The lunch bell had rung minutes ago. Most students were either already in the mess hall or halfway there. Including the transfer student—gone before the door slammed open. except some.
"You talk a lot"
he muttered under his breath, his tone almost dismissive. "But I'm not really in the mood for a circus."
Taesung clicked his tongue. "What's that? You finally grew a backbone over the weekend?"
It wasn't loud. Wasn't aggressive. But somehow, it hit harder than a shout.
Taesung's smirk twitched.
"…What?"
The two lackeys blinked. Then one of them laughed like he needed to fill the silence. "What'd you say to him?"
"Say it again, punk," the other snapped, stepping forward. "Think just 'cause you been gone a few days, we forgot who the hell you are?"
"I said," Aryl repeated quietly, "I'm not in the mood for a circus."
His gaze flicked to Taesung, then back to the one with the loud mouth.
"But if you insist on juggling for me…" He tilted his head a fraction. "I'll watch."
It was so calm. Too calm. And that made it worse.
A chair scraped hard across the floor. One of them lunged.
"Think you're funny, huh?!"
The first swing came fast—but wild.
Aryl didn't need his system. Didn't need any Shadow Strategist skills to dodge this. He could see it coming. Always could—even before the training. His problem wasn't seeing the punches. It was taking them.
Back then, he was just too weak to do anything about it.
But now?
Aryl didn't flinch. He didn't even blink.
The punch came in hot—sloppy, wide.
A simple step to the left. That was it. No flash. No wasted movement.
The guy's arm sliced through empty air, his weight throwing him forward.
Aryl's right hand snapped out, grabbing the back of his head mid-stumble.
And then—
Crack.
A knee rammed straight into his stomach. One, clean, brutal shot.
The sound that came out of him wasn't a scream. It wasn't even a word. Just air being ripped from his lungs as he dropped like a puppet with its strings cut.
Aryl let go. Let him crumple.
Didn't even look at him.
A few students—those who hadn't gone down to the mess hall—were scattered around the room. Some had been half-asleep, some scrolling their phones. Now? Eyes wide, phones forgotten, mouths half-open.
A kid near the window whispered, stunned, "Holy sh*t… that was too cool to be true."
Another leaned forward in his seat, half-laughing in disbelief. "Did he just—yo, did he knee him like that?"
Aryl stayed silent. No smirk. No gloat. Just stood there, expression unreadable—like it wasn't even worth a reaction.
Because to him, it wasn't.
He shifted his gaze to the next lackey, not challenging, just… waiting.
The lackey who got folded was still wheezing on the floor, clutching his stomach like he'd just been hit by a truck. The others stared, caught between disbelief and panic.
Taesung's smirk faltered for the first time.
Aryl didn't even face him yet. His eyes drifted toward the next closest guy—taller, broader, but with that same hesitation in his step. The kind bullies have when their prey bites back.
he charged, maybe hoping to redeem the group.
He telegraphed every move.
Aryl sidestepped—a smooth, minimal pivot. Let the punch swing past harmlessly. Then, almost casually, he caught the guy's arm mid-swing. Twisted.
The pop of the shoulder wasn't loud, but the scream that followed was.
"AAARGH—!"
The guy dropped, holding his arm. Rolling. Done.
A murmur broke through the students watching, louder now. No one was on their phones anymore.
Taesung's fists clenched. "You bastard… What the hell do you think you're doing?"
Aryl finally looked at him.
Now he was interested.
Aryl's gaze landed on Taesung, calm as ever. He didn't say anything.
That silence? It was louder than any insult.
The classroom, half-filled with the students who hadn't gone to the mess hall, was dead quiet. No one even breathed too loud. Eyes flicked between Aryl and the two groaning bodies on the floor.
The tension twisted in the air like a wire pulled too tight. Taesung's cocky exterior cracked, just a little. Not enough for most to notice—but Aryl did. The slight twitch in his jaw. The way his stance shifted forward.
Then—he lunged.
Too fast. Too loud. Too angry.
A blur of movement.
Aryl tilted his head—just barely.
The punch skimmed past his cheek, close enough to feel the wind of it graze his skin.
Close.
He's not like the others. A little sharper. A little more precise. No wonder they followed him.
Aryl's eyes narrowed.
Too wild. Too emotional. He leaves himself open the second he commits.
But Taesung wasn't just throwing fists like his lackeys. He had control—rage layered under practiced movement.
Can't sleep on him.
[Shadow: Crimson Strategist.]
Legacy: Iron Chess – Battlefield ForesightTier: Basic (Limited Activation)
[Skill Activated – Iron Chess: Battlefield Foresight]
Duration: 50 seconds
— Predict enemy micro-movements
— Expose key openings
The world sharpened—like a switch flipped.
Every twitch of muscle. Every shift in weight. Taesung's next move was already on display.
The moment the skill activated, everything clicked into place.
Taesung stepped in—predictable. Aryl had already moved.
His body felt light, responsive. No burn in the muscles. No gasping lungs. Endurance 8. Vitality 5. He could go hour now without breaking rhythm.
And every movement hit harder than before. Strength 5. Dexterity 5.No wasted motion. Just clean, calculated violence.
Aryl ducked under Taesung's swing, the fabric of his uniform brushing his cheek. Too slow.
He stepped in.
His right hand shot forward—knuckles slamming into Taesung's ribs with surgical precision.
A jolt of air left Taesung's lungs, his body folding slightly. But Aryl wasn't done.
He pivoted, using his momentum—and drove his knee into Taesung's gut with brutal efficiency.
One. Two. Just like the drills. But this wasn't training. This was real. And it was working.
The class was silent—except for the sharp thud of impact and the sound of Taesung stumbling back.
Taesung staggered back, mouth slightly agape, like he hadn't fully registered what just happened. His eyes widened—rage and disbelief flashing across his face.
He roared and charged, blind with fury.
Aryl moved.
No hesitation. No wasted movement.
[Iron Chess: Battlefield Foresight – Active]
Duration Remaining: 15 seconds Predicting micro-movement…
Target exposed: Right temple.
Suggested Counter: Elbow Strike – Optimal Efficiency.
Aryl moved without hesitation.
His foot pivoted—Weight shifted—[Strength Modifier Applied – Bonus Impact +12%]
His elbow shot forward like a piston. Crack!
The blow connected flush against Taesung's temple.
The bigger boy's eyes went wide—then empty. His body buckled mid-step, knees folding beneath him like broken scaffolding.
[Target Status: Stunned]
[Target Condition: Incapacitated
– Consciousness Fading…]
He hit the floor with a dull thud, arm twitching once, then going still.
A beat of silence.
Then—
"Holy sh*t…" someone muttered near the back. "Did he just—drop him?"
Another whispered, "That wasn't luck… He planned that."
A third voice, barely more than a breath: "He didn't even look tired…"
Aryl straightened up slowly, not even breathing hard.
No labored breaths. No shaking limbs.
[Endurance Check – Stable]
[Vitality Threshold: Not Exceeded]
Just calm. Unbothered.
Like it was always meant to end this way.
Taesung staggered back, clutching his ribs, gasping like a fish out of water. But even through the pain, he looked up—his instincts screaming something wasn't right.
And then he saw Aryl's eyes.
That same look.
Unblinking. Indifferent. Empty, but not weak—never weak.
It was the same gaze Aryl always had, even when Taesung used to beat him down in the school's backyard. That same void staring back at him. Like no matter what was done to him—Aryl was the one looking down.
The one in control.
Back then, Taesung brushed it off as some freak with a death wish. But now, standing there with blood in his mouth and pain clawing through his gut… it was different.
That indifference in Aryl's eyes had gotten darker.
Colder.
Deeper.
It didn't feel like he was staring at a classmate anymore.
It felt like prey locking eyes with a predator that didn't even care enough to chase.
Just waiting to see if it would struggle.
A sleek black car pulled to a quiet stop. Its windows were tinted dark enough to turn away the sun, its surface spotless despite the dust curling in the spring air.
The back door clicked open.
Two men stepped out—both in matching black coats, sharp as razors, with collars turned high and boots that didn't make a sound on the pavement.
One of them, older, more composed, adjusted his glove as he looked toward the school.
"…You feel that?"
The younger one nodded, brow furrowed. "Faint. Raw. But it's there."
The tension from the fight hadn't fully settled. Some students were still frozen in place, staring at Taesung slumped against the wall like a broken puppet. Aryl stepped past it all without a word.
He wasn't shaken. He wasn't proud either.
He was just… hungry.
Quietly, he slipped out of the classroom, hands in his pockets, shoes barely making a sound on the hallway floor. His mind had already shifted from the brawl to lunch—until he saw them.
when two men in matching black suits blocked his path. One stood tall and stern, the other slightly shorter but sharper in gaze—both of them exuded the kind of authority that didn't come from badges, but something… heavier.
They didn't introduce themselves. Just looked at him like they already knew what they were dealing with.
"You're not registered," the taller one said, voice clipped and businesslike "What agency are you with?"
Aryl stared back. Blankly. Bored, almost.
"I was trying to get lunch."
The shorter one stepped in, scanning Aryl like he was some unclassified artifact.
"You flared. We felt it. If you're awakened, you're required to register with Korea's branch of Creedshift."
Awakened.
There it was again—that word. They'd felt the fight from earlier. The ripple of power. But they were wrong.
"I'm not interested," Aryl replied flatly, eyes flicking past them. "Now, if you'll excuse me—"
"Wait," the second man interrupted, raising a hand. His eyes weren't on Aryl anymore. "Hey—look. That's Seo-Yeon."
Aryl's gaze followed.
Down the corridor, the transfer student walked , passing by without a glance toward them—without needing to. Her eyes caught theirs in that fleeting moment.
She didn't stop.
She just walked on, calm and silent.
Like she'd seen this kind of thing before.
Like she already knew.
And in that subtle moment, her expression shifted—not with surprise, but with resignation.
She had accepted it.