"If you don't open this door in three seconds, Volkov, I'm authorizing the Golem to use your head as a battering ram!"
The wood groaned under a sharp, rhythmic pounding. I scrambled to sit up, but the velvet duvet was wrapped around me like a straightjacket. The Iron Guardian was still humming that cursed, metallic lullaby, its heavy pincers twitching near my ankles. I rolled off the bed, hitting the floor with a thud that rattled my molars.
"Coming! I'm coming!" I wheezed. I shoved the Golem's massive leg aside, my palms slick with sweat. If the Student Council President saw me being tucked in like a toddler by a war machine, my reputation wasn't just dead—it was cremated. I fumbled with the gold-plated latch, my heart hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.
I yanked the door open. She stood there, silver hair pulled back so tight it looked painful, violet eyes narrow enough to draw blood. She didn't say hello. She just shoved a stack of disciplinary notices against my chest.
"You've been in this mansion for twenty minutes and you've already triggered three mana-spike alarms," she snapped. She pushed past me, stopping dead when she saw the ten-foot-tall hunk of iron vibrating next to the mattress. "Why is the Guardian... glowing amber? And why does it smell like lavender and cheap oil in here?"
"It's a customized hospitality interface?" I offered, trying to look casual while wrapped in a silk sheet.
The Golem chose that moment to rumble. "Guest... requires... more... foot... kneading..."
She turned back to me, her hand white-knuckling the hilt of her rapier. For a second, I thought I was dead. Instead, she let out a long, weary breath. "The Dean is too busy crying in the staff lounge to expel you today. But you're late for Combat Practice. Move. Now."
The "Ashen Pit" was a circular deathtrap. The air tasted like charcoal and burnt hair. Five hundred students were lined up, their eyes burning into the back of my neck like magnifying glasses on an ant.
"Alright, you parasites!" the Instructor barked. He had a prosthetic arm made of black iron and a face like a topographical map of a war zone. "Today is about raw output. Viktor—get in the center and show the class why we don't play with the Academy's hardware. Or die trying."
A massive guy named Marek stepped out. He was an A-Rank Fire Mage, standing six-foot-four with hair that literally smoked. He cracked his knuckles, a shower of sparks hitting the sand.
"I'm going to enjoy this, Volkov," Marek grinned. "I'll make sure the healers have enough of you left to put in a jar."
He didn't wait. He raised both hands, a vortex of jagged, pitch-black flames swirling between his palms. The heat hit me like a physical wall. My skin felt like it was shrinking.
> **[System Message]**
> *Alert: High-tier 'Hellfire Blast' detected.*
> *Current Debt: 3,050 EXP.*
> *Warning: Your chances of survival are currently 0.04%.*
>
I stared at the black flames. Honestly? *If I die now, I don't have to pay back the loan. Win-win,* I thought. The logic was sound. My brain was fried.
"Die!" Marek roared.
He unleashed the pillar of fire. It tore across the arena, melting the sand into jagged glass. It was a career-ender. A soul-shredder.
*Interpretation,* I whispered in my head. *That's not Hellfire. That's just a Spicy Marshmallow Roast for a campfire.*
**[Skill Activated: Interpretation (Rank F - Debt Overclock)]**
**[Target: Hellfire Blast]**
**[New Meaning: 'Toasted Sugar & Vanilla Flare']**
The roaring pillar hit an invisible barrier three feet from my face. The sound changed from a terrifying roar to a soft, crackling pop. The black flames flickered, sputtered, and turned a vibrant, fluffy pink. The scorching heat vanished, replaced by a warm breeze that smelled like a candy shop.
I stood there, unblinking, as the pink fire washed around me like a warm hug. I pulled a pencil from my pocket and held it out. Within seconds, a gooey, white substance bubbled onto the wood, browning perfectly in the "Hellfire."
"A bit too much sugar in this one, Marek," I said, blowing on the marshmallow. "But the aroma? Top notch."
Marek's jaw hit the sand. He tried to fire again, his face turning a deep, humiliated purple. "INFERNO! CRIMSON BURNOUT!"
*Puff.*
A tiny cloud of pink, sweet-smelling smoke wafted out of his palms. He looked like a very confused cotton candy machine. The arena was dead silent. Every student was frozen, staring at the F-Rank kid eating a pencil-toasted marshmallow in the middle of a combat pit.
The Instructor walked over, his heavy boots crunching on the glass. He stared at the pink fire swirling around my boots. He looked at Marek, then back at me. His one good eye was wide, filled with a sudden, sharp terror.
"What... what kind of monster are you?" he whispered.
I took a bite of the air. "I'm just a guy who likes his snacks well-done, sir."
I walked away from the scorched sand, the smell of vanilla clinging to my uniform like a curse. I needed to get back to the mansion before the System's interest rates turned my future into a subscription service I couldn't afford. I took the shortcut through the North Hallway, a dark, narrow corridor lined with ancient stone statues.
I was halfway through when the shadows simply... moved.
Before I could breathe, a cold, thin piece of steel was pressed firmly against the side of my throat. I froze. A sharp sting on my skin told me the blade was already drawing blood. A woman stepped out of the darkness, her eyes sharp as glass and twice as cold. It was Han Se-ah, the academy's premier spy.
"I watched the Orb footage, Volkov," she whispered, her voice like grinding ice. "You're a fake. Nobody rewrites reality with Rank F mana. Now, tell me what you really are before I find out by opening your throat."
I looked down at the dagger, then into her terrifyingly beautiful face.
> **[System Message]**
> **[CRITICAL ALERT: Hostile Intent Detected.]**
> **[Cooldown: 0:02... 0:01...]**
>
"Look, I know I'm a ten out of ten," I managed to croak out, my heart hammering against the blade. "But don't you think the knife is a bit much for a first date?"