at the center of a golden circle, chatting with nobles who hung on his every word. The Hero of the Valestar line. Gold Star Crest. Fire and Light magic. The "Chosen Flame." My former friend — now a stranger.
Lunch followed in the great dining hall. Long tables. Glowing chandeliers. And eyes. Always watching.
Silas sat beside me, uninvited.
"So," he said, "what kind of magic does a cracked Crest give you? Can you cough stars?"
"I can cough blood," I offered. "But only on special occasions."
He laughed, loud and mean.
Across the hall, Aeron was laughing with Lyra. For a moment, our eyes met — and he didn't even blink. Just turned away.
Right. Not friends anymore. Not in this timeline.
Combat class came next.
Master Halwin — an old general turned instructor — paced before us with the gait of someone who'd survived ten wars and regretted none of them.
"Combat here isn't about flair. It's about survival," he barked. "Some of you are nobles. Some of you are trash. All of you bleed the same."
When he called my name, I stepped forward, sword trembling in my grip.
"Drakopoulos," he said, eyeing my trembling stance. "The rumors were right — you look ready for the grave."
"Trying to keep things accurate, sir," I said.
Laughter. Then pain.
Silas was my sparring partner. His blade crackled with static as he lunged.
I blocked. Badly.
The shock ran through my arm, and I stumbled. Another hit knocked the wind from my lungs. I hit the ground hard.
Master Halwin didn't stop the match. Of course he didn't.
But I stood.
Wobbling. Bruised. Bleeding.
Still standing.
That evening, I returned to the sickroom — now practically my personal apartment. Nurse Vivianne frowned at my bruises but said nothing.
"Drink," she muttered, handing me a vile green tonic.
"Tastes like betrayal," I said, gulping it down.
"Then you're finally developing taste," she said, setting down her tray.
Later that night, I stared at the wall beside my bed. The Drakopoulos sigil stared back — the chained serpent, twisted in agony, never breaking free.
I traced the lines with a finger, breathing slowly. In the story, Noah Drakopoulos died before the end of the first arc.
But I wasn't him.
Not anymore.