Chapter 5: Young Master? I Think Not!

Chapter 5: Chapter 5: Young Master? I Think Not!

The heavy door of the Dean’s office clicked shut behind Michael, sealing away the scent of expensive perfume and the lingering heat of Seraphine’s presence. The hallway outside was almost completely silent. Soft white lights ran along the ceiling in clean lines, casting no shadows worth mentioning. His footsteps echoed lightly as he walked.

Through the tall windows that lined one side of the corridor, the academy grounds stretched out below. Students filled the open spaces in loose groups. Many had already stripped out of their formal uniforms, leaving only white singlets, short sleeves, or the thin inner shirts that clung to still-damp skin after the long ceremony. Someone had dragged out speakers. Music drifted up, mixed with laughter, the pop of balloons, and the sharp hiss of bottles being opened. Plastic cups and floating decorations littered the grass.

It was the first true day of freedom after years of drills, theory classes, history lectures, mathematics, and mock expeditions into low-level rifts.

Michael slowed for a moment, watching them.

Five years.

He had entered this place as a quiet, newly verbal boy still learning how to live in a body that was far too attractive for its own good. Now, he was leaving it as Class President, record-breaker, and the center of more quiet rumors than he cared to count.

The stressful nights, the endless training, the political games between student factions—none of it erased the fact that these had been the best years of either of his lives.

He had made real friends. He had traveled. He had learned what it felt like to be wanted without having to buy the feeling. He had even collected a handful of genuine romance arcs that would have made his old shut-in self choke on envy.

If he died tomorrow, he would still call it a life well spent.

But he had no intention of dying.

This was only the opening Chapter. Power. Women. And, perhaps, even immortality. He had to get all of them before he could call this second life well spent.

Michael smiled, pulled his gaze away, and continued walking.

As he passed an empty classroom, a tall mirror fixed to the wall caught his reflection. Michael paused just long enough to look.

Snow-white hair fell loosely around his face in tousled, slightly messy strands, perfectly complementing his sharp features and defined jaw. Long black lashes framed his red-pink eyes, making their garnet-like color even more striking.

He stood six-foot-two, his shoulders broad but his frame lean and well-defined. There was just enough muscle beneath his uniform to show through the fabric—a firm chest, defined arms, and the faint outline of his abs without making him look bulky. The unbuttoned collar revealed a clean stretch of throat and collarbone.

When he first woke up in this body at ten years old, the resemblance to a certain white-haired anime character from Earth had been so strong that he had briefly wondered if he had landed inside a fanfiction. Though no one in this world would ever understand the reference, which was probably for the best.

He gave his reflection a small, private smile and kept moving.

The moment he stepped out into the main courtyard, three figures cut across his path.

At their center stood a blond-haired boy with sharp, pointed eyes, carrying himself with the arrogance of someone who believed he was royalty.

Technically, he was.

Otherworlders like him were often treated as higher beings in the First Heaven. Their talents were generally stronger, and their chances of awakening high-ranked prospects were far greater than those of ordinary humans.

This made many otherworlders feel superior to humans, and perhaps because of their culture, they held a deep disdain for them.

However, most otherworlders still kept these feelings toward humans hidden, despite looking down on them and considering them inferior. But there were always a few who made no effort to hide their hostility.

Derrick Abraham was one of them.

He and his two hangers-on stood in a loose formation, forcing Michael to stop.

Michael exhaled through his nose at the sight of his now-former classmate.

They had entered the academy in the same year, both thirteen years old, and from the first ranking tests onward, Derrick had held a deep resentment toward Michael.

The reason was simple. As an otherworlder with an insane amount of pride who believed humans would always be beneath him, Michael was an existence he simply couldn’t understand. From grades to combat evaluations and practical exams, nothing Derrick had tried had ever allowed him to beat Michael.

When fists and numbers failed, Derrick had tried gathering a small gang, but Michael and Felix had beaten them bloody in an unused training hall and left the matter there.

For nearly a year afterward, Derrick had stayed quiet.

Apparently, the silence was over.

Derrick stepped into Michael’s personal space, his voice pitched loud enough to carry across half the courtyard.

"Why is trash like you still walking around like you own the place?"

Michael blinked, then placed a hand over his mouth in exaggerated shock.

"Trash? Where is it?" He looked left, then right, his nose wrinkling. "I can smell it, but I can’t see it."

His eyes settled back on Derrick. A slow, sharp curve touched his lips. "Oh. There it is."

Derrick’s teeth clicked together hard.

"You bastard. How dare you talk to me like that after awakening the lowest possible rank?"

Michael’s gaze darkened by a fraction. For a brief second, he wondered whether Derrick’s otherworlder senses had somehow caught the real number before the crystal shattered. The thought of simply removing the problem permanently flickered through his mind—but soon died when Derrick kept talking.

"You think breaking the orb hid anything?" Derrick sneered. "I’m not stupid. I know what you are now."

Michael’s shoulders loosened. ’So he was only guessing. Good enough.’

He gave a light shrug. "Think whatever you want."

The casual dismissal seemed to offend Derrick more than any insult. He lunged forward and seized Michael by the collar, his fingers twisting into the fabric.

"Fix your attitude before I—"

Derrick’s voice suddenly trailed off as the words caught in his throat.

Michael was taller than him, forcing Derrick to look up at the hateful creature in front of him. But Michael wasn’t looking at him with the same playful mockery from a moment earlier. His eyes were just flat and cold.

Sweat beaded at Derrick’s temples as he swallowed hard. Even the two goons behind him took an unconscious step back.

"What," Michael asked quietly, "are you doing?"

Derrick’s mouth opened a fraction, but no words came out. Gritting his teeth, he forced them out anyway.

"D-don’t act so cocky—"

Michael leaned in until his mouth was close to the other boy’s ear. His voice dropped into something soft and almost conversational.

"Hey," he called out gently. "I heard your mother is really pretty. Cute face. Nice body, too. Shouldn’t you be more worried about keeping an eye on her instead of running your mouth out here?"

He suddenly paused, his voice dropping lower. "Though... if you’re too busy, I don’t mind looking after her for you."

Derrick’s face went white, then scarlet.

Without thinking, he swung his fist forward, but Michael didn’t try to dodge it. He simply twisted his head a fraction, taking the punch on the cheek rather than the mouth. The force turned his head and sent him down onto the courtyard stones.

He landed on his backside, wiped a thin smear of blood from the corner of his lips with the back of his hand, and smiled.

Slow, deliberate clapping echoed across the open space.

Felix stepped out from the shade of a nearby colonnade, phone raised and recording. His red hair caught the light as he grinned.

"Pretty solid punch, Derrick. With form like that, you should’ve skipped awakening and gone straight into wrestling."

Derrick’s eyes locked on the phone. All the color drained from his face again. He glanced back at Michael, who was still on the ground smiling, and clenched his jaw tight.

’These fucking bastards!’

As an otherworlder from a minor family, he could not afford to have footage of him assaulting a native student—especially not the Class President—spread through the academy network.

He jabbed a finger at both of them, his voice cracking with rage.

"You two are bastards. Dirty, underhanded pieces of shit who can’t even settle things like men!"

Neither Michael nor Felix bothered answering. Derrick spun on his heel and stalked away, his two followers scrambling after him.

Michael accepted the hand Felix offered and let himself be pulled upright. Then brushed the dust from his trousers.

"You were just going to stand there and watch?"

Felix slung an arm around his neck, still grinning. "It’s a good day. Didn’t feel like fighting. Same for you, right?"

"Yeah," Michael said. "Not today."

Felix’s expression turned sly. "Your girlfriend’s waiting in the old storage room. You should go see her before she freezes the place solid. Also... the professor’s still in the east classroom. You might want to clean up that particular mess before you disappear."

Michael let out a long, tired breath. "Thanks for the reminder."

He glanced past Felix’s shoulder. A pretty girl with light-brown hair stood near the far fountain, arms crossed, clearly waiting. Michael tilted his chin in her direction.

"Yours is getting impatient."

Felix followed his gaze, winced theatrically, then clapped Michael on the shoulder hard enough to sting.

"Don’t die. Or at least text me if you do."

He jogged off, leaving Michael alone again.

After letting out a sigh, he cut across the edge of the courtyard, past the last clusters of celebrating students, and followed a narrow path that led toward the older part of the campus.

The storage building stood by itself near the training fields—a low, windowless structure of gray brick that the academy used for surplus equipment and things no one wanted to look at too closely.

He stopped in front of the metal door, his hand resting on the handle for a second longer than necessary. Then he pulled it open.

Cool, dim air spilled out.

Ivy Fox stood near the center of the single room, illuminated by a narrow shaft of light that fell from a high vent.

She had already changed out of the formal ceremony uniform into a lighter blouse and skirt. Ink-black hair with those deep purple undertones spilled down her back. Her silver eyes were lowered, focused on the small gray cat she was slowly stroking between the ears. The animal’s eyes were half-closed in obvious bliss.

She did not look up immediately, but the soft, rhythmic movement of her hand never paused.

Michael paused for a moment, admiring the beautiful scene that looked like it had been pulled straight out of a manhwa Chapter, before entering and letting the door swing shut behind him.