Reading people was child's play for Althea Crowne.
Sadness. Joy. Anger. Fear.
Humans liked to call themselves complex. Layered. Scarred in places no one could see.
How amusing.
To Althea, their emotions were as transparent as ink on an exam sheet—poke the right place, and they'd explode.
Just like the man standing before them now: Lucien Arkwright.
Trying to look in control. Upright. Assertive. But his voice had a tremble. His fingers gripped his pen a little too tightly. And his eyes—they weren't looking. They were reading.
"Say what you like, Professor."
"That doubtful tone stings a little, Ms. Crowne."
His first mistake—taking it personally. He thought Althea cared?
Worse, he was trying to test her.
You could've done better.' The words were never spoken, but they lingered—heavy, like the rhythm of his tapping fingers against the desk.
Was that supposed to be a challenge? Him? Challenging me?
Althea could barely stop herself from laughing.
"Anyone can talk big," she said coolly. "But reality doesn't always follow words."
She thought that would end the conversation.
But instead of backing off, Lucien just shrugged.
There was something irritating about his attitude—not in the condescending, 'I-know-better' way most teachers exuded, but something else. Something playful.
And worse, he was enjoying it.
"Maybe a bit of evidence would help."
He pulled out another sheet from inside his book. Who knew how many things he had stuffed in there?
This time, the entire class recognized it—the grading report.
One word crossed Althea's mind: Bastard.
"Rowan Avenhart: 790 points. Noa Elowen: 750 points. Clarisse Vientrel: 450 points. And Althea Crowne…"
He paused. Dramatically.
"...lowest score: 80 points."
Heads turned. Althea clenched her jaw.
She didn't need the reminder. Her grade wasn't low because she was stupid—but because she didn't care. What was the point of trying when the system was rigged to make them fail?
"And why does that matter?"
Professor Arkwright raised a brow. "Should I pull out your answer sheet too, Ms. Crowne?"
"It's not the score—it's you. Acting like these numbers define us."
"A fair critique of the academy's grading system," he nodded. "Completely valid."
…Huh?
"I agree," he continued. "Numbers are limiting. But this is an academic institution. Quantifiable, empirical metrics are the most logical."
"Empi–what now?"
"Example," he said, drawing two lines on the board. "What do you see?"
"Two lines."
"Their colors?"
"Black and red."
"Good. Now— which one's longer?"
Althea exhaled sharply. Why was he wasting time with preschool riddles?
From where she sat, the black one seemed longer. But shift your head slightly, and the red took the lead. A cheap visual trick.
"What's this got to do with grades?" she interrupted. "What is this, kindergarten?"
"Ms. Crowne, I'm waiting for an answer, not a tantrum."
A few students chuckled. Althea snapped, "The black one!"
"Any reason?"
"Because… it looks longer!"
"Poor reasoning."
He turned to Clarisse Vientrel who sat in the front row. "Ms. Vientrel?"
Clarisse hesitated. Glanced at Althea. Got nothing back.
"I… I think the red one's longer?"
Was she blind?! The black was clearly longer! Althea thought, half irritated half frustrated.
"Once again," Lucien sighed, "this class shows remarkable consistency—in sheer idiocy."
Protests erupted.
"You drew them the same!"
"What kind of trick is this?!"
"If we're wrong, what's the answer!?"
Lucien smirked—a sly, thin smile.
"Length. Beauty. Intelligence. All of it—subjective. It shifts with bias, perspective, and context. But if we want certainty—"
He wrote the numbers beneath each line. Red: 15cm. Black: 10cm.
"—we measure. Objectively. Like your grades. Not perfect, but consistent. A shared frame of logic."
He pulled out a tissue and casually wiped off some sticky residue from the Aibon Concentrate—something everyone had grown too confused to even acknowledge anymore.
"Any other questions, Ms. Crowne?"
*#*
Lucien spent lunch scrubbing himself clean.
Enduring the stench of Aibon Concentrate for two hours was enough to knock out a basilisk.
At least none of the students complained.
Not after she went quiet.
Althea Crowne.
She'd been on his radar ever since he started investigating Class 1-F. Being the second daughter of House Crowne—once the royal family—her presence here didn't add up.
Rumor had it even the previous dean hesitated before placing her in that class.
And why not?
The Crownes, as their name suggested, were royalty.
Once.
This kingdom was built by Althea's ancestors. They ruled for a hundred and fifty years before House Elto staged a 'rightful uprising' three decades ago.
To soothe the Crowne loyalists and patch up a fractured nation, the new rulers didn't strip them of all noble privileges. They even handed them seats in the royal council.
This is why I hate medieval politics.
Messy power plays. Rigid class systems. No matter how modern the tech looked, the society was still stuck in the damn Dark Ages.
"...Ego? Superego? Freud?"
Stepping out of the bathroom, Lucien saw the door half-open—and someone inside.
A blonde woman was leafing through his notes.
"Need something, Professor Ainsworth?"
Mireille jerked upright and nearly screamed. "AH! You're not dressed?!"
Lucien snorted and walked toward the wardrobe. "You barge into a man's room, and that's your concern?"
First Celeste. Now Mireille. Did no one here understand the boundary between personal and professional?
Maybe he should look for off-campus housing. At least after the first paycheck came in.
"The door was open!" Mireille huffed. "I thought you weren't busy."
What kind of logic was that?
As he pulled on his army-green vest, she suddenly gasped. "Wait—is that a Macca Fox limited edition?!"
"A what now?"
"Don't play dumb! That vest sold out in three days right after its release! I lined up for two hours and still missed it!"
She stepped closer, practically squinting at the label.
Lucien sighed. "I just bought whatever looked comfortable."
"Dear gods…" Mireille rolled her eyes. "So you said you accidentally got your hands on my dream vest, no, everyone's dream vest?"
"If you want it, take it." He lifted the hem. "I'll find another."
"E-eh?! No—don't! I mean—I want it, but not by stealing it from you…"
Then what?
Lucien had zero interest in dealing with this headache. He needed an excuse to shoo her away before lunch ended—before his mental clarity got smothered by nonsense.
He clicked his tongue. "Tell you what. When I get paid, I'll get you a new one. Same design."
"W-wait—you still have a source?!"
"I know someone." Technically, he read about duplication spells. Add a few tweaks, a touch of illusion, and the library's machine could handle the rest.
Mireille blinked. Then smiled. "That's… actually really sweet."
"In return, you buy me a drink."
"Deal!" She raised her pinky. "Promise?"
Lucien stared at the finger. Then hooked it with his own.
Last time he did this, he still believed in Santa Claus.
"So," he said. "What was the real reason you came barging in?"
"Right!" She gasped—again. "Almost forgot! The Dean wants to see you. Upstairs. Now."
Lucien squinted.
Of course. There's no such thing as a peaceful afternoon at this academy.