Oren slowly picked up the black bread before him and took a firm bite. He then muttered curses under his breath about its rock-hard texture.

Oren was attending Helistar Academy’s freshman banquet. Honestly, southern cuisine didn’t suit his taste at all. The first course was thin leek soup, followed by a salad of green peas, onions, and beets, raw fish slices, toasted bread, a mountain of minced bitter radish, braised beef brains, and tendons.

For starters, Alliance citizens never ate offal or raw meat. Secondly, even simple things like toasted bread were poorly made here. How did they swallow this? Oren tried a slice of raw fish and felt his stomach churn. Across the table, several freshmen speared beef brains with forks, singing folk songs from the Duchy of Sidius in loud, hearty voices.

After a heavy sigh, Oren slowly turned his gaze to the head of the long table. For some odd reason, Helistar Academy barred boys and girls from sitting together at public meals. He watched Dysaia chatting happily with a freshman, seemingly enjoying the food. But Yamwen beside her looked utterly miserable—more so than Oren—staring stiffly at her plate in a daze.

“What’s wrong, classmate Oren? The food doesn’t suit your taste?”

A voice suddenly cut in from across the table. Oren turned to see a black-haired boy watching him curiously.

“Ah, no, it’s just—”

Before he could finish, Oren noticed something odd.

“Wait, how do you know my name? I don’t recall meeting you.”

“Ah~ Sorry, forgot to introduce myself.” The boy extended his hand. “Fentek Dels. Second-year here.”

“Oren of Nivea. But… second-year?” Oren frowned as they shook hands. “Why’s a senior at a freshman gathering?”

“Oh dear, you ask so many questions.” Fentek raised a finger with a grin. “First answer: you’re famous among freshmen, classmate Oren. You might not know, but when the two most outstanding beauties—Dysaia and Yamwen—revolve around one guy daily…” He gestured toward them. “That guy can’t help but stand out.”

“Huh?” Oren’s eyebrows twitched violently. Fentek didn’t pause, pulling a pen from nowhere and waving it before Oren’s eyes.

“And Miss Yamwen—even when not with you, she’s shadowed by a silver-armored knight as big as a mountain. No one dares approach her. Everyone’s gossiping about who he is.”

*Lontan…*

Oren rubbed his temples hard. Before he could react, Fentek slapped a notebook onto the table, twirling his pen. “Why I’m here? Simple. I’m student council.”

“Student council?” Oren frowned deeply.

“Ah, Alliance schools lack this. It’s a student-elected group liaising with faculty. Remember one thing—” Fentek pointed the pen at Oren, serious. “The student council is truly great.”

“…I see.” Oren sighed heavily, then met Fentek’s eyes. “So what does this ‘great’ organization want from me?”

“Hmm, let’s revisit your background.” Fentek redirected his pen toward a table behind Oren. As Oren turned, Fentek smiled. “You’re Alliance-born. That’s why we need you.”

Oren saw the table packed with black-robed Alliance exchange students—no other colors visible. At his own table, students squeezed together rather than sit at the empty Alliance table.

“This is what happens when seating’s unassigned. Alliance students and Sidius locals self-segregate. No interaction. But the ceasefire’s fragile—news of Precipice Fortress’s fall spread fast.” Fentek set his pen down, voice low and serious. “We can’t let tensions fester. We need someone trusted by Alliance students—someone without grudges against the Duchy of Sidius. Someone like…”

“Me.” Oren’s reply was flat.

Fentek clapped cheerfully. “Sensible of you, Lord Oren. So—”

“I refuse.” Oren grabbed his water glass and drained it in one gulp. “I didn’t come here to spy. If your council’s so ‘great,’ why not send one of your own?”

*Seriously. Helistar values autonomy, but is a student council necessary? Alliance schools run fine without scheming like this. It’s backwards.* Oren gave a bitter smile, stood up, and brushed his hands. “Thank you for the offer, but I can’t accept. Please—”

“What if I said someone wants Lea Rodni dead? Would you be interested then?”

A voice sliced from behind. Oren shuddered, hand flying to his sword sheath. He turned to see a girl in academy uniform smiling sweetly. Her grin held mischief.

“What did you say? And who are you?”

The girl extended her hand invitingly, whispering in a sugary tone: “Shiafa Windemere. Student council president. Pleased to meet you, Oren of Nivea.”