"Who are you?"

Moen frowned and asked.

After staying in the academy for so long, he thought he hadn't provoked any girls yet.

Could it be the fault of the original Moen?

No, given the original protagonist's taste, it's impossible for him to be interested in such a young girl.

"Mo... Moen, don't you remember me?"

The young girl climbed out of the bushes, leaves still stuck to her hair. She adjusted her slightly crooked black-framed glasses with trembling hands and said weakly:

"I'm Sari Frand, a second-year student just like you. I attended the martial arts class with you before."

"Sari Frand?"

Moen stroked his chin and thought, yet the name triggered no memory at all.

Moreover, the martial arts class… During that time, he had scanned the students repeatedly to trace the source of that inexplicable hostility. Even so, it seemed he hadn't noticed a young girl like her in the crowd.

Was she that unremarkable?

"My name might not ring a bell for you, but… but there's something, if I mention it, you should recall."

Sari hung her head low, not daring to meet Moen's eyes, and stammered:

"The li… library, after class tutoring?"

Moen froze upon hearing that.

Such ominous keywords—it’s bound to evoke odd associations!

Plus, with this girl dressed like a model student, how could she not worry about saying such things to a delinquent-looking guy with yellow hair like him?

Moen couldn't help but secretly complain.

However, his thoughts were soon interrupted by a flash of realization.

Wait. Hold on. These words…

Moen suddenly remembered:

"Oh, you're the little girl who misunderstood me at the library back then?"

"Yes, that's me," Sari nodded vigorously.

"So it was you."

Moen touched his chin once more.

When he first joined the academy, in his attempt to find classmates willing to tutor him, he had approached this young girl in the library. However, due to his terrible reputation at the time—charming scoundrel, dating dozens simultaneously, basically a magnet for trouble—the poor, naive girl had mistaken his intentions and caused a misunderstanding, kicking him in the process too.

"So… why are you following me?" Moen asked, puzzled.

"Be… because I wanted to apologize to you." Sari replied softly.

"Apologize?" Moen was taken aback.

"I am truly sorry, Moen. Back then, I misunderstood your intentions."

With hands clasped tightly, Sari bowed deeply and sincerely apologized:

"At the time, I was misled by rumors and assumed Moen was a deceitful playboy who tricked women. That’s why I…

But upon reflecting recently, I realized my mistake. After recalling the incident, I now think you were genuinely asking for my help in studying back then."

"Well, of course!"

Moen chuckled wryly.

Though, thinking back, he was somewhat grateful for Sari's misunderstanding—because that incident had led him to meet his senior.

"Typically, I don't get the chance to encounter you, so I seized this opportunity to…"

"So does this mean you skipped the martial arts class?" Moen asked in surprise.

"Since, um… Mr. Kaid wasn't around anyway, right?" Sari’s face flushed slightly.

Speaking of which, she suddenly fumbled behind her and took out a bamboo basket covered with red cloth, holding it with both hands as she presented it to Moen.

"And this is?"

"Just a small token from me."

Sari awkwardly shuffled her feet on the ground while explaining:

"I couldn't come empty-handed for the apology, so I prepared this gift."

"That's really not necessary."

Smiling softly, Moen replied,

"I'd actually forgotten all about it; there's no need for an apology."

"Still… without doing this, I wouldn't feel at ease."

With a loud exclamation, Sari insisted, "Please accept it, Moen!"

"Alright then, what's in here?"

"Uh… Some desserts I made myself."

Sari admitted shyly:

"My family is not that wealthy, and I don't have much money, so I could only apologize this way."

"Homemade desserts…"

Moen lifted the cloth covering the basket, immediately catching a whiff of the fragrant aroma of cakes wafting out—it was mouthwatering.

It was evident that Sari had very impressive cooking skills.

"Alright, I’ll accept it, then."

Had it been something more valuable, Moen would have declined; but seeing how sincere she was, he felt rejecting would instead be rude.

"Th-thank you!"

"I'm the one should be thanking you—these cakes look delicious."

"Th-then, I won’t bother you anymore. Goodbye, Moen!"

Sari bowed deeply, her voice trembling, "I'll bring you more desserts another time!"

"Eh? Another time?"

Before Moen could process her statement, Sari turned and practically fled, vanishing swiftly from his sight.

But judging from her stiff pace—nearly tripping over—it was clear that she had been anxious the entire time in Moen's presence.

"Sari Frand, huh? What a lovely girl,"

Looking at her retreating figure, Moen couldn't help but smile.

He glanced down at the basket of cakes in his hands.

"Looks like I won’t need the cafeteria tonight."

With that, he changed direction, heading back to his dormitory directly.

Holding the basket, his steps felt surprisingly light.

“This feels oddly like Little Red Riding Hood in the woods…”

Moen murmured, cracking a joke that only he could understand.

Little did he know, as the wind stirred the trees again and rustled the leaves, a creeping chill gradually seeped into his sleeves and pants from the autumn breeze.

The biting cold cupped his skin like greedy fingers, prompting Moen to shiver involuntarily.

Just moments ago, he’d been contemplating hurrying back to his dormitory to slip on an extra layer, when suddenly, he stopped dead in his tracks, his expression darkening.

Because he sensed once again the gaze hidden within the autumn breeze—the sensation of being watched.

"It’s not Sari?"

Moen narrowed his brows and quickly deduced the difference.

Sari had only been tailing him to apologize with no sinister motives—there was no way her gaze could feel this cold or spine-chillingly malicious.

“Now that it’s coming through clearly, it doesn’t seem like a pervert either…”

As Moen mulled over the thought, he suddenly noticed the bushes and leaves beside him swaying unnaturally with the sound of rustling movement.

Something was approaching.

"Who's there!"

Moen shouted firmly, his hand discreetly reaching behind his back.

Then, as the bushes parted, the first thing Moen saw were two glowing green eyes glimmering coldly with vicious intent.

It was…

"A wolf?"

Moen blinked, even questioning his own eyes, and squinted hard for a better look.

But sure enough, it was a wolf—a massive one standing taller than a human, drenched head-to-toe in blood-red fur.

Even though its crimson coat was glaringly conspicuous, Moen hadn't noticed it until it willingly emerged from the grove just moments ago.

"What the hell?"

Moen shifted his gaze to the red cloth over the bamboo basket he was holding and couldn't help but twitch the corners of his mouth:

"Does Little Red Riding Hood *always* meet Big Bad Wolves?"

Although he cracked jokes internally, Moen remained tense, his eyes fixed on the blood-red wolf in front of him.

After all, this was Saint Maria Academy—who knows what bizarre and dangerous creature this wolf might be?

Was it a professor's pet?

Or perhaps one of those infamous magical beasts bred by the equally infamous Beast Society that had escaped again?

Regardless, Moen's intuition plainly warned him that this situation spelled trouble.

The blood-red wolf didn’t rush to attack but instead paced back and forth just outside Moen's reach, seemingly scouting for Moen's vulnerabilities before striking at the perfect moment.

Moen didn't dare let his guard down; his own gaze followed the wolf's movements as he cautiously shifted his position.

No matter the origin of this wolf, the smartest course of action was not engaging but retreating.

This was, at the end of the day, still an academy. As long as Moen did not encounter someone as unassuming as a first-year newbie, even a janitor sweeping the grounds, they would at least be equipped to help fight off this mysterious wolf.

Moreover, this path wasn't too isolated—he just needed to wait for classes to finish when there would undoubtedly be students passing by.

Yet, at that moment, a bone-chilling dread swept over him.

Through the countless deaths Moen had faced inside the *Black Book,* forged in lessons of trial and error, a sixth sense sharp as a blade screamed into his mind, warning him like an unruly child yanking at his hair:

Turn around!

TURN AROUND!

Danger lies BEHIND YOU!

Without a second thought, Moen spun around—and out of the lush green emerged a scarlet phantom lunging straight toward him!

A second one?!

The wolf in front had feigned passive behavior to lure him into complacency?

Crap! It's that intelligent?!

Moen didn't have time to dwell on details; his instincts took over. He hurled the bamboo basket toward the scarlet wolf behind him.

The basket, of course, posed no lethal threat, but the red cloth fluttered outward, briefly obscuring the wolf's vision.

Fragments of fragrant cake splattered across the ground.

Though momentarily lamenting the wasted treats, Moen swiftly reached out with his free hand and pressed against the wolf's head, while his other hand—hidden at his back—revealed the short blade he'd been holding in secret.

In one decisive motion, he drove the knife into the wolf's throat, aiming directly for its vital spot.

Blood spurted out, as the wolf let out a pained shriek before convulsing into lifeless silence.

Yet Moen had no time to relax.

The stench of blood mixed with rancid breath breezed in from the side—the first wolf was already charging forward, claws bared, maw open wide, aiming at Moen's vitals as if it were hunting prey.

Moen didn't turn back because he knew it was too late to turn back, he just followed his premonition and intuition and twisted his body.

Click-click-click-click.

Crisp rattling sounds like fried beans came out of Moen's body, like hundreds of bones rubbing together and many joints, displaced against common sense.

Moen's body twisted in a bizarre arc, and surprisingly, he really did dodge the blood wolf's pounce at such a close distance.

From the corner of his eye, he could feel the wolf's sharp claws glancing across his shoulder—leaving deep, gruesome cuts behind.

Pain radiated hotly across his wounds.

Driven by instinct and gritting his teeth, Moen seized the wolf’s lower jaw—firmly as though wielding the handle of a heavy weapon—and twisted!

Taking full advantage of his strength, Moen flung the wolf overhead, smashing its back into the ground with a resounding crash and exposing its vulnerable underbelly.

With precision and zero hesitation, Moen thrust the knife directly through the wolf's heart.

The wolf’s struggles weakened rapidly until it fell still.

Pulling the knife out of the carcass, Moen leaned against a nearby tree to catch his breath in shallow pants.

The entire encounter—from the first strike to the final blow—had lasted just a few fleeting moments.

But the lingering dread of life-or-death danger left Moen frozen in post-battle tension, his pulse racing as if he’d narrowly escaped a predator’s relentless chase.

After all, he never expected that there would be a second blood wolf, capable of silently approaching him from behind and launching a surprise attack.

“No, I need to leave quickly.”

That blood wolf did not seem to have encountered him by chance; its attack style appeared more like it was specifically targeting him.

Not to mention... that gaze.

Sweeping his shoulder and hand wounds, Moen's eyes turned grim. After merely steadying his breath, he prepared to leave without any hesitation.

But then, he heard the sound of flowing water.

A soft, murmuring sound.

Yet, there was no water here—where could the sound of flowing water possibly come from?

Moen looked down at the ground.

The corpses of the two blood wolves were melting, as if they were honey under intense heat.

Transforming into pools of blood.

Very quickly, the blood pools began to stir, bubbling as though an invisible furnace was boiling them.

From the boiling blood pools, new blood wolves emerged, shaking their heads and revealing their savage claws and fangs as they strode forward.

Two became four.

Four newly spawned blood wolves exhaled their foul breath, their cold, merciless green eyes reflecting cruelty as they slowly encircled Moen.

Moen felt an icy chill engulf his whole being.

But it wasn't due to the blood wolves' encirclement.

In fact, the earlier mishap wasn’t a matter of strength. He simply hadn't figured out the origins of these blood wolves and had chosen to carefully observe, which led to the surprise attack.

Now that he had a general understanding of their individual combat abilities, they appeared to be no more than lower-tier magical beasts. Even surrounded, Moen had absolute confidence in his ability to escape.

After all, fleeing had always been his forte.

The issue was that at this moment, he had recognized where these blood wolves originated from.

They were not magical beasts, nor some sort of pet.

Born from pools of blood, lacking substance yet possessing the ferocity and brutality of true magical beasts.

And as long as there was a sufficient supply of magic power, they could be endlessly resurrected from the blood pools—with greater numbers and stronger forms every time.

This was a unique summoning-type magic, and in Moen’s recollection, there was only one person who could use such a spell.

Someone he... No, more accurately speaking, someone the original master knew extremely well.

“Emon?”

Moen looked toward the depths of the forest.

“Is it you?”

“...”

There was no response.

But the sound of footsteps could be heard.

A slender figure, stepping through the blanketed forest floor scattered with leaves, approached Moen.

“Long time no see, Moen Campbell.”

The face was hidden in shadow, indistinct, but the exposed half of the mouth curled into an apparent mocking sneer.

“Didn’t expect you’d still remember me. Truly an honor.”

“You—”

Moen stared at Emon. After a brief moment of astonishment, a surge of anger rose in his chest.

“Why are you doing this?”

In Moen’s memories, Emon Biandi shared what was once an excellent relationship with him—or rather, with his former self. Emon had been the most loyal crony of the original master, helping him commit numerous crimes, earning the epithet “Campbell’s wolf.” He had been the most capable assistant, even taking charge of persecuting Ariel on many occasions.

For instance, just at the beginning of the school year, Emon had personally challenged Ariel, only to be stopped by Moen.

Thus, Moen had never expected that Emon would now suddenly launch an attack against him—and judging by the situation, it wasn’t a mere prank but a truly murderous intent aimed squarely at his life.

This realization ignited a fury within Moen, akin to being betrayed by someone close.

“Answer me, Emon. Why are you doing this? Is someone controlling you? Or is it—”

“Why am I doing this?”

Emon interrupted Moen, his voice hoarse, laced with palpable mockery.

“Isn’t that something you, Moen Campbell, would know best?”

“Me?”

Moen frowned in confusion.

Had he done something?

But he had spent all this time trying to reform himself, cutting off completely from his previous circle of indulgent associates, even severing contact with Emon.

He certainly wouldn’t treat Emon as a lackey anymore.

Then why...

“Hah. Hahahaha...”

Looking at Moen’s bewildered face, Emon suddenly burst into laughter—a creepy, bone-chilling, and deeply sorrowful laugh.

“So you don’t understand, Moen Campbell. So you truly don’t understand!”

“You don’t know just how much I hate you now!”

“I want nothing more than to flay your skin, pull out your tendons, and grind your bones into dust!”

With those words, his killing intent erupted.

The four blood wolves simultaneously transformed into indistinguishable shadows, lunging at Moen.

They were faster, stronger than before!

In just an instant, all routes of escape were sealed.

It seemed that in the next moment, these crimson wolves would tear Moen to shreds.

But.

Moen knew this blood wolf summoning spell too well. He had witnessed Emon use it countless times and thus understood its weaknesses intimately.

—Although these blood wolves couldn’t truly be killed, and their two-tier strength combined with their speed made them incredibly troublesome, anyone caught up in their relentless attacks risked being consumed alive, even a third-tier warrior.

As for magicians, they stood no chance against these agile beasts, which were their worst nightmares.

However, in the end, this was a special type of summoning magic—a technique entirely centered on the wolves’ offensive abilities, overflowing with power yet significantly lacking in defense!

Especially during the critical moments when the wolves initiated an attack while consuming large amounts of magic energy!

The instant the blood wolves lunged toward him, Moen raised his hand, fingers curling like claws.

Thunder!

A massive roar thundered through the air, unleashing an intense shockwave directed by Moen to strike the blood wolves before him.

The shockwave rippled outward, piercing through the blood wolves, evoking pained howls.

Seizing the opportunity as the wolves were momentarily disrupted, Moen stepped forward and drove his dagger straight into one blood wolf’s eye socket.

All the way to the hilt!

The blood wolf quickly ceased movement.

—Though it was a summoned creation, it still adhered to the laws governing living creatures: a fatal blow to a critical hit would mean temporary death.

But Moen understood all too well that it wouldn’t be long before this wolf resurrected in the blood pools.

No delays!

Grabbing the lifeless wolf’s head, Moen twisted his body with the precision of a professional hammer-thrower, spinning one and a half rotations before hurling the carcass toward the other three blood wolves.

The incoming wolves staggered upon collision; their assault delayed, allowing Moen a brief gasp of reprieve.

But this precious time wasn’t meant for rest—it was to—

Shadow Step!

Moen vanished instantly, leaving nothing behind but swirling leaves that danced as though stirred by a violent wind.

In the next moment, Moen appeared directly in front of Emon.

Emon, seemingly stunned by how Moen had escaped his blood wolves so swiftly, revealed a flicker of surprise on his face.

And in his astonished gaze, a fist—massive as a cooking pot—hurtled toward him.

“Emon!”

Moen roared, throwing the punch.

The blow landed squarely on Emon’s cheek, contorting his mocking sneer.

“Tell me, why?!”

Emon’s already thin figure crumpled under the force of the punch, sending him sprawling backward.

As soon as he landed.

Moen unleashed Shadow Step again, catching up in an instant, pinning him down, and smashing another fist down.

“Why did you attack me?”

Moen felt fury blaze within him, the anger slashing through his veins and reddening his eyes.

Like betrayal by someone you trusted.

No, not like—it was betrayal.

To the former Moen Campbell, Emon had been his most loyal subordinate, his closest follower, his obedient “dog.”

The idea that Emon might one day betray him had never crossed his mind.

Thus, this pain—this incomprehensible betrayal—coursed through his body, embedded in shared memories, making the current Moen Campbell just as consumed with rage.

“Why are you doing this?”

“Under whose orders?”

“What’s your purpose?”

“Why did you betray me?”

Moen struck again and again, continuing until his fists were smeared with warm blood. Even then, Emon’s lips still curled into that mocking smile.

“Betray you? Moen Campbell, aren’t you kidding me right now?”

Emon spat a mouthful of bloody saliva at Moen, laughing wildly, his voice drenched in sarcasm:

“Wasn’t it YOU who betrayed me first?”

“What? Me?”

Moen froze momentarily, then bellowed, “When did I ever betray you?!”

“You abandoned me!”

Emon’s bloodshot eyes widened as he shouted:

“You abandoned me! Isn’t that betrayal enough?”

“What abandonment? I freed you! Made you no longer my lapdog! And that, to you, is...”

Moen grabbed hold of Emon’s collar with fury, intending to strike him again.

But just then, through the cracks in the canopy above, a shaft of sunlight filtered down.

Illuminating Emon’s face.

Moen’s raised fist froze mid-air. Even the fury in his eyes gradually dissipated.

“Emon, you...”

What kind of face was this?

Aside from the fresh wounds inflicted by Moen’s punches, the face was scruffy, covered in unkempt stubble, and etched with exhaustion.

Bloodshot eyes reflected sleepless nights, deep-set sockets emphasized bony cheekbones—his emaciation was skeletal.

Why was he so thin? Sure, Emon might only have been a viscount’s second son, but he was still nobility. And in Moen’s memories, following him meant indulging in the finest food and drink. How could he possibly be this frail?

Moreover...

It was then that Moen came to another realization:

Emon... seemed far too weak.

Because despite being a fourth-year student—and having displayed respectable prowess in past years, enough to be Moen’s enforcer—he was hardly this fragile.

Even knowing the wolves' shortcomings, it shouldn’t have been so simple to overcome them. Moen’s memory told him that the summoned wolves should have been larger, more fearsome.

The discrepancy was why he hadn’t recognized them initially.

But why...

“Emon, what happened?”

“Hah. What happened? Of course, the noble son of a duke wouldn’t know.”

Emon’s eyes blazed red:

“You’d never imagine what became of me during the time you discarded me.”

He tore open his shirt, revealing his upper body.

And then, the crisscrossing scars—large, fresh gashes that seemed like they had been inflicted only recently—shocked Moen to his core.

Countless scars riddled his torso, grotesque and horrifying.

Emon had sustained serious injuries over an extended period, and his magical energy was utterly depleted—this explained his weakness.

“This...”

“Haha! A duke’s son—someone as high and mighty as you—can wash your hands clean and sever ties with your past. You can discard everything.

Even the dog you once kept.

Naturally, that’s something the world celebrates. Everyone applauds your redemption, hailing the passing of another oppressor.

But have you ever considered what it means for the dog—for the dog that bit countless people on the master’s behalf, earning endless enemies—to suddenly lose its master?”

What will happen?

Of course, there will be revenge.

Those who hate Moen Campbell.

Those who envy Moen Campbell.

Those who despise Moen Campbell.

Naturally, these people wouldn’t dare to actually do anything to Moen Campbell; they wouldn't even dare to utter a malicious word.

Because he is the Duke’s son, the Duke’s only son.

Just like those thirty-five noble children who didn’t dare to raise their heads before Moen previously—his power and influence are unparalleled and rarely matched.

Hence, the jealousy, hatred, and disdain that these people felt were instead directed, doubled and tripled, towards that masterless dog.

No matter how sharp its claws and fangs may be, without a master, what can that dog really do?

When a dog falls into water, it's bound to be struck ruthlessly.

"Is that how it is?"

In Moen's mind, Celicia’s words suddenly echoed:

[Moen Campbell, you’ve cut yourself off too cleanly from your past.]

[Not everyone will be happy about your change.]

"Is that how it is...?"

Due to his overwhelming desire to change, Moen hadn't paid attention to anything outside himself since he entered the academy.

He hadn’t even glanced back at his past.

And because of that, he didn’t realize that, in those dark corners untouched by light, someone had borne so much for him.

"I'm sorry, Emon..."

At this point, Moen didn’t know what else he could do. All he could manage was a pale apology.

"Apology? Do apologies work? Do they? No, they don’t!"

Emon bellowed hoarsely.

"Do you know how many times I’ve apologized to those people? It didn’t work—not one bit!"

"I..."

Moen’s expression was ashen as his lips trembled.

"Then tell me what I can do... how I can make it up to you?"

"Make it up to me?"

Emon froze for a moment.

As if he'd heard an answer entirely unexpected.

After a brief silence, Moen suddenly noticed the corners of Emon’s mouth tug upward.

It wasn’t a mocking smile.

It was a sycophantic grin.

So natural, as if it had been practiced countless times before.

Gripping Moen’s hand tightly, Emon showed a smile, and in that instant, Moen almost felt he could see the wagging tail behind him.

"Then... Moen, Young Master, let me be your dog again. Like before, let me be your dog again. I’ll do whatever you tell me to; I’ll bite whoever you tell me to bite. Deal?

Let’s go back to how things were before! Okay?"

"Let you... be my dog again?"

Staring at Emon’s fawning smile, Moen suddenly felt a tinge of disgust.

How could he let someone be his dog?

He was no longer Moen Campbell from back then!

"That’s not right."

"Huh?"

"That’s not right, Emon. You’re human, not a dog."

"But, but... my purpose in life is to be your dog, Young Master!" Emon’s eyes widened.

"No one's purpose in life can be something so ridiculous!"

Moen flung away the hand gripping him tightly, then reached out again:

"Stop talking about being anyone’s dog—it's disgusting. Emon, let's be friends instead. As long as we’re friends, no one will dare trouble you. Those who’ve bullied you—I’ll make them pay."

"Friends..."

Emon stared absentmindedly at Moen’s outstretched hand.

"That’s right, friends."

"I..."

Emon’s gaze wavered for a moment, appearing slightly moved. However, the next instant, his expression turned furious and menacing once more:

"I don’t buy it!"

"What?"

"I refuse to believe in empty words like ‘friend’!"

"It’s not an empty word. It’s my sincere wish, Emon—I want to be your friend!" Moen said earnestly.

He didn’t know how best to define the word ‘friend,’ but deep in his memories, Emon had been someone who was undeniably important to the former Moen Campbell.

Otherwise, earlier, he wouldn’t have been so angry.

"But I know you way too well, Moen Campbell!"

Emon roared in frustration:

"As your former dog, I know exactly what kind of person you are! You’ve never had friends, nor do you even need friends. All you want are dogs to obey you and toys to amuse you!"

"..."

Moen opened his mouth, wordless.

On this point, he had nothing to say.

Because the original Moen Campbell was indeed such scum.

Or rather, in the eyes of others, that’s exactly what he’d been.

But...

"That was before."

Moen’s expression hardened with resolve:

"You’ve already said it earlier—I’ve already washed my hands clean of all that. I’m no longer who I used to be. Right now—I’m no longer scum!"

"But you’ve only changed your actions. Actions are easy to change—but what about your nature? Isn’t it nature that determines everything?"

"My nature has changed too!"

"And what proof do you have of that?"

"I..."

Proof?

How can one prove a transformation of inner character?

To prove something, one needs something even weightier as evidence.

"Emon, you know, right? Last semester, on my Magic Fundamentals exam... I scored a three."

"Huh?"

Emon froze.

Of course, he knew—everyone in the academy knew about it. He just didn’t understand why Moen was suddenly bringing this up.

"And you also know, right? The Campbell family, realistically speaking, is a family of brutes. From top to bottom, there isn’t a single one who excels in magic. Even the family's library—aside from books related to martial arts—contains all sorts of bizarre and irrelevant texts. My ancestors, after all, preferred to stuff the shelves with books on postnatal sow care rather than even one volume about magic."

"..."

"To be honest, the Campbell family carries within its bloodline the mark of 'poor aptitude for magic,'" Moen said.

"But, the other day, someone suddenly demanded that I score at least a passing grade in the next Magic Fundamentals exam."

"For first-year level?"

"For second-year level!"

Moen’s voice trembled with intensity.

"The second-year exam!"

"That’s impossible," Emon reflexively replied.

From a score of three to passing—no matter how you look at it, it’s a huge leap.

"Yeah, impossible."

Moen chuckled bitterly, then abruptly turned serious:

"But I’ll make it happen.

I’ll score a sixty in that exam—I’ll pass—and I’ll astonish everyone who thought I couldn’t do it.

Using the name Moen Campbell, I’ll shock anyone who doubted me!"

Moen reached out to Emon once again:

"Emon, let’s make a bet, okay? If, in one month, I manage to pass—if I succeed in breaking the Campbell family’s ‘curse’—wouldn’t that prove I have the determination and capability to change my nature too?

If so, then by that time, agree to be my friend. Alright?"

Emon stared blankly at Moen, as if he could see unwavering determination burning in the golden-haired man’s eyes.

"But sixty is... something even I could manage…"

"Sixty isn’t enough, so I’ll aim for eighty!"

Moen gritted his teeth and roared.

"If passing isn’t enough for you, then I’ll aim for excellence—I’ll challenge a higher level!"

"Eighty..."

Emon’s eyes widened suddenly.

"You’re crazy!"

For any exam, sixty—the passing threshold—is a significant milestone. But eighty, the mark of excellence, is yet another milestone entirely.

One signifies entry-level competence—something achievable with sufficient focus and study.

The other signifies mastery of the subject—requiring not just effort and discipline but also strategy and even a bit of luck.

Especially with Magic Fundamentals, the subject’s complexity often leaves many diligent students stranded near the seventy-point range.

Within the entire second year, the excellence rate for this particular exam amounts to only about twenty percent.

For Moen to leap from nowhere to passing in just one month would resemble pre-surrender France capturing Paris—a feat of immense difficulty. But for him to leap to excellence? That would resemble the armies of Gambia steamrolling the Five Permanent Members of the U.N. while pulling off total victory—a virtually impossible challenge on ultimate nightmare difficulty.

Even Emon, for all his lack of intelligence, immediately realized that this was absolutely, unequivocally impossible.

"I am crazy. And I know it’s impossible. But didn’t you say earlier that changing my nature was also impossible?"

Moen locked his gaze onto Emon’s, those fiery pupils seeming as though they were capable of igniting everything around them.

"If that’s the case, then I’ll accomplish this other impossible challenge to prove the possibility of the first!"

Moen’s words reverberated through the quiet forest like the crashing of heavenly thunder—deafening and powerful.

For some reason, looking at this Moen Campbell who appeared nothing like the person Emon once knew, all the hate and fury Emon had buried within were suddenly dissipating.

Like melting snow, gradually disappearing beneath sunlight’s warmth.

Almost subconsciously, Emon extended his own hand, reaching toward the hand that seemed so warm, so reassuring.

Moen too broke into a smile.

Finally, this matter… could be resolved…

Wait.

Moen’s expression suddenly stiffened.

Because as their hands clasped together, Moen didn’t feel the anticipated sense of comfort.

Instead, he felt pain.

A terrifying strength surged through the grip, nearly crushing his hand.

"Emon, you—"

"Huh?"

Moen tried to interrogate him, but he realized Emon looked baffled as well.

Then, pain contorted Emon’s face.

Bulging veins throbbed on his forehead as if he was enduring unbearable torment.

"Emon? Emon, what’s wrong?"

Not caring about his hand’s pain, Moen asked anxiously.

Emon clutched his chest. Beneath his skin, black veins twisted like writhing serpents.

"Medicine."

"Medicine? What medicine?"

"That woman’s… potion… I was already drained of magic before… it was only because of that potion that I managed to gather a sliver of magical power, but…"

"Woman? What woman?"

"I—I don’t know—Ah!"

Emon suddenly let out a pained screech. His once-skinny frame inflated like a balloon, growing rapidly, bursting out of his student uniform. Jet black hairs like steel needles sprouted all over his body.

In Moen’s dazed gaze, within mere breaths, Emon transformed into a terrifying werewolf.

"What the hell? A twisted fairy tale now?"

Little Red Riding Hood not only meets a big bad wolf, but now also deals with werewolves?!

Where’s Van Helsing? Come and save us!

Unfortunately, there’s no Van Helsing here—not even a third person.

As a result, Emon, whose bloodshot eyes seemed to have lost all sanity, instantly locked onto the only other living person aside from himself.

Radiating a suffocatingly violent aura.

Moen's expression stiffened as his instincts urged him to create distance from this man, who clearly wasn't someone to mess with.

Yet the action, which should have been exceptionally easy for him, failed.

Because Emon was still gripping his hand!

Moen's expression shifted slightly as he attempted to break free, but Emon's hand now felt like an iron vice, rendering him immobile.

Damn it! What now? Do I just give up this arm entirely?

That brief hesitation seemed to seal the inevitable outcome.

Moen's vision blurred before he could react, feeling his breath abruptly catch.

Emon’s other hand—or rather, claw—suddenly seized his neck!

The claw began to tighten. The immense force crushed muscle and flesh to the point where Moen could feel the creaking protests of his cervical spine.

Due to their size difference, Moen's feet dangled uselessly in midair, unable to muster any resistance.

Using the only hand still capable of motion, he raised a dagger and slashed it viciously at Emon’s arm. But when the blade made contact with the black fur, it produced a metallic clinking sound, like steel striking steel.

What the hell?

Is that fur really made of steel?

So what I thought was just a metaphor wasn’t?

In an instant, Moen was consumed by genuine despair.

He knew his strengths and advantages like the back of his hand, yet he understood that this was, without a doubt, the worst-case scenario for him.

Emon glared at him with a ferocious expression, bloodshot eyes gleaming with murderous glee—as though he could already see Moen’s blood splattering before him.

What can I do?

What can I do now?

The suffocating sensation grew stronger. Moen's mind began to fog as he frantically raced to find an escape plan.

The Black Book?

But the Black Book doesn’t provide a direct way to enhance strength.

Which leaves only…

The Crimson Flame of the King of Wither?

But…

This is the academy. If I use flames that incinerate everything, Emon will undoubtedly—

Other options…

There are no other options.

Damn it.

Am I really powerless?

Am I really this helpless?

Am I—

*Sigh.*

On the brink of unconsciousness, Moen suddenly heard a sigh.

It wasn’t the Black Book.

It was…

“Freeze.”

The cool, detached words swept through the forest.

And along with them came a horrifying chill.

As though a snowstorm capable of drowning the world had descended, the lush green forest was rapidly covered in a layer of pristine white.

Moen saw the startled look on the werewolf’s face, then watched as Emon became completely immobilized.

He was encased in a layer of icy blue frost.

Moments ago, so terrifying and menacing; now, looking like some primeval man frozen in a museum display case—utterly ridiculous in Moen’s eyes.

A hand suddenly grabbed Moen’s neck and pulled him down.

“Cough, cough…”

Still clutching his neck, Moen coughed violently, desperately gulping down air. Then he raised his head to look at the familiar silver-white figure beside him.

“Celicia, what are you doing here?”

As he spoke, Moen involuntarily chuckled.

It seemed he was always asking her this question.

Celicia stared at the frozen werewolf, appearing lost in thought.

Hearing his words, she turned her head and replied coldly:

“If I told you I was here from the beginning, watching you bumble around and say dumb things to that idiot the entire time, would you be mad?”

“Huh?”

Perhaps due to the lack of oxygen, Moen's brain couldn’t fully process her words for a moment.

Celicia didn’t bother clarifying. She turned back and murmured to herself:

“I was hoping to draw out the mastermind lurking behind the scenes, but it seems they’re far more cautious than I expected. What a pity.”

As her voice faded, student council elites in red uniforms quickly entered the scene, efficiently applying various restraints to the ice-bound Emon.

“Wait?”

Moen suddenly called out to them:

“What are you trying to do?”

“Relax, we’re just temporarily sealing Emon before treating him and asking a few questions,” said Weier, the bun-haired secretary of the student council, her cheeks puffed slightly as she emerged from seemingly nowhere.

“It seems Emon was merely being manipulated by someone. We won’t punish him too severely—though a minor lesson is certainly in order.”

“Ah, I see.”

Moen nodded in understanding, then hesitated for a moment before speaking to Celicia:

“Hey, Celicia, could you…”

“You want the list of people bullying Emon?” Celicia interjected, seeing straight through him.

“… Yeah.”

“…”

Celicia stared at him in silence for a long moment, then suddenly stepped closer.

She raised her foot, clad in black stockings, and kicked him hard in the shin.

“Ouch! Celicia, what the hell?”

“If you’ve chosen this path, don’t look back. Otherwise, it’ll make me want to hit you.”

“But—”

“No buts.”

Celicia bent down, her piercing gaze locking onto Moen’s.

“Disciplining troublesome students is the student council’s responsibility. You don’t need to concern yourself with it.”

“…”

Moen fell quiet.

“Now that you understand, I’ll take my leave. The council’s elites seem to have wrapped things up.” Celicia straightened and turned to depart.

“Do you need me to take you to the hospital?” she asked.

“…”

Moen glanced down at his shoulder and hand. His recovery speed seemed to surpass that of average people, as his wounds had already scabbed over.

Shaking his head, he replied:

“No need. But thanks.”

“Alright then. Goodbye.”

“Goodbye.”

“Oh, by the way.”

Celicia suddenly turned back, looking directly at Moen. She said seriously:

“Given your brains and abilities, scoring eighty on next month’s test is pretty much impossible. But… good luck.”

“…”

Moen froze, then forced out a smile that looked worse than crying.

“I’ll try. Thanks.”

…

After Celicia left, silence reigned.

Moen lay amid the lingering frost, staring blankly at the distant sun through gaps in the leaves.

Suddenly, as though the sunlight had blinded him, he shielded his eyes with his arm and muttered softly:

“Damn you—”

Footsteps sounded in the woods, light and feline-like.

A girl dressed in a tightly fitted uniform—unable to conceal her alluring figure—approached.

She slowly knelt down beside Moen.

“Looks like I was late after all,” Anna remarked, surveying the chaotic scene as if lamenting some missed opportunity.

After a moment's thought, she shifted closer, gently lifting Moen’s head and resting it on her lap.

A lap pillow.

Moen’s arm, which had been covering his eyes, trembled ever so slightly.

“All right, all right. Don’t cry anymore, little junior,” Anna said softly, stroking Moen’s head like one would pet a kitten.

“I’m not crying,” Moen retorted.

“Hm, our little junior isn’t crying—so strong and brave.”

The leaves swayed, casting flickering sunlight. It was a bit chilly.

“Senior…”

“Mm?”

“I’m going to score eighty.”

“Oh.”

Anna stroked her cheek, looking slightly troubled.

“Earlier, you said you’d aim for sixty, and it already scared me. No matter how you put it, eighty seems a little far-fetched.”

“I’m still going for it.”

“… Well, okay.”

Anna lowered her head, her lips curving into a gentle smile.

Her eyes arched slightly, the tear mole by the corner adding a playful touch of allure.

“After all, you’re my adorable junior.”