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

In an instant, Ashok's body surged forward—not just shooting upward like before, but now soaring in a graceful, almost smug arc through the sky, still upright as if he were casually strolling on an invisible bridge.

The rooftop zipped out of his vision like scenery on a speeding carriage, and his new trajectory carved a clean, elegant curve that carried him high above the courtyard—directly above the cluster of unsuspecting Third Years.

Gravity. Negative. 1x.

His speed dropped sharply, from meteor to majestic glide, as if the very air had started admiring his form and decided to slow him down for a better look.

Below, the Third Years, who had until now only seen him rise and fall like a magic-powered yoyo.

Ashok, still as calm as ever, let his crimson eyes sweep across the courtyard beneath him.

There was a quiet, terrifying calculation in that gaze—like a hawk sizing up a field mouse.

And then, right at the apex of the arc, when he was floating directly above the heads of the Third Years,

He shut off his ability.

"Look! He's no longer flying in a straight line!" shouted an excited Third Year, pointing skyward.

"No need to shout—we have eyes," the leading Third Year grumbled, arms crossed, though his gaze remained fixed on Ashok's soaring form.

Deep down, envy prickled at his chest.

He, too, wanted to fly.

As a B-Rank Spearman, the sky was still a far-off privilege—one promised to S-Rankers and above.

And yet here he was, stuck on the ground, while some lunatic First Year was doing acrobatics above his head like it was a circus audition.

And to make matters worse, the ominous reminder returned.

The Prince.

He still had to report last night's disaster to His Highness—assuming the report didn't end with him being promptly buried beneath it.

If he made it to see the sun tomorrow, it would already count as a victory worth celebrating.

"Everyone… is it just me, or does Adlet's figure look like it's getting bigger?" asked another Third Year, squinting nervously at the sky.

'Bigger?' That single word echoed in the heads of the rest of the Third Years, most of whom had grown bored after watching the First Year show off his power for what felt like the sixth or seventh time.

After all, no matter how long they watched, it wasn't as if they were going to start flying just by staring hard enough.

But the moment that question was asked, something primal kicked in—every single one of them looked up in unison, necks creaking like rusty weathervanes.

And sure enough, there he was: Adlet, no longer a distant speck but a rapidly approaching missile in a track suit.

His figure grew larger and clearer by the second, and it was only when he dipped to the level of the dormitory rooftops that the realization hit them like a slap from reality itself.

"He's falling! Right at us!"

"EVERYONE DISPERSE FROM THIS AREA!" bellowed the leading Third Year, his voice cracking with urgency as he instinctively dove to the side.

The others didn't need to be told twice—they scrambled, tumbled, and leapt left and right, scattering like marbles under a rampaging boot.

Nobody wanted to be the unlucky soul beneath that impact.

Falling from that height?

Forget broken bones—of the one who fell, and anyone beneath him might as well start writing their will.

The ground trembled as Adlet came crashing down right in the middle of the clearing they had just evacuated.

And then—

Silence. No loud sound or sign of body splattering on the floor.

Cautiously, the Third Years turned their heads, half-expecting to see a mangled corpse.

Instead, what they saw made several jaws drop.

Adlet stood tall—hands casually stuffed in his pockets, not a single wrinkle out of place, like he'd just stepped off a carriage rather than descended from the clouds.

"I should work on my landing," said Adlet with a faint smile, dusting off his sleeves like he hadn't just dropped from the sky like a meteor.

His eyes calmly swept across the gathered crowd of Third Years — some glaring with barely concealed fury, others watching him like a new species who had wandered between them.

"Hey! Who do you think you're trying to fool? You think we don't know you landed here on purpose?" barked a Third Year, his voice rising with each word, eyes twitching at Adlet's very presence.

"What are you talking about? How can I do it on purpose? I'm still training," said Adlet, his voice nonchalant, his smirk subtle but sharp enough to cut egos.

"And I'm sure you don't know, but everything looks pretty small when you're high up in the sky — just like ants."

The effect of that smirk was almost immediate.

The Third Year's body stiffened, jaw clenched.

That casual, disrespectfully honest tone; the infuriatingly calm expression that clearly said 'What are you going to do about it?';

And finally, the words themselves — they were like a slap disguised as a compliment.

But just as the agitated Third Year took a sharp breath, the leading Third Year stepped forward.

His boot crunched lightly over the freshly repaired stone, silencing his companion with a look.

His expression was composed, but there was no warmth in his voice as he said, "Don't think just because you have Teacher—"

The Third Year couldn't even complete his sentence when Adlet's body tilted slightly forward — and with a single light hop, he shot off the ground again, this time sailing smoothly toward the Second Year Dormitory that stood just ahead.

His figure blurred past the startled faces of the Third Years below, soaring gracefully through the air.

Ashok hadn't used much force this time, and his trajectory was clean — too clean.

He was headed straight toward the second-floor handrail, the metal rushing toward him with increasing clarity.

Just behind it, a Second Year student stood mid-stretch, yawning away the remnants of sleep like it was any other peaceful morning.

That peace shattered in an instant.

The Second Year's eyes widened in pure disbelief as a human projectile — Adlet — burst into view out of nowhere, flying straight at him with alarming speed.

Before the poor guy could even flinch, Adlet twisted midair with casual finesse, bent his legs, and crashed directly into the handrail without losing a single drop of momentum.

CLANG!

The metal reverberated under the impact as the Second Year stumbled backward, eyes clamped shut in panic — but no pain came.

Slowly, hesitantly, he cracked one eye open, and what he saw made him freeze: Adlet, smirking devilishly, was hanging his body tilted halfway over the handrail.

Ashok bent his knees against the hand-rail.

Creak!

The metal slightly groaned under the sudden pressure, but held firm.

Then—with a sharp jump from that position he sprang upward.

His body launched into the air, boots slicing through the wind as he flipped backward in one fluid arc.

Whoosh!

The breeze whistled past his ears as his momentum carried him back across the open space.

The Third Years below watched with wide eyes, necks craned and mouths slightly agape. They didn't speak—they didn't even blink—as Ashok's silhouette rotated midair, then disappeared behind the First Year Dormitory.

CLAP!

CLAP!

Two clear claps rang out in the courtyard.

One of the Third Years—still convinced that Adlet's power had something to do with elite-level parkour—had instinctively started applauding the performance.

But just as his palms met for a third time—

"..."

The sharp hiss of irritated silence fell across the group. Every single Third Year turned to glare at him.

"…Heh…Heh."

The would-be clapper awkwardly froze, lowering his hands and tucking them behind his back with a quiet rustle of fabric, pretending he hadn't moved at all.

In the stillness that followed, a light breeze stirred the grass.

At the center of it all, the Third-Year leader stood perfectly still.

His boots pressed into the soft ground with a faint crunch, his eyes fixed not on the sky now, but on the patch of empty air where Adlet had just vanished.

His jaw clenched slightly.

Whatever words he was about to speak, whatever threat or warning—none of it mattered now.

The First-Year hadn't waited for him to complete.

Hadn't listened.

Hadn't even acknowledged him, once just like yesterday night.

And now, they were all just standing there—left in his wake, beneath the soft whirr of wind and the spreading gold of the morning sun.

Some of the Third Years kept casting glances toward the sky, their eyes lingering on the rooftop as if expecting Adlet to appear again at any moment.

Quiet smirks tugged at a few corners of mouths—hidden behind bored expressions—as they savored the chaos the First-Year had stirred.

After all, not everyone among them held loyalty to the one who had stepped up as leader simply because he claimed ties to the Crown Prince.

And after being dragged out in the dead of night for forced repairs—without so much as a choice—was it really wrong to enjoy a little rebellion from the sidelines?

RIIIINGGG!

A sharp, metallic chime sliced through the courtyard—the second bell of the dormitory.

Its echo rippled across the cool morning air, a reminder that only one hour remained before classes began.

With reluctant sighs and tired shoulders, the Third Years began shuffling back toward their rooms.

Shoes scuffed against stone paths, doors creaked open one by one, and muttered complaints rose like low static in the air.

No matter how amusing the morning's show had been, no one could afford to miss class— of the Academy.

Not under any circumstance.