"Oh? You guys aren't in class?"

Moen returned to the training arena, only to find the space in darkness, all light seemingly blocked.

Only the center of the arena was illuminated, where a magical device projected a scene of two warriors in combat.

It was akin to watching a movie.

It was easy to guess—Professor Kaid had instructed them to watch this while he took the ice sculpture of Coren to find Pink Bear for revenge.

For someone like Professor Kaid, who valued teaching so highly that he'd scold students for merely looking listless during lessons, leaving students to study on their own and walking out of the classroom was a clear indication of his foul mood.

But this suited Moen just fine.

Moen walked to the center of the training arena, stepping onto the magical device and switching off the projection.

Instantly, the arena lit up brightly.

The students, momentarily unaccustomed to the abrupt change in brightness, instinctively turned their attention toward the center of the room—or, more specifically, to Moen.

"Moen Campbell?"

After a brief silence, someone seemed to come to their senses, their expression sour.

"What are you doing back here?"

"Huh? Am I not allowed to return?"

Moen looked at them with feigned confusion and replied,

"I believe I have the right to attend this class."

"If you're here for class, fine. But why did you shut off the projection?"

Someone angrily shouted, "You've disrupted our learning!"

"Oh, I've never seen you guys so eager to learn before," Moen retorted with a sarcastic laugh.

He then started walking forward, step by step, his footsteps sharp and deliberate.

With each step, a few students’ faces turned a shade darker, their expressions more unpleasant.

Moen leisurely observed them, comparing their faces to memories in his mind and confirming each one.

Finally, he arrived at a point close to the spectator seats.

He picked up a chair from the seating area, placed it behind him, and sat down.

Then, facing all of them, he began to speak:

"I used to be scum."

Moen's voice fell, and everyone froze, stunned.

No one had expected him to start by insulting himself.

What kind of strategy was this? Self-destruction to emphasize his ferocity?

Unperturbed, Moen continued:

"But now, I don't want to be scum anymore.

"Yet there are still people who think I am.

"I don't blame them; people are often driven by stereotypes. It takes a long process to change how others perceive you.

"So, I’m trying. Although… well, the results have been negligible, I am genuinely making the effort."

"In my original plan, I wasn't planning on coming back here. After all, being talked about or criticized isn’t anything new to me. It's not a big deal, really. If you just endure it, it passes. I've grown used to it. Besides, tolerating it might leave people with the impression that I have a generous spirit."

"But honestly, it can still be quite irksome.

"Like some domineering president said—this pathetic, cowering appearance is disgusting. So, here I am."

"And now that I’ve returned, I certainly won’t let things slide so easily."

"Previously, those who talked about me—I couldn’t do anything about them. Because, in a way, what they said was true; they were speaking the truth about my past. But—"

Suddenly, Moen grinned widely, seemingly in good spirits.

"Here's the funny thing—I can't do anything about them, but I *can* do something about you all.

"After all, isn’t it your belief that mistakes must be met with apologies?"

"What are you implying?"

Someone couldn’t hold back and shouted loudly:

"Are you planning to confront all of us?"

"That's just wrong," Moen replied, his tone icy and straightforward. "What do you mean by 'all of us'? I counted—there are only thirty-five of you."

His gaze sharpened as he raised his hand and pointed at the group.

"I understand most of you are just following the crowd, chasing excitement, or seeking a sense of thrill.

"But just as you indignantly demanded earlier that I should apologize for being an 'oppressor,' now that you’ve become the oppressors and I am the one being oppressed... shouldn’t you be coming over, one by one, and apologizing for that?”

Moen's words landed like a hammer upon the scene, plunging it into silence.

For a moment, it seemed that everyone was in shock, amazed by the sheer boldness of the blonde man standing before them.

Apologies? Everyone?

Was he oblivious to the fact that the law didn’t punish the masses?

Even if a teacher faced such a situation, they wouldn’t dare penalize every single student!

"Moen Campbell, you’re too arrogant!"

Unable to bear the humiliation, one of the most active voices earlier slammed their desk and stood.

"Even if there are only thirty-five of us, we represent thirty-five noble families! Even if you’re a Duke’s son, you can’t—"

"Taike Roder, right?"

Moen suddenly interrupted him.

The speaker—Taike Roder—seemed startled, not having expected Moen to call out his name directly. His face betrayed his discomfort.

"I remember you. You’re the son of an Earl; your status is noble, and the Roder family isn’t a minor house. It holds considerable influence across Belland."

"So, you admit—"

"But," Moen interrupted again, his tone calm, "you also happen to have three older brothers."

"In other words, you’re the fourth in line to inherit, aren’t you?"

Taike’s complexion turned pale instantly.

"So what?"

Moen didn’t reply, instead offering a slight smile.

And then—

"Brofen Tide, sixth son of Marquis Tide."

"Guchi Sloane, fifth son of Earl Sloane."

"Also..."

Moen proceeded to call name after name, nearly listing all thirty-five individuals present. Then, with a sharp clap, he said:

"Now, for those of you whose names I just mentioned, tell me this...

"Can any of you truly represent your family?"

"..."

Silence fell over the group.

No one spoke up.

But everyone knew the answer.

Of course not.

Most noble families have numerous offspring to secure their legacy. It wasn’t uncommon for an Earl or Marquis to have a dozen or more children.

Only the Campbell family was so unique, with its single-line inheritance.

As a result, the majority of individuals here ranked fifth or even further down the line of succession.

Represent their families? Unlikely.

Their demise would barely cause a ripple within their households.

"Don't you understand now?"

Facing the thirty-five individuals, Moen rose from his seat, his expression icy and stern. For once, it was clear he was embracing the pride—and ruthlessness—of being a Duke’s son.

"This is the difference between a Duke’s son and the sole heir to a Duke."

Moen clenched his fist, as though he were crushing something unattainable within his grasp—power and influence that eluded everyone else.

"I, Moen Campbell, *am* the Duke of Campbell. I alone represent the name ‘Campbell.’ If you insult me, you insult Campbell itself!"

His words landed like hammer blows, leaving the thirty-five students pale and ghost-like, the blood drained from their faces.

Moen Campbell was absolutely correct.

He could represent the Campbell family.

But they couldn’t possibly represent theirs.

And surely their families wouldn’t risk offending a future Duke on their behalf.

"So, now... do any of you have anything to say?"

Moen swept his gaze across the group. Seeing no response, he nodded in satisfaction.

"It seems you all agree with me. In that case..."

Casually, Moen pointed at Taike, the closest individual to him.

"We’ll start with you. Come over."

"..."

Under pitying gazes from the others, Taike, though clearly reluctant, shuffled toward Moen step by step, trembling like a leaf and looking as if he’d lost all hope.

When he finally reached Moen, the pressure became unbearable, and he couldn’t help but cry out:

"Moen Campbell, what do you want from me? Money? Land?"

"Money? Land?" Moen replied, his expression confused.

"What are you talking about?"

"You don’t want money or land?" Taike’s eyes widened in fear.

"Don’t tell me... you want my sister? You bastard, she’s only eight!"

"Not sure how your thoughts got there," Moen said, mystified, "but I just told you—I want you to apologize."

Moen placed his hand on Taike’s shoulder and pressed firmly down.

"Apologize, got it? Be sincere, sound humble... and make sure your back bends enough."

"And remember this: next time, when you stand on moral high ground and point fingers, be careful you don’t slip and throw your back out."

---

---

"Is that all? Just apologies?"

From a corner of the arena, Ariel watched the scene unfold, her voice tinged with disdain.

"How dull. I thought he’d break all their legs or something."

"Hmm?"

As she muttered to herself, Ariel’s eyes flicked toward the door.

She caught a glimpse of a shadow darting out through the back exit—a thin figure with a monkey-like face fleetingly visible.

"Another matter related to Moen Campbell?"

Ariel considered it briefly but withdrew her gaze.

"Forget it. His affairs are none of my concern."

With a serene smile, she reached for the communication stone in her hand.

"I still need to plan what to say the next time I call my sweetheart."