CHAPTER 2: THE TWISTED ADMIRER

The scratching of pens against parchment filled the massive, lofty lecture hall. The professor was droning on about ancient imperial history, but I couldn't focus. I could feel a burning gaze boring into the side of my face.

From three rows ahead, the academy bully was half-turned in his seat. He wasn't looking at the chalkboard. He was staring directly at me, his jaw clenched.

Suddenly, a small, tightly folded piece of parchment landed squarely on my open notebook.

I blinked, looking up. The bully had already turned back around, looking fiercely dedicated to his notes, though the tips of his ears were suspiciously red.

My friend leaned over, whispering under his breath, "Did he just throw something at you? Don't open it. It's probably another mockery."

Curiosity got the better of me. I carefully unfolded the scrap of paper beneath the edge of my desk. Written in elegant, shape cursive-the kind only high nobility were taught-were just a few words:

Your posture is terrible. Sit up straight. And stop looking out the window, the sun is too bright today. You'll get a headache.

I stared at the note, utterly bewildered. Was he insulting my posture or worrying about a headache? I crumpled the paper in my fist and shoved it into my bag, ignoring him.

Ten minutes later, the professor called for a practical demonstration.

"We will now practice basic levitation charms," the professor announced, waving his staff. "Pass the glass inkwells forward. Do not use excessive MANA."

As the heavy glass inkwells passed down the rows, a group of wealthy noble girls near the front intentionally nudged one off the edge of the desk. It was aimed straight toward my worn leather bag on the floor.

"Oh, oops," one of the girls giggled, completely unbothered that the dark ink was about to ruin my only set of clothes.

Before the glass could shatter against my boots, a sudden flash of blue MANA erupted from the front row.

The inkwell frozen midair, hovering just an inch above the stone floor. The liquid inside swirled but didn't spill a single drop. Everyone gasped, turning to look at the source of the magic.

It was him. The bully held his silver ringed hand out, his eyes flashing with a dangerous, icy glare directed straight at the noble girls who dropped it.

"Keep your hands steady." he said, his voice cold enough to freeze water. "The academy shouldn't tolerate such clumsy, pathetic displays from high-ranking families. It's pathetic."

The noble girls turned pale, immediately apologizing and retrieving the inkwell.

I sat frozen in the back row. My friend whispered in shock, "Did he.... just save your bag? I thought he hated Commoner's."

I looked toward the front of the room. The bully slowly lowered his hand, his eyes tracking back to me for a split second. Seeing me staring at him, he quickly looked away, scoffing loudly and crossing his arms as if he hadn't just used his own high-level mana to protect a "peasant."

He didn't hate me. The realization hit me like a sudden wave of cold water. He didn't hate me at all-he was entirely obsessed with me.

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