This is probably my last time as a human. I haven't truly considered myself one in a long time, but after this, there will be no debate—I will cease to be human. Whether I win or lose this war, my humanity will be left behind.
I've spent years preparing for this moment, yet now that it's so close, a strange melancholy grips me. That's why I've decided to enjoy this last stretch, to experience what it means to be human—one final time.
I stand before the grand entrance of the academy, my gaze drifting over the people around me. Conversations hum in the air—news, rumors, mundane chatter. The noble heirs stand out like beacons of wealth and status, while commoners weave through the crowd, unnoticed and unremarkable.
Of course, exceptions exist. Not everyone who stands out belongs to nobility. Some shine through sheer talent—exceptional power, academic prowess, or something else entirely.
I take a step forward, my decision made. The eyes on me are inescapable. Even with this newly crafted identity, the stares persist. But this time, it isn't because of my strength, wealth, or connections.
"Isn't he good-looking?"
"Yeah, he's totally handsome!"
The beauty of an angel is not something one sees every day. Though I lack the official status of one, I embody their essence—in power, in wisdom, and, clearly, in appearance.
I suppress a sigh and tune out the murmurs with practiced ease, distancing myself from the noise as if placing an infinite chasm between me and their whispers. Their admiration is nothing more than a fleeting distraction, and their youth makes it all the more irritating. Legally, there would be no issue, but someone of my age entangling with an 18-year-old would be... problematic.
Stepping past the gates onto academy grounds, I feel an almost imperceptible shift. Perhaps it's the imposing presence of the main building up close, or the sheer density of soul energy emanating from the professors—far beyond that of the students.
My attention shifts to a large board mounted beside the entrance. My fingers trace down the list of names until I find mine.
"Freon Athan, Class 1-B."
The numbering system is straightforward: the first digit represents the academic year, while the letter denotes rank. Ranks range from D to A, determined by either raw strength or academic performance.
That is, except for Class A—an exclusive domain of noble heirs, upheld by some archaic tradition dating back centuries.
Despite Class A's prestige, Class B tends to be stronger in reality. Unlike nobles who can afford to be complacent, the students here have clawed their way up through talent and perseverance. I expected this placement—any other result would have been suspicious.
I adjust my white hair and place my silk top hat back on before heading toward the massive academy building. Its architecture is reminiscent of a bygone era, gothic and grand, a relic from centuries past.
Navigating through the corridors, I keep a steady pace, effortlessly dodging students to avoid unnecessary interactions. A clumsy collision on the first day would be an unsightly stain on my reputation. Soon enough, I reach my first class—a basic orientation meant to familiarize students with the academy.
With measured care, I push open the door and take in the room.
It's spacious—large enough that voices from the back row wouldn't reach me without enhancing my hearing. The seats rise in tiers like an old theater, ensuring everyone has a clear view of the lecturer.
Scanning the room, I take note of those who draw more attention than others. I wonder how they feel about the unwanted stares. Most people lack the ability to simply shut out the noise. Living under constant scrutiny must be exhausting.
I move through the rows, searching for my assigned seat. Each desk is marked with a photo taken during enrollment. Pausing occasionally to glance at unfamiliar faces, I eventually find my own.
Second-to-last row, far right.
I examine the photograph. The technology of this world remains primitive compared to past cycles I've lived through, but it's sufficient to capture my image clearly.
White hair—messy as usual, partly obscured by my top hat. Golden eyes—unchanged through the countless years they've seen, or rather, endured.
I notice the same girls from the entrance. They avert their gaze the moment our eyes meet, blushing as if caught in some embarrassing act. I had forgotten how easily flustered teenagers are when I sent my application.
The boys, on the other hand, regard me with irritation, as if my mere presence is the source of their woes. One in particular glares at me with open resentment. I meet his gaze with an arrogant smirk before looking away.
I hear his temper flare.
Power is a funny thing. When no one can challenge you, you can do as you please.
Over the next fifteen minutes, the classroom gradually fills. Then, at last, the door swings open one final time. A sharp clap echoes through the room, silencing idle chatter.
The man standing at the front commands immediate attention.
Long black hair, parted at the center. Sharp, dark eyes. He appears to be in his early thirties, though he is likely closer to sixty. His presence alone speaks of experience.
"Hello, students. I will be your head professor for Class 1-B this year. My name is Folentine Valen. I served as the Seckan Empire's war strategist for twenty-five years."
A murmur ripples through the room.
To hold such a position in an empire as vast as Seckan is no small feat. Their war record remains unbroken for forty years. I know firsthand the burdens a strategist must bear.
Folentine methodically calls out names from the roster. Ernest Chester, Klein Rowan, Jonathan Smith—some common, some foreign.
Then—
"Lucian, this is not a place to sleep. Follow the lecture instead of dozing off."
I turn my gaze toward the student in question.
Messy black hair, fierce eyes, a small scar marking his mouth. His disheveled appearance suggests a harsh upbringing—either from the slums or a war-torn land.
For some reason, he reminds me of my younger self.
His appearance was nothing like mine. My stark white hair stood in sharp contrast to his, but what truly set us apart was the look in his eyes—ruthless determination. He had the gaze of a starved wolf, a hunting tiger, someone who would do anything to reach his goal.
Lucian stirred at the noise, his sluggish movements betraying his drowsiness. He ran a hand through his hair before straightening in his seat, offering a half-hearted apology to Mr. Folentine. His tone lacked sincerity, but the professor merely sighed and resumed his lecture, droning on about the academy's structure—classes, tests, dormitories, and other mundane details that most students pretended to care about.
I wasn't one of them.
I had chosen the academy to escape boredom, not drown in it. If every lesson was going to be like this, I might as well have stayed asleep like Lucian.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the class. Students either rushed out as if escaping from a prison or lingered to chat, their voices blending into the background.
I left, not out of urgency, but because the first-years were required to gather in the Grand Hall.
The journey there was uneventful. A few minutes of walking led me into a massive chamber already brimming with students. I instinctively drifted toward a corner, adopting the role of the silent observer. With my heightened senses, I scanned the room, making mental notes of those who stood out.
The first to catch my attention was Janna Wanter. Her dark complexion and slight accent marked her as a southerner from the empire's lower regions. Her flowing white hair contrasted beautifully with her deep violet eyes, giving her an almost ethereal presence.
Next was Clarence Font, a prodigy in magic and the first in line to inherit House Font. His messy blue hair and striking red eyes were uncommon in Seckan, hinting at mixed ancestry. The way others stole glances at him confirmed his reputation.
But the one who commanded the most attention was Prometh Seckan. The emperor's only son, the empire's golden prodigy, and the future ruler of the Seckan Empire. His radiant golden eyes and hair shimmered under the hall's lights, as if demanding reverence. A master of both swordsmanship and a wielder of Soul Power.
As the murmurs died down, professors began taking their places along the room's edges—standing like silent sentinels, much like knights guarding a king's chamber.
A sharp cough echoed through the hall.
The noise ceased instantly as every gaze turned toward the middle-aged man standing at the front of the stage.