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

Everyone standing below remained frozen, still trying to process the bizarre interaction that had just unfolded between Adlet and Frederick.

Even among the Second and Third Years, there was a visible struggle to make sense of what they had witnessed.

Setting aside the part where he joked about killing someone—because that alone had been chilling—the real weight of the scene settled on everything that followed.

A First Year had not only stared down Frederick, the Frederick, but had somehow convinced him to place trap magic personally on his room gate as a form of compensation.

And then, without so much as lifting a finger in apology, he claimed the monthly credits of a Third Year, who still lay unconscious on the ground with his limbs bent at wrong angles.

And just when everyone thought the absurdity had peaked, came the final twist—Merit Points.

That was what made even Frederick shocked.

Now, Merit Points by themselves weren't unheard of. But this was only the second day of the academic term. And the way the First Year had explained it?

"It wasn't that much of a big deal. I just made a little bet with Teacher Flakey."

The words rang in the minds of those who'd heard them, and even Valencia instinctively rubbed her ears—genuinely unsure if she'd misheard.

Wasn't a Merit Point supposed to be something you earned after outperforming the entire class—something that symbolized excellence, effort, and discipline?

Since when had they become tokens you could win through bets like some tavern gambler playing with dice?

And hadn't Frederick just asked, "What did you do this time?"

That one question said everything—it meant this wasn't even the first time. This First Year had already earned Merit Points before… somehow.

The Second and Third Years stood rooted in place, unmoving and silent, like statues carved from disbelief.

Their thoughts tangled in confusion, trying to make sense of this impossible classmate.

Everything about him was far beyond the realm of normal, it was simply extreme.

The way he casually threw around talk of killing a fellow student—using a teacher's hands, no less—as if it were just another option in a list of disciplinary actions.

And now, this.

Before anyone could even digest what had just happened, the First Year moved on—nonchalantly bargaining with Frederick for credits, like a seasoned merchant peddling a story.

And not just any story—a "tale" involving none other than the eccentric Teacher Flakey.

But the most jarring part of it all wasn't the haggling. It was Frederick himself.

The man who usually made others sweat bullets with a glance, now stood there grinning ear to ear, eyes gleaming like a child waiting for the next page of his favorite bedtime story.

That expression alone sent an even deeper chill through the crowd.

What kind of First Year could make that man look like an eager gossip-hungry fool?

Everyone instinctively compared that expression on Frederick's face to the one they were used to.

Usually, it was either that bored, deadpan look that screamed "Don't waste my time" or the maniacal grin he wore when he'd stumbled upon something—or someone—new to toy with.

But this?

This expression was different.

Excitement. Genuine, unfiltered excitement.

None of them had ever seen it before. Not once.

And before their stunned eyes, the haggling had already come to an end. Frederick—the Frederick—had just transferred 35,000 Credits without batting an eye.

35,000 Credits.

Even Fourth Years only received 20,000 Credits as the free monthly allowance and they have passed four years in the Academy.

But this First Year? He had just negotiated and secured almost double that in a heartbeat—simply for telling a story.

A story about a bet with Teacher Flakey, of all people.

And now the two—Frederick and the infamous First Year—were casually walking off together, no doubt to enjoy their private little tale like two old friends catching up over tea, while everyone else was left standing like stunned cattle.

Just as the collective minds of the students began to settle, trying to come to terms with the absurdity they had just witnessed—Adlet turned back.

His red eyes gleamed. That sly, ever-infuriating grin curled back onto his lips. And then he asked, in the most casually mocking tone imaginable:

"By the way... Who was the Brainless Fo— I mean, the Host of the Party?"

For a brief moment, the world itself seemed to pause.

'Is he… serious?'

That was the first thought that crashed into Leon's mind like a tidal wave.

He couldn't believe it.

After pulling off a psychological stunt after toying with someone's life and making a mockery of an upperclassman's dignity, this lunatic still had the gall to throw out a joke—a mocking joke—for all to hear?

It wasn't just shameless.

It was brazen.

Unapologetically arrogant.

And terrifyingly effective.

'Mr. Special really has balls of steel… no—maybe his balls are forged from Mithril and Adamantine,' thought Gideon, inwardly saluting Adlet.

No matter what happens, a madman will forever remain a madman.

Roan, on the other hand, tilted his head slightly as he watched the scene unfold. 'Was that his way of reconciling with the Seniors? Calling it all off as just a joke?'

But the moment his gaze fell upon Adlet's face—that infuriatingly smug, knowing grin—Roan dismissed the thought.

'No. That man doesn't care about reconciliation. He's not trying to mend bridges. He's just doing it all on purpose.'

Everything he says, everything he does—it's all deliberate.

No one raised their voice to respond to Adlet's final jab, but still… the answer was given.

Silent glances flicked toward Valencia—first subtle, then more obvious.

Among the First Years, a few couldn't help but stifle their laughter, some even whispering with poorly disguised grins.

Valencia stood perfectly still, her hands clenched tightly behind her back—so tightly her knuckles had turned pale.

Slowly, she raised her chin and locked eyes with the First Year standing above them all, that red-eyed menace whose words had held even Frederick still.

Their gazes met.

Adlet didn't flinch.

He simply grinned—wider.

'This insolent… crazy madman,' Valencia seethed, barely keeping the fury from showing on her face.

She was certain—absolutely certain—that the bastard had deliberately widened his grin the moment their eyes met.

'He knew everything from the start. Every single detail.'

Valencia's thoughts burned as she stared at that infuriating grin.

He knew I was the host. He knew it from the very beginning… and still, he mocked me, in front of everyone—on purpose.'

Her fists, still clenched behind her back, trembled ever so slightly as anger surged through her.

And yet, what truly stoked the fire wasn't just the humiliation.

It was the familiarity. The reminder.

That mocking smile… those condescending eyes…

'He reminds me of the Crown Prince.'

The one man in the entire Academy she despised the most.

Her hatred for the Prince was a roaring fire—always burning just beneath the surface. His very presence boiled her blood.

But with Adlet… it wasn't his face that enraged her—it was something worse. His eyes.

Those unblinking, blood-red piercing eyes…

They weren't filled with jealousy like others.

They weren't brimming with admiration or expectation like the fools who called themselves her peers.

No.

His eyes looked down on her.

As if she were beneath him.

As if she were nothing.

And that—that—was something Valencia Astellia could not, and would not, tolerate.

Before her fury could boil over, a voice cut in, casual and gruff:

"Now what's this about the host?" asked Frederick, frowning and scratching his beard. His impatience was obvious; the old man's curiosity was already spiraling toward the real prize—the tale.

The bet.

"Let me explain with an example—let's say I organized a birthday party for you, and then I ask you to deliver…"

Ashok's voice trailed off into laughter as he casually led Frederick into his room.

The heavy doors swung shut behind them with a firm thud, sealing off the two as though they had entered an entirely different world.

Silence descended over the courtyard like a fog.

Every single student stood frozen, their eyes darting between one another, unsure of what to say—unsure if anything could be said after what just happened.

The First Years, in particular, felt the weight of every gaze. After all, Adlet was their classmate.

The Welcome Party—the event that was meant to foster connection and unity—had been completely, utterly ruined.

"Everyone, return to your dorms," Valencia said coldly, her voice sharp but controlled.

She didn't wait to see if anyone followed the order.

Without sparing a glance at anyone, she turned and strode away from the Dormitory.

As the Rank 1 student and one of the few granted Special Privileges by the Academy, she didn't reside in the standard student housing.

She disappeared into the distance—composed, furious, silent.

Her departure broke the tension, and slowly, the rest of the students began dispersing, murmuring among themselves, heads still spinning from everything they'd witnessed.

The Second Years and First Years returned to their quarters, glancing back one last time at the Dormitory doors.

The Third Years, however, remained behind, standing amidst the ruins of the courtyard.

The leading Third Year clenched his fists, his jaw tight. He couldn't afford to waste even a single minute standing around like a statue—not with the courtyard in shambles and dawn only hours away.

"Hey! Take him to the infirmary and get back here fast," he ordered, pointing to his friend—the one still lying on the ground, legs broken and face twisted in pain.

The command snapped the others from their daze. A few of the Third Years, spotting an opportunity, tried to quietly slip away toward their rooms, hoping to avoid the grueling labor ahead.

But they didn't get the chance to far.

Whether held in place by subtle intimidation, or simply the unspoken weight of the Crown Prince's name, none could leave.

Not without consequence.

With a silent understanding, the remaining Third Years began organizing into teams.

Orders were given with quick nods and gestures.

Some focused on repairing the shattered stone tiles, others began to buying materials for repair, more third year earth mages were called from the dorms and etc.

The night sky loomed above them, stars faint and cold. Under its quiet gaze, the Third Years toiled in silence—bruised pride, strained muscles, and all.

This was their responsibility.

And they had until morning.