The buzz of adrenaline from the strange encounter with the Steel-Furred Boar still lingered in Arin's limbs. He didn't know how far he had run after the beast fled, but eventually, the weight of exhaustion pulled him down. With torn sleeves and crusted blood on his lip, Arin finally made it back onto the road—only to find he was not alone.
A small group of students in pristine academy uniforms stood ahead. Their coats were trimmed in gold, mana cores glowing faintly in their chests—proof of awakening. Laughter broke out as one of them pointed toward him.
"Look at that! What in the abyss dragged itself out of the mud?" one boy jeered, his voice dripping with mockery.
Arin's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
"Oh wait," another chimed in, "That's no beast—just a beggar with a broken toy."
They had seen the mangled remains of the boar in the distance.
"I bet he thinks he hunted it."
With a flourish, one of the students—tall and red-haired—lifted his artifact sword and slashed through the boar's corpse. In seconds, it was cleaved into neat, bloody pieces.
"Here, trash. Since you like scraps so much, go collect them," he smirked, flicking a piece of flesh at Arin's boots. "A beggar should know his place."
Arin's fists clenched. The sting of their words was less painful than the cold truth—they were awakened, registered students. He was still an unawakened ghost.
He looked up at the meat, then knelt down without a word. Slowly, he began to collect it.
"Look at him! No shame at all."
"Like a dog."
Suddenly, a soft voice cut through the air.
"That's enough."
A girl stepped forward. Her silver hair shimmered under the sun, her mana core a brilliant blue that pulsed with grace. She raised her hand, and with a wave, all the meat pieces floated gently into a neat bundle.
"I'll carry it. You've done enough."
She turned to Arin and bowed slightly.
"I'm sorry. My companions… forget their manners."
Arin's breath caught. Not just because of her beauty, but the sheer sincerity in her tone.
Before he could respond, a boy stepped forward, fury blazing in his eyes. He had broad shoulders, emerald-encrusted robes, and an aura of arrogance thicker than stone.
"You think trash like him deserves to even be acknowledged by someone like you, Lyselle?" he growled.
He turned to Arin. "Don't misunderstand. You aren't worthy to stand within ten paces of the class goddess."
Then, without warning, the noble boy punched.
CRACK.
A sharp cry rang out—not from Arin, but from the boy himself.
His wrist bent backward, grotesquely twisted.
"You… you broke it!" he screamed.
But Arin had done nothing. Or rather—he had leapt back, crashing into a wall, groaning theatrically. Blood trickled from his lips, his head lowered.
"No... forgive me," Arin said weakly, on his knees. "It was my fault."
The noble student clutched his broken arm and sneered with gritted teeth.
"You think begging will fix this?" he roared. "I am Karl O'Chres, noble son of the Arnesia Kingdom! For this insult, I demand your hand as payment!"
The other students gasped.
"A hand…?"
"He's serious…?"
Karl raised his glowing hand, veins pulsing with light.
"I'll take it myself."
And the crowd grew silent.