The wind at the Black Stone Tower always carried a metallic tang of rust, like the scent of ancient, dried blood.
As Bell stepped out of the tower gates, the cold wind did nothing to soothe the buzzing in his head; if anything, it grew louder.
“His body is stuffed with thousands of wailing souls.”
Leovet’s words were like a thorn stuck in his throat—impossible to swallow, impossible to spit out.
Tia followed quietly half a step behind him. Her silver hair was slightly tousled by the wind, but she didn't move to fix it. She simply adjusted her pace mechanically, ensuring she never stepped on Bell’s shadow.
“Why do you look like you’ve been boiled alive?”
A cool voice drifted from the shadows to the side.
Antinoia Milia was leaning against a stone pillar, clutching a book thicker than a brick. She adjusted her glasses, a cold glint reflecting off the lenses.
“Did Leovet give you trouble?”
Bell stopped and rubbed his face.
“It’s worse than that.”
He repeated Leovet’s evaluation of Horn Montfoss, without exaggeration or emotion.
Antinoia remained silent for a long time after hearing it.
She lowered her head, her fingers unconsciously tracing the gold-leaf patterns on the book’s spine.
“I don't think the instructor has any reason to lie to you.”
Her voice was soft but certain.
Bell frowned, the irritation rising in him again.
“You think Horn is a monster too?”
“Data doesn't lie.” Antinoia looked up, her eyes terrifyingly calm. “Horn’s understanding of soul fluctuations truly exceeds the scope of a normal person. That kind of intuition... it’s as if he’s personally experienced death tens of thousands of times.”
Bell opened his mouth to argue.
He wanted to say that Horn could understand the blueprints for that mana pump, that the slob would sacrifice his own hands to protect his instruments.
How could someone who understood the Second Law of Thermodynamics be a man-eating demon?
“I don’t believe it.”
Bell exhaled sharply, his gaze hardening like stone.
“Not unless I see the evidence with my own eyes.”
Antinoia looked at him and sighed.
“Then go investigate.”
She closed her book and pointed toward the tallest spire on the eastern side of the academy.
“There is only one place that knows everyone’s secrets in this school.”
The Disciplinary Committee.
...
If not for the solid gold plaque at the entrance, Bell might have thought he had walked into a palace council chamber.
The carpets were velvet, thick enough to bury one's ankles. Portraits of past presidents hung on the walls, every single one of them looking down their noses at the people below.
The air was filled with the scent of expensive incense.
Several students wearing red armbands hurried past with documents, their footsteps swallowed by the carpet.
“Halt.”
Two guards in silver armor blocked the path. Their spears crossed, glinting coldly.
“Non-committee members are not permitted entry.”
Bell didn't say a word. He simply reached out and tugged at his collar, revealing the badge engraved with a red lion.
The Lucas family.
The guards' pupils constricted. They retracted their spears instantly and snapped into a synchronized military salute.
“Please enter.”
This was privilege.
In this damned aristocratic society, a badge was sometimes more effective than any pass.
At the end of the hall, behind a massive mahogany desk, sat a young girl.
Her golden twin-tails were curled into perfect spirals, swaying slightly with her movements. She held a quill, rapidly scribbling notes on a document.
She didn't even look up.
“If you're here to plead for mercy, get out. If you're here to report someone, fill out a form.”
Her voice was crisp, carrying a natural, inherent arrogance.
Oran Mel.
The only daughter of the Duke Mel family.
It was said that the Mel family had a strange quirk: their strength was tied to their confidence. The more arrogant they felt, the harder they fought.
Because of this, the entire family was raised like peacocks from birth.
Bell walked forward and tapped on the desk.
“I’m here to check the files.”
Oran’s quill stopped.
She slowly looked up. Her emerald green eyes were filled with the sentiment of 'who is this blind fool interrupting my work'.
However, after seeing Bell’s face clearly, her anger subsided slightly.
But only slightly.
“From the Lucas family?”
Oran huffed and tossed the quill into its holder. She leaned back, tilting her chin up at a forty-five-degree angle.
“A rare guest indeed. What, are you here to submit a withdrawal application?”
Bell’s eye twitched.
This woman’s tongue was even sharper than Cecilia’s.
“I want to check Horn Montfoss’s file,” Bell said, ignoring her mockery. “All of it.”
Oran raised an eyebrow.
She looked Bell up and down, her gaze lingering on Tia behind him for half a second, before showing a meaningful smile.
“On what grounds?”
“On the grounds that I am Bell Lucas.”
“Ha!”
Oran reacted as if she had heard a joke. She stood up, leaning forward with her hands pressed against the desk. An intense pressure radiated from her.
It was confidence.
Pure, absolute confidence.
In her eyes, there was nothing in this world she couldn't accomplish, and no one she couldn't suppress.
“The Lucas name might scare those two idiots at the door.”
Oran extended a finger and poked Bell’s chest.
“But it doesn't work on me.”
“You want to check the files?”
“Fine.”
She pointed toward the door.
“Make that silver-haired girl and that four-eyed bookworm wait outside.”
“This is classified.”
“Only a ducal heir is qualified to negotiate with me.”
Bell glanced back.
Antinoia adjusted her glasses expressionlessly, clearly annoyed by the 'bookworm' label but refraining from an outburst.
Tia simply nodded obediently.
“I’ll wait for you outside.”
Bell turned back to Oran.
“Deal.”
...
The door to the archives was heavy, closing with a dull thud.
There were no windows here, only a few magic lamps emitting a cold, white light.
Oran walked to a row of shelves, her finger sliding across the dusty folders. Finally, she stopped at a thin manila envelope.
“This is what you wanted.”
She pulled out the file and tossed it casually to Bell.
“Horn Montfoss.”
“Assigned to the Aqua Branch. Grades are below average, and he’s at the bottom of the class in physical tests.”
Oran leaned against the shelf with her arms crossed, her tone dripping with disdain.
“What is there to investigate about a guy like this?”
Bell ignored her.
He untied the white string around the envelope and pulled out the few pages inside.
Very thin.
Only three pages.
The first page was the enrollment registration form. In the photo, Horn’s hair was even longer than it was now, covering most of his face as he hunched his shoulders like a startled quail.
The second page was his transcript.
Alchemy A+, Potions A, Practical Combat D-.
It perfectly fit the persona of a tech geek.
Bell flipped to the third page.
That was the disciplinary record.
Blank.
It was cleaner than Tia’s face.
No tardiness, no early departures, no fighting—not even a single overdue library book.
“This is impossible.”
Bell frowned.
“He’s been at the academy for two years. How can he not have a single violation?”
Even the most well-behaved student would make a mistake once in a while. Especially someone like Horn, who conducted dangerous research.
The explosions, the foul-smelling potions—had no one ever complained?
“I find it strange too.”
Oran walked over and glanced at the blank page.
“The Disciplinary Committee has eyes and ears all over the school.”
“If someone even cooks a hot pot in their dorm—hell, if they just boil a pack of noodles—I get a report.”
“But this Horn.”
Oran narrowed her eyes, and for the first time, a hint of confusion mixed with her confident aura.
“Aside from attending classes and going to that pathetic club, he has no extra activities.”
“No social life, no entertainment, not even any enemies.”
“Even the neighbors who were smoked out by his potions... they all mysteriously withdrew their complaints afterward.”
Oran let out a cold laugh.
“He’s too clean.”
Bell gripped the paper until his knuckles turned white.
Leovet’s words echoed in his ears.
“As long as the trash doesn't stink, no one is going to dig through the trash bin.”
Was this what he meant by 'self-management'?
Erasing all traces, disguising himself as a transparent person, a harmless loser.
“Finished?”
Oran snatched the file from Bell’s hand and stuffed it back into the envelope.
“For the sake of Uncle Lucas, I’ll give you a piece of advice.”
She slapped the file back onto the shelf.
“A person like this is either truly stupid.”
“Or.”
Oran turned her head, a cold glint flashing in her emerald eyes.
“He is incredibly smart.”
“Smart enough to know exactly how to hide himself in the shadows of this cutthroat academy.”
Bell remained silent for a long time.
He looked at the file tucked back into the corner.
The scales in his heart began to sway violently.
But he still didn't want to believe it.
Not the Horn who would go crazy over a miscalculated data point, or stay up all night with excitement because Bell proposed a new concept.
He was a...
“Thank you.”
Bell turned to leave.
Just as his hand touched the doorknob, Oran’s voice came from behind him.
“Hey.”
“If you don't want that club of yours anymore, you can apply to affiliate it under the Disciplinary Committee.”
“I can tolerate looking after you guys.”
Bell paused.
He didn't look back.
“No thanks.”
“We do research, we’re not looking for a babysitter.”
The door opened.
Antinoia and Tia were standing in the hallway.
Seeing Bell emerge, Antinoia immediately approached him with a searching gaze.
“Well?”
“What did you find?”
Bell took a deep breath.
He pushed down the gravity on his face, replacing it with a relaxed expression.
“Nothing much.”
He shrugged, his tone casual.
“He’s just a normal tech geek.”
“He doesn't even have a single record of staying out late.”
Antinoia frowned, clearly unconvinced.
“Really?”
“Really.”
Bell started walking away.
“Let’s go, back to the club.”
“Horn hasn't finished the design for that booster pump yet. I need to go keep an eye on him.”
Antinoia watched Bell’s retreating back, then looked at the closed archive door.
She pushed up her glasses.
She didn't ask again.
But she knew Bell was lying.
...
Soul Research Club.
Horn was hunched over a desk, scratching his head in frustration over a complex blueprint.
The coffee beside him had gone cold.
Hearing the door open, he jerked his head up.
When he saw it was Bell, his tense face instantly broke into a goofy grin.
“Bell! You’re back!”
“Quick, look! I’ve got it!”
“If we add a return valve in the core area and use the ripples from the soul vibration to power the cooling system...”
Horn gesticulated wildly with excitement, a fanatical light shining in his eyes.
Like a child.
Bell stood at the door, watching the rambling figure.
The man Leovet called a 'jar full of trash'.
The man Oran described as being 'clean as a ghost'.
Bell smiled.
He walked over and picked up the quill from the desk.
Beside the return valve Horn had drawn, he added a single line.
“Good idea.”
“But you need to add a fuse here.”
“Otherwise, if it backfires, we’re all finished.”
Horn blinked, then nodded vigorously.
“Right! Right! A fuse!”
“Why didn't I think of that!”
“Keep at it.”
“On the day of the Academy Festival, we’re going to give everyone a surprise.”
Horn nodded firmly.
“Definitely!”
Bell turned and walked to the window.
He watched the sky outside slowly darken.
He didn't know what he was betting on.
Perhaps he was betting on that damned intuition.
Or perhaps he was betting that in this world, besides monsters and madmen...
There was still a little bit of something.
Something called a 'kindred spirit'.
Rate on N.U.
