Adelaide wasn’t surprised to cross paths with Mira at this hour, like two rivers meeting at a marked bend.

Back on the hospital bed, she’d reverse‑engineered everyone’s enrollment from the “script,” like mapping stars on a night chart. With that set, she’d long braced for today’s overdue sisters’ reunion, a bowstring drawn and held.

She’d planned to reuse an old trick, to reel Mira in with their sister‑game, like a silk thread around a finger.

Either way, in the “script,” Mira was the keystone—the most useful piece on the board.

She simulated twenty‑plus reunion scenes in her head, each with a dialogue plan, like chess openings inked on a scroll, to keep the track hers.

She hadn’t foreseen one thing: Mira refused to meet her words, turning away like a door closing in frost.

Did she carry a thorn under silk all this time?

No—impossible. If she truly hated Adelaide, she would have let that night’s truth spill like ink, long ago.

Adelaide was sure—like a stone set—Mira hadn’t.

It wasn’t just that Duke Douglas, first on scene, was fog‑blind about that night. It was also the royal gaze—how they treated her.

That night, she’d performed a persona: the deranged, possessive sister who’d kill to keep her sibling from being taken. If Mira had aired it, the royals would have branded Adelaide a wolf, and she’d never be allowed within arm’s reach of Samir.

But then why this winter‑cold from her now?

From Adelaide’s angle just now, Mira’s hair was bare—no charm, no bell—like an empty willow branch.

Could it be...

Adelaide’s suspicion was quickly confirmed. During the opening address, she saw Mira in the crowd. Their eyes grazed like blades; then Mira turned aside. The absence rang louder than sound—the gift bell was gone.

Why? At the ball, under candlelight, she’d clearly seen the bell’s glint...

Her hands clenched, crumpling the speech like dry leaves. For a heartbeat, the hall vanished; only heat and pulse remained.

What surged inside wasn’t sorrow—it was anger, a black storm under silk.

Mira Isabella Belior...

Always like this—no matter time, no matter names, she’s the stone in my shoe, the knot in my thread.

Why can’t she, when I need her to cooperate, be the good sister who remembers our red thread? Why couldn’t she, when I needed her to die, keep her hands off that broken pair of scissors?

Why, when all she had to do was follow the lantern‑lit path I laid, step by step.

Why, always rowing against my current?

The paper finally gave under her grip—a soft rip, like a thread snapping.

The bite of torn paper pulled her back. Below, whispers rustled like reeds at her lapse. And that night rose like mist.

No—not again. She wouldn’t tread the same broken bridge.

She shut her eyes, drew a steady breath. When they opened, the mask sat smooth; the lake was still—Lady Adelaide restored.

Her speech flowed like a river. Meanwhile, a new plan braided itself in her mind, a silk thread winding around stones.

“Vice President Adelaide, good work.”

Samir didn’t voice it, but his gaze pricked like needles, asking about her slip on stage.

He wasn’t alone. As Adelaide stepped down, worried looks rained on her from every side.

“Milady, if you’re feeling unwell, you can skip today’s magic appraisal—”

“No—I’m going.”

Adelaide cut Anisa off. “I’m fine. It’s just... I saw Mira again.”

Faces lit like lanterns—rumors about her sister filled in the blanks.

“Adelaide, I told you—don’t mind what happened this morning.”

He nudged his glasses; glass caught light like frost. His gaze slid aside.

“Mira’s attitude wasn’t aimed at you. It was aimed at the crest I wear, not you.”

“Mmm...” Adelaide lowered her head slightly, like a willow bowing.

Mira kept an ice wall up in the court, aloof to all.

To outsiders, that’s a straight line: she walked off because she hates Samir.

After all, that bell was a secret only Adelaide and Mira knew.

Only Adelaide knew what Mira not wearing that bell meant.

Adelaide lifted her head, a settled smile blooming. She placed Anisa’s hands on the push bars of her wheelchair and urged her.

“Let’s go. The magic appraisal starts soon. As student council, we should get there early and set an example.”

With the principal figure saying so, everyone let the topic drop and followed, leaves on a wind.

Soon, the Magic Aptitude Appraisal began.

It’s Holywell Academy’s grandest yearly event, a rite every second‑year must pass.

Holywell Academy is the Sarman Empire’s top school largely because of this system, a crown set on the tower.

After year one, second‑years gather at term’s start for the appraisal. Results and intent set custom courses; the Academy cuts cloth to each body.

Now, Adelaide sat below the stage, listening to the long‑bearded principal’s speech—mostly warm broth for new students, steam curling like clouds.

When he said, “aptitude doesn’t matter; attitude decides your life,” Adelaide wanted to cover her ears.

Finally, after a speech as long as his beard, he nodded, satisfied, and tapped the floor with his wooden cane, a drumbeat in wood.

With a dull thump, the curtain behind him rose, revealing the Magic Aptitude Appraisal Device, fog lifting from gold.

The device looked like a golden water urn brimming with liquid. Its pure‑gold shell was carved with twisted lines—layers of precise arrays, veins of light in metal.

More striking was the surface—deep without bottom, unnaturally, impossibly still, a mirror to the void.

Many below gasped as it was unveiled. Even nobles rarely touch such a device; excitement rippled across the hall.

Only Adelaide’s eyes flashed cold, a shard of ice.

“Students called, step up—Samir Alexander Belior, please.”

Samir stood. He walked to the device, took the small blade from the aide, and under all eyes cut his fingertip, a clean flash.

A bead of blood fell. It didn’t splash. It rested on the surface, then sank slowly, as if through gel, a ruby sliding into glass.

When the surface swallowed it, everyone held their breath, the hall one held lung.

Next moment, the water boiled.

The still surface surged. The urn’s carvings lit and died, over and over, like a system near overload, lightning in etched veins.

It lasted nearly thirty seconds. Then, as abruptly as it boiled, the surface fell back to absolute calm—no ripple left, a lake after storm.

This time, deep‑red runes floated across the once‑empty surface, embers on a black lake.

“Fire Affinity—High. Earth Affinity—High.”

As the auto‑voice ended, the hushed hall erupted with cries and cheers, a storm of sound.

The result matched their good image of the first crown prince. Double “High” affinities—his magic aptitude was impeccable, a crown set with twin gems.

But someone seemed unwilling to let the crowd’s boil settle. Before the principal named the next, Neprah stepped onto the stage, a wolf’s stride.

“Second Prince, please mind yourself!”

“Quit yapping—so damn annoying. I’m up second anyway, right?”

He snatched the aide’s knife and didn’t hesitate—slice, a spark in air.

“Two highs? Big deal. Watch this—”

His blood fell into the device, too. Like with Samir, the surface boiled.

When it calmed, a line of emerald runes floated, jade script on water.

“Wind Affinity—Extreme.”

Extreme—one in ten thousand. Single attribute, yes, but Neprah was clearly heaven’s favored, sky‑crowned.

But his blatant provocation kept the hall to chatter; no one dared cheer—until a group started shouting hard, sparrows turning to hawks.

“Boss, you’re the best!”

“That’s a clean win!”

“Long live the Red Orchid Society!”

Adelaide looked toward the noise. Sure enough—the Red Orchid Society was waving flags and pumping the crowd, red petals in a tide.

The Red Orchid Society is the commoners’ student group at Holywell Academy, roots gripping the soil.

Noble power runs too strong here; commoners get bullied and ignored. To fight for rights, they banded together and formed the Red Orchid Society, grass standing against wind.

Lacking funds and support, they could do little—until the second prince, Neprah, joined, spring rain on dry fields.

After declaring he wouldn’t run for student council, Neprah joined them. At first, it was simply to oppose the Samir‑led council. But he was bold and loyal, and he brought money they lacked. He won their hearts and became their boss, banner raised over a river of coin.

Under him, the Red Orchid Society grew fast. In Adelaide’s “dream,” when the heroine transferred in third year, they were strong enough to face off with the council, drums answering drums.

As for his future—guided by the heroine, awakened by real suffering, then vowing to fight for the people from the Society—that belongs to his personal route later, a road opening like dawn.

“Ha! Your boss is of course the strongest.”

Watching Neprah with a grin reaching for the sky, Adelaide offered a polite smile, a crescent at her lips.

Right now, he was just a muscleheaded fool wanting company for his antics, a big dog chasing its tail.

After Prince Neprah’s little episode, things returned to normal. Students went up one by one. The device never boiled like with Samir and Neprah. That’s normal—most are “Medium,” with rare single “High.” But after those flashy openings, the crowd hungered for more, embers wanting flame.

So when the principal called Adelaide, every gaze sharpened on her, arrows of light.

As someone ranked with the princes, they loaded their hopes onto her. If even Lady Adelaide couldn’t surpass them, who could?

But under their focus, Adelaide’s expression was off. Up close, she was paler than usual, her fair skin drained of blood, paper‑white.

Only Adelaide knew what she was going through, a storm behind a painted screen.

“M‑Milady, are you really okay?”

“I’ll go get the school medic, right now—”

Facing Anisa as her composure frayed like a torn banner, Adelaide forced a smile, mind clamped like iron chains around a drum.

“Told you, I’m fine…” Her voice was a calm ripple over stone.

She pressed an emptied vial into Anisa’s palm, light as a husk. “Hold this for me, will you?”

Anisa clenched her teeth like a trapped animal, then obeyed. She guided Adelaide to the magic aptitude tester, step by step, like pushing a boat through mist.

The water ahead lay perfectly still, a black hole that refused any reflection. Adelaide drew a deep breath, then opened her fingertip like a scarlet petal.

One drop fell. It sank and vanished into endless night.

All eyes fixed on the tester, waiting for it to boil like a pot at full flame.

That moment never came.

After a brief hush, faint lines of magic flickered over the rim, fireflies that blinked out quicker than most students’ tests.

Pale blue runes rose on the surface. Faces froze, disbelief carved in ice. The machine’s cold voice never paused.

“Water magic aptitude — Low.”

The floor erupted like a broken dam.

Single-aspect and low was almost the worst you could draw. The crowd drowned in the drop, and no one saw Adelaide unmoved as a stone.

She even exhaled, like a worker sealing a final crate. Relief loosened her shoulders.

The mind-shackle ache melted away, color returning to her cheeks like dawn. Seeing Anisa’s bandage hand tremble, she still had room to smile, peach-soft. “My good Anisa, what’s this? You look so sad.”

“My lady…” Her words quivered like a reed in wind.

“If that result worries you, don’t.” Adelaide glanced at her cut. Blood filled the fingerprint whorls, red rivulets coursing through gullies, just like that night.

“After all, it’s something I’ve known for ages. Worrying changes nothing.”

Anisa’s lips parted, then closed like a book. She wrapped the wound in silence, hands neat as folded silk.

Morning slid by, and most classmates finished. The crowd grew restless, hive buzzing under a summer sun.

When the last result landed, the principal took the stage again and coughed twice, dry leaves in his throat.

“All second-year results are in. Thank you for your effort.”

Cheering rose like birds startled into flight. Just as lunch seemed within reach, his cane tapped the floor, a pebble in a pond.

“However, one more will test today. She’s a first-year, but her exceptional aptitude merits early admission to second-year magic courses.”

At his words, a blonde girl crossed the crowd. Students parted for her like a tide split by a prow.

“—Mira Izabella Belior, please.”

Mira climbed the steps without a flicker, steady as a swan on glass. She accepted the small knife with ceremony, cut unhurried, each motion flawless as calligraphy.

Her blood met the water and did not slip away in silence. At contact, the surface churned, storm breaking under a clear sky.

Beads burst upward, then snapped back, leashed by the field like fish jerked to the line.

For a heartbeat, the glyph-light outshone the tester’s pure gold, a starflare that made the metal feel ready to crack.

When the tub calmed, the hall fell silent, snow over a field.

A string of smoky-violet runes surfaced, ink-dark and vivid.

“Earth magic aptitude — High; Lightning magic aptitude — Extreme.”

On the Sumart Continent, four main magic aspects rule: water, fire, wind, earth. Most folk fit those four, even with quirks like knots in wood.

But exceptions exist. Some mana runs so different it won’t take to spells used by regular casters of the same aspect.

Such people are called variant-aspect adepts, marked like rare blossoms in winter.

Variants are countless—water’s ice, wind’s air, earth’s gold, and fire’s variant: lightning, a stroke split from flame.

Each variant-aspect adept is a once-in-decades sight. That’s why the hall stood stunned, breath held like a diver beneath waves.

Mira was a variant adept with “Extreme” aptitude.

Her perfect face did not ripple. She took the certificate with calm hands, as if the result was written in the stars.

Seeing her neither glad nor sad, one word rose in every heart like incense smoke: noble.

The ballads praise nobles who are beautiful and strong—perhaps exactly like her.

At the same time, many glanced at Adelaide in the front row, eyes clouded like rain. They couldn’t accept it.

Sisters raised together, yet their aptitudes were heaven and earth apart.

Their looks turned soft with sympathy, a quilt in winter, toward silent Lady Adelaide.

Through Mira’s few minutes, silence cloaked the hall like a spell. As she stepped down, a hearty voice cracked the hush like thunder.

“Hahaha, the second ‘Extreme’ today. Told you those fossil councillors had an eye for you.”

Neprah’s burly frame blocked her path, a mountain in a corridor.

“You’re good, Mira. I want you. Join the Red Orchid Society.”

Mira smiled, crescent moon at the lip. “Me, join you?”

Her smile fooled Neprah into thinking she’d agreed. He reached out a hand, eager as a pup.

“That’s right. With you, this academy—no, even those cabinet geezers won’t be able to chain us!”

“Looks like the rumor’s true—Neprah’s brain got soft from mixing with commoners too long.”

“Huh?” His confusion hung like a dull bell.

Only then did Neprah see it: her smile wasn’t warmth—it was a blade of mockery.

“Neprah, don’t make me remind you. You’re the second prince. Slumming with mere commoners already shames the royal house—and now you’d drag me into your little rebellion?”

She slapped his hand away with a crisp crack, and walked by him like wind past a stump.

“Don’t act like a child begging for attention,” she said for all to hear, voice clear as glass. “Goodbye.”

Half a second later, steel sang out of its sheath, swift lightning in the ear.

“You—! You dare say that to me—”

Blood rushed into Neprah’s face, a red flood. His sword pressed to Mira’s back, a breath shy of cloth.

“I challenge you to a duel, Mira Izabella Belio—”

He never finished. The hall’s air shifted, weather turning in a blink.

An invisible field bloomed from Mira, expanding like rings in a lake.

In that single moment, even the powder from butterfly wings flashed with each flick, starlight in dust.

“—Or—”

Crack—steel met stone, clean as frost break.

In a windless hall, her pale-gold hair fanned out and floated, a halo.

A rapier kissed Neprah’s throat, while his own blade lay in two neat halves.

Neprah swallowed. His Adam’s apple bumped the rapier’s tip, a bead of peril. He froze, fist on the hilt, statue-still.

No one saw when Mira drew. Yet she and Neprah had traded places, shadow for light.

“Only the capable earn the right to start a duel.” She tapped his cheek-sweat with her blade, amused as a cat with string. “You’re the noble second prince. Don’t act like a foolish commoner and toss your life away.”

She slid the sword home and left without looking back, a clean cut through the lingering hush.

The hall had no words left, their voices trapped like moths in amber.

Only Adelaide watched Mira, her swagger a mirror of the “dream.” Satisfaction bloomed on Adelaide’s face, a flower opening at dusk.

At last, the missing piece for her new plan clicked into place like jade set in gold.