"Mr. Bellvace, do you have a moment?"
Class had officially ended. Unsurprisingly, only two students had stayed from beginning to end.
Clarisse Vientrel paid attention, as expected. She answered questions, even asked a few of her own.
Roy Bellvace? Not quite as engaged. But for Lucien, one additional student present was already more than enough.
Two out of twenty. That was still ten percent.
Then again, Lucien had to admit—his math just now sounded more like a tragic joke.
Roy pulled something from his ear, probably this world's version of earpods. "Yes, Professor?"
"Do you happen to know where your classmates went?"
Roy frowned briefly, then snorted. "No idea. Their dorms? The cafeteria? Main field? Could be anywhere."
"Where do you guys usually hang out?"
"'You guys'?"
Roy scratched the back of his head. "I think you've got the wrong idea, sir. I don't hang out with them. Honestly, I don't even talk to them."
That... was unexpected.
Lucien had been observing the class, and Roy Bellvace had struck him as the most disheveled-looking one of the bunch.
He had briefly assumed Roy was the male version of Althea.
"Anything else, Profesor?"
"U-um… Professor." Someone tugged at Lucien's sleeve.
He turned. Clarisse looked smaller when they were standing this close.
She glanced around nervously, sighed, and swallowed hard before meeting Lucien's eyes again. "I think I know where Althea and the others are right now."
*#*
St. Eliria Academy had 214 official rules, neatly compiled in a handbook distributed to every first-year student.
Rule number one?
Students may not leave campus without staff permission, urgent personal business, or official academic reasons.
And yet… here they were.
A dingy little pub just past the commercial district. The kind of place that wouldn't ask questions about underage drinking as long as the patrons tipped well—or more accurately, looked like they had noble money.
Fifteen out of twenty students from Class 1-F were there.
Nearly the whole class.
Lucien stepped inside just as a roar of laughter erupted from the back.
They were drinking—loudly, sloppily, and with that particular brand of arrogance unique to privileged teenagers. No one in the bar batted an eye. Locals here had long learned that trouble didn't come from the kids, but from trying to discipline them.
And at the heart of it all stood Althea Crowne.
"To hell with St. Eliria! To hell with the monthly evaluations! And to hell with Lucien!"
"To hell with Lucien!"
Lucien, seated at a table in the corner, merely scoffed and raised his glass.
It was just lemon juice. He had too many issues to drown in alcohol.
Coke would've been better. A bit of caffeine might've helped pry his eyes open a little wider. "Cheers to my future."
"Touching, isn't it?" came a voice from across the table.
He didn't have to look. No one else could sound that unimpressed and disappointed at the same time.
Celeste Varenthal sat across from him like a storm choosing stillness over destruction.
"You still think she's worth saving?" she asked, fully expecting the answer.
Lucien took a sip. "I never did."
"A strange claim coming from someone willing to stake his entire career on that girl." Celeste studied him with a gaze both dissecting and calculating. "So what is it then? Hypocrisy? Or is there some hidden agenda?"
Lucien smiled dryly. "Like what?"
"A forbidden love, perhaps."
"You almost sound jealous."
"I don't interested for anyone—least of all someone like you."
He shrugged. "And yet, here we are, in the same place, at the same time. Like fate's giving us its blessing."
"Don't flatter yourself, Professor. Someone has to make sure these little monsters don't burn down the city just because they're pissed off."
Lucien nodded along. "I trust you for that."
Something about the way he said it, so casually, as if none of this mattered, sparked something in Celeste—and it wasn't romance.
"Accept the Dean's offer." Her hands landed on the table with a firm, no-nonsense thud.
"Oh? Does 'supervising' the kids now come with being the Dean's messenger bird too?"
She narrowed her eyes. Any more banter and she'd be the one made a fool of. "Call it whatever you want. But as a fellow scholar and colleague, I'm simply reminding you—you're fighting a losing battle here."
"How noble. Altruism among colleagues."
Celeste frowned.
Before she could respond, Lucien cut in. "So, how's Professor Ianosa these days?"
Her brow furrowed. "What does he have to do with this?"
Lucien smirked. "Strange. So you two really aren't engaged?"
Celeste's eyes widened. Her jaw tensed. "Dragging personal matters into a professional discussion is a disgrace, Professor Arkwright."
Professional. Sure.
Lucien wondered if their conversation had ever truly been that to begin with.
Doran Ianosa—former homeroom teacher of Class 1-F before Lucien took over. Also Celeste Varenthal's rumored fiancé.
A brilliant researcher, dedicated to academic progress throughout the kingdom. An idealist, too, judging by his refusal to let his findings be used for military purposes.
'Spread love, not war,' he'd written in his autobiography.
But like in every other world, idealists rarely lasted long.
Perhaps the royal family eventually grew tired of his resistance—tired enough to have him quietly removed.
The Dean claimed that outside interference in Academy affairs was forbidden.
But hey, who'd trust a giant snake like that?
Doran was gradually pushed aside. Stripped of his research post and assigned full-time to teaching Class 1-F.
Naturally, he didn't take that sitting down. Especially not with a lioness for a lover.
So who better to be mauled by said lions than the new guy? The freshly appointed head of mental research and Class 1-F instructor?
Lucien Arkwright.
"Well then, I'll just list 'coercion' and 'intimidation' under your definition of professionalism. Anything else you'd like to add?"
Celeste clicked her tongue in frustration. "This is a waste of time."
"I don't think so." Lucien downed the rest of his drink. "Talking to you really does give me purpose, Professor Varenthal."
"So you've finally decided to use your brain."
Lucien grinned. "I have. And it tells me... let's make every damn brat in Class 1-F pass the upcoming evaluation. Just to see the future Mrs. Ianosa scowl even harder. Sound good?"