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

While the Third Years worked through gritted teeth and whispered curses aimed at Adlet, another kind of chaos was being digested inside his room.

In Ashok's Room…

Frederick blinked. Then blinked again.

He had visited many strange places in his life—battlefields, ancient ruins, weird dungeons—but never had he seen a student's room look quite like this.

It didn't feel like a dorm room given by the Academy to the Aether Class.

In fact, it didn't feel like a room at all.

It looked more like a hybrid between a storage warehouse and a merchant's overstocked booth at the trade fair.

Ignoring the fact that there was a mini temperature regulator humming quietly in the corner and an air freshener releasing lavender-scented mist every five minutes, his eyes were immediately drawn to the massive pyramid structure made entirely out of boxes.

Body Enhancers. (Protein Powders)

Dozens—no, hundreds—of them, stacked perfectly into a triangle that dominated nearly half the room.

And it wasn't just enhancers.

There were separate towers made of high-end scented soaps, shampoos, and daily care products arranged in aesthetic gradients.

For the first time in quite a while, Frederick genuinely began to question the decision that led him to step into this room.

Then, his gaze locked onto a wooden crate placed directly opposite the bed, and his breath subtly hitched.

Inside the crate, nestled without care yet exuding opulence, were more than five empty bottles—thick glass, intricate detailing of the Symbol of the Southern Duchy, and the faint shimmer of residual natural mana essence.

Spirit Wine.

And not just any—these were bottles of the rarest vintage the Empire produced.

For a moment, Frederick refused to believe what his eyes were telling him.

'Spirit Wine? Here? In a First Year's room?' The thought alone was enough to make him reconsider his sanity.

He'd known high officials and rich nobles who would pay a fortune for just a single bottle of that delicacy.

And this brat—this madman—had drained five? Wait forget about five can he even drink a sip without getting drunk?

Even as the weight of that realization settled, his eyes drifted upward—just above the crate to the bedside table.

There, calmly resting as if it were an ordinary accessory, lay a glimmering Communication Orb… and beside it, something that made Frederick's eyes sharpen and his jaw stiffen.

A Transfer Orb.

His instincts screamed disbelief.

He blinked hard, feeling an almost laughable urge to rub his eyes to make sure they weren't playing tricks on him.

But no—he could feel it.

The low hum of spatial mana surrounding it, quiet yet potent.

This wasn't some replica or enchanted bauble.

It was real.

An actual Transfer Orb.

While Communication Orbs were fairly common—mass-produced by the Magic Tower and used widely across the continent for messaging and remote broadcasts—Transfer Orbs were on a different level entirely.

Extremely rare and crafted under stringent magical protocols, these artifacts were primarily monopolized by the great Merchant Guilds.

Their sole purpose?

Emergency transportation of goods across vast distances, using advanced spatial displacement.

Always used in pairs, these orbs could instantly transfer physical items of limited size across unimaginable distances.

And such convenience came with a brutal cost—immense mana consumption, directly proportionate to the size and weight of the item and the range covered.

However, what truly made Transfer Orbs so revered—nearly mythic in reputation—was the simple truth that even today, the Magic Tower had yet to replicate them.

Despite centuries of research and innovation, no modern craft could recreate these artifacts.

That was why Transfer Orbs were often classified as Ancient Relics.

Most of the few known orbs in existence had been unearthed from the depths of perilous dungeons, or discovered by treasure hunters combing through sun-scorched deserts and the dark trenches of ancient sea ruins.

'A self-exiled noble in a dorm room is sipping Spirit Wine and casually owning a Transfer Orb… something even the wealthiest noble families don't possess', Frederick mused inwardly.

There was no longer a shred of doubt in his mind—this brat was anything but simple.

Still, Frederick chose to say nothing.

He wasn't here as an inspector.

Curiosity, yes—but not at the cost of spoiling the fun of hearing a juicy story firsthand.

Ashok casually gestured toward the bed, inviting Frederick to take a seat.

As the older man sat down, his trained eyes took note of the subtle details—the bedsheet shimmered faintly with the hue of a light enchantment, and the pillow practically conformed to his weight.

Comfort-enhancing enchantments.

Luxury-tier.

'This brat is squeezing every last drop out of the Gold and Silver Pass permissions on his ID Card', Frederick clicked his tongue.

The Academy was meant to be a crucible—students were supposed to struggle, to clash and grow stronger through hardship.

And yet here was this First Year, lounging in a private haven of enchantments, luxury goods, and rare artifacts, as though he were on vacation rather than in the most elite institution of the Empire.

"I'll start from when Teacher Flakey entered our class," Ashok said, his voice carrying that familiar drawl of a storyteller easing into his rhythm.

Though Frederick was taking in the details of the room, one thing, in particular, stood out to him—something behavioral, something subtle but unmistakable.

Normally, whenever he stepped into a student's room—be it a boy or girl—there was always a natural reaction.

Nervousness.

Hesitation.

A ripple of discomfort that couldn't be masked. He'd seen it all: students fidgeting with their sleeves, rubbing their palms together, shuffling from foot to foot, eyes darting, toes twitching like they were ready to bolt.

Some couldn't even speak properly under his gaze.

But not this one.

Adlet showed none of that.

Not even the slightest flicker of unease crossed his face.

Speaking with an informal tone that completely disregarded Frederick's authority, as if the teacher were just another guest in a parlor and not a feared figure in the Academy.

To most, this might seem strange.

A sign of disrespect.

Perhaps full of arrogance.

But Frederick didn't quite know how to feel about it.

It wasn't exactly pleasant, yet it wasn't unpleasant either.

There was something refreshingly… honest about it.

Truth be told, he had always disliked the way students approached him—tongues tangled, sweat clinging to their temples, voices cracking under pressure.

He never said anything about it, of course.

A certain level of fear was necessary.

Students should know who stood above them in the hierarchy. That fear was part of discipline, part of respect.

But lately, that fear had grown into something excessive.

It had become a wall.

An invisible boundary that even the boldest of students rarely dared to cross.

Unlike other teachers, Frederick received almost no casual interaction.

No idle conversation.

Just rigid salutes and stiff answers.

Yet here sat Adlet, lounging comfortably, speaking to him with the kind of ease one might use with a fellow troublemaker rather than a teacher.

And this—this was precisely what Frederick liked about Adlet.

The boy didn't flinch.

He didn't stutter or lower his gaze under pressure, not even when Frederick first tested him with Mana Pressure—a presence strong enough to make most seasoned Fourth Years break into cold sweat.

But Adlet remained steady, unfazed.

That kind of composure, together with the lack of fear—Frederick respected it.

Because if you ever wanted to treat someone stronger than you as an equal, you needed that kind of mindset.

Not arrogance. Not recklessness.

But unwavering self-belief.

Unlike their last interaction—where Frederick had kept interrupting with quips and sarcastic jabs—this time, he said nothing. He listened.

Because the story unfolding before him wasn't just amusing—it was layered.

Mysterious. Almost like a puzzle being pieced together in real time.

And Frederick found himself pulled in.

He knew Flakey well—knew him as a man prone to theatrics, dramatics, and the occasional excessive monologue, an true Over Actor.

But that didn't change the fact that Flakey's supernatural ability was anything but simple.

It was elusive.

Tricky.

Something you wouldn't understand unless you were unfortunate—or fortunate—enough to experience it firsthand.

That kind of power didn't lend itself to being easily guessed, let alone deduced from mere conversation.

And yet here this brat was, recounting every detail of his thought process, every deduction, every leap of logic he made as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

He didn't skip over anything. He laid it all out—step by step, moment by moment.

By the end of it, Frederick was silent.

His expression gave nothing away, but inside, his thoughts churned.

Disbelief battled with curiosity. A part of him wanted to scoff—no way, it couldn't be true.

How could someone, especially a First Year, deduce a dream-based supernatural ability just from a few strange comments and the Academy's reputation?

It sounded absurd.

No—it should have been impossible.

And yet, here they were.

"Don't exaggerate, brat!" Frederick snapped, his voice echoing slightly in the room.

Ashok leaned back, arms folded behind his head, completely unfazed by the teacher's outburst. "Old man, if my intelligence sounds like exaggeration to you, then how is that my fault?" he said casually, flashing a smug grin.

"Anyway, I'm done here. I've got classes in the morning, so do me a favor and show yourself out."

He lazily waved his hand toward the door—an unmistakable gesture of dismissal, like someone shooing off a stray animal.

Frederick's eye twitched.

'This damned brat…' he thought, his teeth grinding silently. 'Just wait till you step into my class. I'll show you what real hell really looks like.'

But he didn't say a word.

Not now.

Instead, he turned without another glance and walked out, cloak fluttering behind him.

Still, one thing lingered in his mind as he moved through the quiet corridor—the face of that overacting dreamer, Flakey.

It had been a long time since they'd crossed paths, and now, Frederick knew he'd have to pay him a little visit.

A bet like this, and a deduction that precise, deserved a closer look—especially if Flakey had been foolish enough to go along with it and gave away Merit Points.

As he stepped outside, the sharp chill of the early morning air hit him.

The sky overhead was ink-black, studded with distant stars, and a pale crescent moon hung low on the horizon.

Down in the courtyard, the dim glow of magical lanterns revealed the still-unfinished mess—cracks in the stone, shattered benches, and scattered debris that had yet to be cleared.

A group of weary-looking Third Years continued their repairs, the hum of enchantments and soft grunts of effort filling the silence.

Only about a quarter of the courtyard was restored, and it was already nearing 2:00 A.M.

"I'm watching," Frederick said, his voice low but carrying the weight of an unspoken threat.

"If everything isn't repaired by the first morning alarm, then…"

He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to.

The sharp glint in his eyes and the oppressive chill of his mana-laced presence made it clear what the consequences would be.

Then, like a shadow fading into the night, Frederick vanished, leaving only silence and dread in his wake.

The courtyard, dimly lit under the flickering glow of magical lamps, erupted into motion.

The Third Years, already sweating and worn from hours of labor, began moving faster—some dragging stones into place with gritted teeth, others weaving mending spells into shattered pathways.

Their hands worked, but their minds seethed with silent fury.

Every single one of them cursed Adlet beneath their breath.

But none more so than the leading Third Year, whose jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap.

Unlike the others, he wasn't just worried about completing the repairs—he had something far worse looming over him.

The Prince.

At dawn, he'd be forced to report everything. Every shameful detail. From the failed trap to the public humiliation… to the Credits loss.

The thought alone sent a shiver crawling down his spine like an ice-cold snake.

He paused for a moment, wiping the sweat from his brow with a shaking hand, then looked down at the uneven stones underfoot.

'Maybe I should start digging my own grave alongside the courtyard repairs…' he thought bitterly, and with a heavy sigh, went back to work under the cold, uncaring moon.