In her dream, Shea saw many things.

Childhood memories flashed like a nightmare.

Her family shattered. Her father fled. Her younger sister became an old noble’s adopted daughter, taking their scant remaining wealth and leaving Shea behind.

The vast household now held only Shea, alone and sent to the Orphan Haven.

All because that scumbag father gambled away everything, drowning in debt. He nearly sold her and her sister to shadowy brothels.

Shea was five then. Her sister, four.

Years slipped by. Three years later, when Shea saw her sister again, she’d become a phoenix perched high above, gazing down with cold disdain.

Inheriting the noble’s fortune, she left for grander cities, ignoring her past kin entirely.

To that worthless sister, three million coins were mere pocket change—yet she spared Shea not a single copper.

Before departing, she visited Shea at the Orphan Haven.

Her eyes held a look reserved for ants, making Shea grind her teeth in fury.

From that moment, Shea vowed to surpass her. That was why she entered the Magic Academy.

Tuition was steep. Her talent was mediocre. But this was the fastest path into the elite circles.

The quickest way to grow stronger.

What followed was a thief’s life—scurrying like a rat in the streets.

Hard. Shameful. Yet Shea chose it.

Then the dream shifted. Last night’s terror returned: caught by that fleshy growth, helpless as a lamb for slaughter.

No one came. Struggling was useless. She felt herself dragged into the abyss, becoming part of the Trickster Deity’s tumor…

Nightmare after nightmare jolted her awake.

"Just a dream…"

Shea gasped, sweat soaking her forehead and back. Sleep had been restless.

But it was only a dream. She couldn’t die yet—not until she kicked that despicable sister’s butt.

"You’re awake?"

Still panting, Shea nearly leapt at the sudden voice. She turned to see a cloaked Hunter peeling an apple.

"What are you doing at school?!"

Shea shrank back against the headboard. If this rogue Hunter tried anything, she’d yank the alarm bell.

It was Hunter Abel.

He calmly bit into the apple. "Bad dream?"

Abel hadn’t just arrived. He’d guarded her for hours, silent while she slept. Nightmares were beyond his help.

"None of your busi— It’s none of your business," Shea snapped, but Abel’s face softened her tone.

After that nightmare, his presence felt oddly safe. Harsh words could wait.

"Well, I ate your food," Abel said lightly. "He who takes is indebted; he who eats is obliged. Need anything? Just ask."

He set a bento box on her bedside. "You left lunch in the kitchen. Brought it over."

With that, Abel strode out of the infirmary, leaving a cool silhouette behind.

"…" Shea stared at the bento, warmth blooming in her chest. She recalled the devouring nightmare—if Abel hadn’t come…

She might have died there.

Grateful, she opened the box—and froze.

A dent marred the rice. A trace of sauce clung to its edge.

"Where’s the chicken leg from my chicken leg rice?!"

Meanwhile, Abel strolled down the corridor.

The Magic Academy barred outsiders, but as a Hunter, hiding his presence was easy.

No one saw him.

"Hey, know about Shea from the slums?" Abel overheard two noble-looking girls gossiping.

"Of course! That night-shift girl suddenly had eight hundred gold coins. Which noble boy’s she sleeping with?"

The other sneered like a street-corner gossipmonger. "Probably more than one. For that price, the slave market has prettier girls."

Shea’s beauty made that lie obvious. Even if such a slave existed, shrewd traders wouldn’t waste her on one-time use.

Pure jealousy. Especially from these pockmarked, out-of-shape nobles.

"She’s just trading her young face and flat chest," one spat. "Look at her dark circles—how many men last night?"

"Exactly. She walks all wobbly too…"

Their words grew crueler. Commoners were born beneath them—always worthy of scorn.

Abel had heard enough. He knew Shea, a commoner, would face bias here. But not this vicious.

He tossed his apple core into a bin and clapped his hands.

Slipping a trash bag over his shoes—"Cleaner than theirs," he thought—he crept behind the gossiping pair.

One kick each.

"Off you go."

The shove sent the overweight duo sprawling face-first. Abel held back; full force would’ve pinned them to the wall.

"Who kicked me?!"

They struggled up, scanning the empty corridor. Only a bone-chilling breeze answered.

On this hot day, it felt like ghosts.

Not satisfied, Abel grabbed the trash bin—core still inside—and dumped it over one noble’s head.

"Ghost!"

The other noble screamed and fled.

"All talk, no skill. Ugly faces, uglier hearts. Truly nobles."