I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!

Alina knew that normally naturally the right of the next Duke of Cindergarde should have gone to her big sister—but she had shown no interest in it, and with Adlet taking self-exile, that made Alina the next Duchess destined to rule the entire Eastern Land.

The realization settled on her like a crushing burden.

But now, as the truth began to dawn on her—that Adlet and her father were scheming something behind everyone's backs—she felt a sharp sting of betrayal pierce through her heart, her trust in her father fracturing.

'No matter what, I will find out what he and the father are planning,' thought Alina, a fierce determination lighting her eyes as she vowed to uncover the secrets behind Adlet.

After all, there was no way she could confront her father directly.

Just like Alina, there was Elara, who had also warned her father, the Emperor, about the presence of a Supernatural as a Teacher in the Academy—and the even more alarming fact that there were two Supernaturals in her class.

But instead of concern, what she received was a cold reprimand from her father. His voice was sharp and dismissive as he said,

'What should I do?

If you can take the Academy under Imperial Control, I will make you the next to the Throne. If you cannot, don't waste my time with useless pieces of information. You are still too naïve; you lack the foresight that your brother possesses.'

With that question and reprimand, her father abruptly cut off the call, leaving Elara simmering with anger.

The sting of rejection burned deep within her—not just at the words, but at the fact that no matter what she did, she still couldn't earn her father's recognition.

'I have to establish a foothold in the Academy no matter what,' thought Elara, determination hardening her gaze as she resolved to prove herself worthy.

Ashok, without sparing so much as a glance in the direction of the gathered students, continued his slow, unhurried stride—his hands still resting in the pockets of his Academy tracksuit—when suddenly—

"AAAAHHHHHH!"

A cry of pain tore through the air like a whip crack. Ashok's foot had come down squarely on the already mangled leg of the unconscious Third Year.

The intense pain forced the student back into consciousness, his eyes shooting open in panic and agony.

Blinking through the haze, the Third Year found himself staring directly into a pair of glowing, imperious red eyes—eyes that exuded disdain and dominance.

Ashok looked down at him his voice commanding

"Since when has the Academy had fallen so far that its grounds now welcome Beggers to lie where they please?"

His tone was not loud, yet it silenced the compound.

There was no need to raise his voice—his presence alone commanded attention.

He had seen the injured student, of course.

But he chose to step regardless, it was for fun.

The words cut deeper than any blade.

Around him, the Third Years stirred uncomfortably, rage building beneath the surface.

They hated his voice—that commanding, unquestioning authority.

They hated his eyes—eyes that looked down on them, not at them.

And most of all, they hated the arrogance of a mere First Year daring to speak like a king addressing commoners.

The leading Third Year clenched his fists, veins bulging in restraint.

His best friend, now twitching in pain beneath Ashok's foot, had been humiliated.

Yet he could say nothing. Frederick was still watching.

Meanwhile, the Second Years stood frozen in disbelief, their expressions a mix of shock and confusion.

The Third-Year writhing on the ground was unmistakably still dressed in his Academy uniform—there was no mistaking him for anything other than a Senior.

That meant the act wasn't an accident.

The First Year had stepped on him deliberately.

And those words... those cold, imperious words weren't something a mere First Year should even dare to utter.

Ashok, indifferent to the shifting waves of murmurs and eyes upon him, calmly stepped back.

His boot lifted from the Third Year's leg just as the student, overwhelmed by the pain, slipped once more into unconsciousness.

Without a flicker of emotion, Ashok moved to the side.

Then, with a single upward glance, his sharp gaze calculated the space above him—confirming his positioning with silent precision.

Gravity. Negative.

The moment he thought and before anyone could react, Ashok's feet lifted off the ground.

The world below began to shrink as his body ascended and then suddenly shot upwards past the First Floor, then the Second, and the Third.

All eyes followed him in stunned silence.

Now level with the Fourth Floor, Ashok's ascent came to a slowdown. He changed the multiplier from 3x to 1x, mid-air beside the handrail where Frederick sat, observing the scene with unreadable eyes.

Ashok turned his gaze to the man.

For a brief second, crimson eyes met with Frederick's own—calmly, steadily, without flinch or flattery.

Then, with a grace that bordered on unnatural, Ashok withdrew one hand from his pocket, placed it on the railing, and vaulted over into the fourth floor.

Many First Years only clicked their tongues, disapproval passing among them, as they already knew Ashok was a Supernatural.

To them, this display was impressive, but not surprising.

However, for the Second and Third Years, it was an entirely different matter.

Their world momentarily tilted.

Most of them stood frozen, eyes widened in disbelief.

Minds raced—or simply failed to process—what they had just witnessed.

A First Year using Flight Magic, a feat so advanced that even among Fourth Years, only a handful could barely manage it.

The implications hit them like a cold wind—how was that even possible?

Whispers broke out in hushed confusion.

Some students began to murmur theories, clinging to what little they understood.

Some insisted it must be a Skill, others speculated it could be a powerful Art, but none could confidently claim the truth. After all, the existence of Supernaturals was so rare, so elusive, that to jump to that conclusion felt unreal.

"Brat! What is your Supernatural Power?" asked Frederick, his voice cutting through the tension like a crack of thunder as he looked directly at Adlet who had just calmly entered the Fourth Floor without breaking stride.

Ashok turned slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as he looked at Frederick.

Frederick clicked his tongue, his expression souring. As expected, he really didn't like this brat's eyes.

"Why should I tell you, Old Man? And better be careful where you are sitting. If you fall from there, your old bones might not be able to handle it… and you might straight end up in Hell," said Adlet, a sly smirk curling at the edge of his lips.

His words rang across the Fourth Floor like a spark thrown into dry grass, reckless and sharp.

A heavy silence followed.

"…": Second Year

"…": Third Year

"…": Valencia

The gathered Second and Third Years, already reeling from the revelation that a First Year was a Supernatural, now found themselves completely muted—not by awe, but by horror.

They could only stare, as their minds were consumed with a singular shared thought: just what kind of gruesome death would befall this arrogant First Year who dared to mock Teacher Frederick right to his face?

"Have nobody ever taught you, brat, how to talk to your Teachers and to respect them?" asked Frederick, his voice low and dangerously calm.

"I don't know of a Teacher who goes around sitting on the Hand Rail in the middle of the night right outside my room like a street thug, and then starts interrogating me the moment I return to my room," said Adlet

"This mad brat really seeks Death," muttered Frederick, veins popping on his clenched fist like they were trying to escape his skin before something explosive happened.

His expression twisted with a mix of fury and the kind of disbelief only reserved for kids who talk back to their parents—and survive.

"As if someone with one foot already inside the grave has any right to talk about Death," Adlet replied without missing a beat. "With how old you are, your heart might leap out of your mouth if you sneeze too hard. And you're lecturing me about death."

The tension between the two crackled louder than the thunderstorm Frederick had summoned earlier, but it was the Second and Third Years who were losing their minds behind the scenes.

'Can anyone tell me what is just happening?'

'Why isn't Frederick turning this guy into a fried pancake?'

'Did the real Frederick went to sleep and send a decoy?'

'Why is simply listening to a First Year?'

Their internal screams were louder than their outer silence.

Jaws hung, eyes widened like they'd seen a ghost—and not just any ghost, but a ghost that walked up to Frederick, slapped him, and walked away with his wallet.

"Brat! Want me to throw you off?" Frederick snarled, his face contorted with fury. Veins bulged across his temple, throbbing with the intensity of his anger.

Adlet, unfazed, simply tilted his head.

"It's meaningless, even if you throw me off." His voice was eerily calm, as though discussing a trivial matter. "I've realized one thing about my death—no matter how I die in this world, falling from any height will never be the cause."

For the first time in their exchange, Frederick's expression faltered. A visible frown crept into his features. "Don't be too proud of your supernat—"

"Should I jump off the Academy?" Adlet interrupted with a smirk, slicing through Frederick's words before they could take form.

A palpable silence fell between them.

The academy loomed high above the world, suspended at an altitude where even the most skilled Rankers struggled to ascend.

It was a place so distant from the ground that even after falling for miles, there would be no sign of the earth below—just an free fall stretching in all directions.

And yet, the boy before him spoke of leaping into that unending fall without a single shred of fear.