He didn't speak for a long time.
The trees outside blurred as the carriage rolled onward, but Julien saw none of them. His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the glass.
His thoughts spun—not with panic, but with cold calculation.
He reached deeper. Past the fragments of old Julien's shallow memories. Past the scraps of nobles and scandals. He dug down—to the bones of this world.
And there, he found another truth.
Divinity doesn't exist here.
There were priests, yes. Churches. Even holy rites.
But miracles? None.
They could mend wounds, ease pain… but not resurrect the dead. Not heal a shredded heart or regrow a severed limb. No divine wrath. No voices whispering from the skies.
In his old world, a priest of the Solaris Order could call down light so pure it burned the unclean to ash. A bishop could shift entire battlefields with mass healing alone.
Here? They were little more than glorified physicians.
That could mean only two things:
Either the gods of this world chose not to intervene—offering only slivers of power to keep their followers bound to them...
Or the gods were dead.
And now, fools knelt before empty statues, whispering prayers to nothing.
Julien leaned back into his seat, eyes distant. A slow breath slipped from his lips.
In his previous life as a Dark Mage, branded heretic, he had suffered most from the Church's dogs—their blades, their fire, their fanatic faith. It was that very hunt that drove him to seal himself away in that cursed tower.
And the Mages?
Arrogant parasites drunk on tradition. They spat on him, mocked his work, called his research foolishness.
But here...
There was no holiness. No magic.
He raised his right hand and covered his mouth with it.
'Then maybe I could—'
Knock. Knock.
The sharp knock pulled him back to the present.
He blinked, only now realizing that the carriage had stopped.
"Y-Young Master," Mira's voice came soft. "We've arrived at the Academy."
Julien nodded once. A slow, deliberate motion—just enough to signal her to open the door.
She opened the door and stepped aside, bowing her head.
Julien descended the carriage steps, boots meeting polished white stone.
Before him stood—
Aristheia Academy.
An academy of the aristocrat, by the aristocrat, and for the aristocrat.
It stood in the heart of Novara, a sprawling port-city carved between sea cliffs and silver bays—where ships from every corner of the continent brought goods, gold and greed.
From where he stood, the main gates rose high and imposing—carved of black iron entwined with silver filigree. Through them, the central road stretched inward like a marble tongue, flanked by manicured gardens on either side.
Fountains trickled beneath cherry-blossom trees. Statues of past scholars and noble patrons dotted the walkways—some crowned in ivy, others polished to gleam beneath the afternoon sunlight.
Students in pressed uniforms moved along the path, some chatting in small clusters, others hurrying between lecture halls. Laughter rang from one corner. A burst of animated debate echoed from another.
It felt… alive.
Julien, who had never stepped foot inside a school in his previous life, had believed that studying at his age was nothing but a waste of time.
But standing here now—
He had to admit.
It was beautiful.
Julien's eyes rose to the banner above the gate, fluttering in the breeze.
It bore five crests—
The Silver Sword of Reinhart,
The White Swan of Princeton,
The Gold Vault of Novara,
The Black Lion of Rothvale,
And the Flame Dragon of Draker.
The five rulers of the northernmost region of the Artherian Continent.
Julien's eyes lingered a moment longer on the fluttering crests above the gate.
Then—
"Young Master?"
Mira's voice pulled him from the silence. She stood just behind him, clutching the edge of her skirt, brows drawn slightly in concern.
Julien blinked once. Then nodded.
"...Yes. Let's go inside."
He turned and started forward.
Each step echoed faintly against the polished stone.
Students passed on either side but gave him a wide berth—some whispering behind their hands, others simply staring.
"Mira," he said, eyes forward. "It's nearly afternoon, isn't it?"
"Yes, Young Master," she answered softly, attentively.
"As far as I remember… I never attended any afternoon classes before. Is this some special session?"
Mira hesitated.
"Ah… about that…"
He glanced back at her. "Just say it. I won't get angry."
She straightened slightly. "The Patriarch said you'll be staying in the Academy dormitories for a month. He insisted you arrive early."
Julien smiled—faint. "Great."
Mira blinked, confused. "Pardon…?"
Julien had already been thinking of excuses to escape that bloody household for a few days.
And now he had the perfect one, a chance to regain his strength.
And just as he started walking—
"Julien."
A voice called. Smooth. Unafraid.
He stopped mid-step. His head turned slowly.
The voice belonged to—
Elaria Le Reinhart.
The Third Princess of the Reinhart Kingdom. The spark behind the scandal. The one old Julien was said to have drugged—driven by obsession, desperate to get her into his bed.
She stood a few paces behind him, surrounded by a small circle of attendants dressed in standard black and white.
Her own uniform, however, was anything but standard. A custom version of the academy's black and silver design—tight at the waist, cut high at the thighs, tailored to flaunt rather than flatter.
A ceremonial sash looped across her chest, drawing subtle attention to the curve of her breasts—full, high, framed perfectly by the fitted cut. The royal sigil sat across them like a mark of pride.
Her legs, bare from mid-thigh down, were smooth and toned. Stockings clung to her thighs, ending just low enough to leave a thin, deliberate band of skin exposed. She stood with one knee lightly bent, her posture casual, confident.
Her golden hair shimmered, curled and pinned into a half-crown braid laced with jewels—each sparkle placed for attention.
She looked every bit the royal heir.
Poised. Polished. Hollow.
Julien stared at her in silence, then glanced briefly at Mira beside him.
'Obsessed with her? What nonsense…'
He scoffed inwardly.
'Mira's far more beautiful than this over-decorated woman.'
More than that… no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't remember old Julien ever drugging her. The memory was hazy, fragmented. But he did recall the way old Julien stared at her unconscious body, frozen in a haze of lust and guilt.
'There's definitely something off…'
"How've you been?" she asked sweetly.
Julien's gaze flicked to her attendants in the back—watching, curious.
"Just fine," he said.
Her smile widened.
She stepped closer, graceful. Her perfume hit the air, soft and sweet, cloying with intent.
"By the way," she added, tone lighter than air, "I didn't expect to see you here."
Then, with a tilt of her head—
"I thought you were going to be disowned."
Julien didn't blink.
"Is that what you were hoping for?" he asked, calm as still water.
Something behind her eyes twitched. She was shocked—taken aback by his response.
The Julien she knew… would never have spoken to her like that.
"I was simply surprised," she said smoothly. "I assumed even your father had standards."
Julien tilted his head. "Strange. I was going to say the same about yours."
That did it.
The sweetness in her expression cracked.
Elaria stepped in even closer—no longer pretending, no longer wearing the polite princess mask.
"Did you change or something?" she said, voice low and curling with disdain. "You should be kneeling. Groveling. Begging for forgiveness."
Her voice dipped further, velvet soaked in venom.
"You should be thanking me. I could've ruined you. Dragged your name through every gutter in the kingdom. But I didn't. I pardoned your offense and passed it off as nothing more than a rumor."
Her eyes narrowed, gleaming like daggers.
"Because the alternative?" She leaned in, voice dropping to a hiss. "Would've been treason. Drugging a royal isn't a scandal—it's an execution."
Julien said nothing.
His face didn't change.
"But don't think for a second you're safe." Her words struck like glass. "You're still filth. A disgrace wearing a noble surname. Everyone here knows what you are. No matter how well you dress. No matter how quiet you pretend to be. Beneath all that—"
She spat the last line like a curse.
"You're still that same pathetic, drooling little rat."
A long breath slipped from her lips—quiet, shaky. As if she'd only just remembered to breathe.
Her attendants stood quietly behind her, pretending not to hear a word.
Eyes averted. Faces blank.
The air around them shifted—heavy, silent, as if the world itself held its breath.
Julien's gaze didn't waver.
He didn't flinch.
The wind tugged lightly at his hair.
His eyes met hers—cool, flat, emotionless.
He inhaled slowly. Then exhaled, soft and even.
And said, "Are you done?"