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

Following behind Adlet, the rest of the students from both the Aether and Wyrd Classes began to move, one group after another like dominos tipping into place.

At first, a few took hesitant steps, unsure whether to commit, but when they saw that someone—especially someone as bold as Adlet—had already reached the center without hesitation, the decision became easier.

Within moments, the field began to fill with movement.

Once the bodies had clustered into the designated space, Robert's voice boomed again, sharper this time and edged with urgency.

"Now, everyone line up in rows of five! Maintain one full arm's distance from each other—no excuses!" he barked, his eyes scanning the crowd like a hawk seeking the first sign of laziness.

"Be quick about it! The instructor is on the way, and anyone who's not in proper formation by the time they arrive will face punishment!"

He didn't need to name the punishment.

The tone was enough.

The field became a frenzy of quick adjustments.

Students glanced side to side, stepping forward or back, extending their arms like measuring sticks to ensure the right distance.

But despite the collective effort to appear organized, one thing stood out immediately—clear as a drawn line in the dirt: not a single row had both Aether and Wyrd students standing together.

Though they had all followed the same order and gathered in the same space, the two classes instinctively formed separate lines.

There was no mingling, no accidental shuffling between groups.

Even without being told, the students had drawn invisible walls between each other, creating a divide that might as well have been painted across the grass.

Though the class was meant to be combined. It was a gathering in name only.

The unity was an illusion.

A boundary remained—silent but absolute.

As the students stood at attention on the training field. All eyes were on Robert, waiting for the next instruction to bark from his lips.

But then—without warning, without even a whisper of sound—another figure appeared beside him.

One moment, Robert stood alone; the next, a presence materialized at his side with such silent swiftness that not a single student could say when she'd arrived.

There had been no footsteps. No shifting of grass.

One blink, and she was there.

"I will not be wasting time on introduction," the newcomer said, her voice low and commanding, yet heavy.

"My name is Griselda. And in my class, you will address me only by one title. Just 'Instructor.' Am I clear?"

Silence.

Not a single voice responded.

Not out of defiance—but hesitation.

Confusion. Surprise.

Because standing before them was not just any teacher, but a beastkin—a beastman woman with an aura that made even the more prideful students straighten their backs involuntarily.

Her midnight-black hair flowed like silk down to her back, contrasting starkly against the pale scars that marred her exposed upper skin.

Two feline-like ears twitched atop her head, peeking through the veil of her hair.

An eyepatch covered her left eye, a worn leather strap stretched tightly across her brow.

She wore no frills or ornamentation.

A sleek black blouse that clung to her athletic frame, tucked into matching black trousers that allowed for swift, lethal movement.

Draped over her shoulders was a black coat, unbuttoned and hanging like the wings of a silent predator.

Her posture was relaxed, but her body was clearly honed—sculpted by years of discipline and battle.

Ashok glanced from the corner of his eyes and noticed the familiar look creeping into the faces of many students from both the Aether and Wyrd classes.

Their gazes were directed at the instructor—Griselda, a beastkin—and though no one dared to voice it aloud, the disgust in their eyes was hard to miss.

'As expected from people raised in this damned empire, Their brains have regressed to the point of rotting so much they can't even recognize beauty when it's in front of them.'

For Ashok, unlike the self-righteous brats clinging to their protagonist destinies, Griselda checked all the boxes.

A mature beauty, her figure finely sculpted through years of training and hardship.

She stood with scars that spoke of survival, not shame—proof she had lived through battle rather than watched from behind a noble veil. Finally that perfect tanned skin.

He didn't care about those scars.

In this world, peace was a luxury no one could afford.

From the weakest mage to the mightiest warrior, anyone worth their salt bore the mark of combat.

Even the Strongest Ascended, the Sword Emperor wasn't exempt—he too carried wounds etched deep into his skin.

As for Griselda, it didn't take her long to notice the disdainful stares cast her way.

She had seen them before—far too many times to be affected.

With over a decade of experience teaching within the Academy, she knew exactly how to handle these high-nosed aristocrats.

The contempt no longer bit her.

"AM I CLEAR?" Griselda's voice thundered across the training field like a war drum.

Her words didn't merely echo—they tore through the air, amplified by the sharp edge of her aura.

The sheer force of her voice caused a subtle shockwave that rolled outward in all directions, disturbing the air and ruffling clothes.

Several students stumbled back a step, caught off guard as a sharp ringing buzzed in their ears.

Some winced, shoulders twitching.

"Y-Yes, Instructor," came the response, slightly fractured, spoken in unison but tinged with hesitation.

It was the tone of students unsure whether that would be enough.

"I CAN'T HEAR YOU WEAKLINGS! LOUDER!" Griselda roared again, her voice cracking through their skulls like a lightning strike.

There was no smile, no grin, no warmth in her eyes—only the iron command of someone who expected to be obeyed without question.

This time, the answer was louder.

Fear had pushed past confusion.

"YES! INSTRUCTOR!!" shouted every student on the field, the collective yell shaking the ground with its echo.

Griselda gave a single approving nod, her expression still firm and unreadable. "Good. Now—you'll start by wearing what's placed in front of you."

With that, she raised a single finger-

From her storage ring, dozens—of small metallic objects shot into the sky, glinting like a shower of silver stars before arcing downward in synchronized descent.

Each piece dropped exactly where it was intended to, settling neatly on the ground just inches from each student's feet.

Ashok looked down without surprise.

Lying directly in front of him was a single metal band—smooth, polished. He recognized it immediately.

Without waiting or questioning like the others, he reached down and slipped it over his wrist.

The moment the cool metal touched his skin, the band responded—shrinking slightly until it fit snugly against his wrist, not loose enough to slip off, not tight enough to cut circulation.

A faint click echoed from within the band's inner casing.

And then, with a gentle pulse, a thin blue line lit up around its center, glowing faintly as it circled his wrist like a ring of magical energy.

'Can't feel any difference', Ashok thought as he flexed his wrist, his fingers curling and uncurling in idle rhythm while he examined the metal band glowing softly around his arm.

There was no pain, no sudden drop in energy, no dizziness in his head. Everything felt perfectly normal to him.

Too normal.

But as he slowly looked around, scanning the field with a calm gaze, the contrast became evident.

Many students were visibly struggling.

Some clutched at their chests, pale and short of breath, as if an unseen weight had suddenly been placed atop their lungs.

A few leaned slightly forward, their posture sagging, faces turning ashen as though suffering from nausea.

Others had their hands clenched into fists or pressed tightly to their temples, like they were trying to steady their balance or fight off a building headache.

And this wasn't exclusive to the nameless background students.

Even the so-called "Main Characters" weren't spared. Leon, stood with his brow furrowed, taking in measured, shallow breaths.

Elara's usually proud posture had slackened ever so slightly, her arms tightened against her body.

Gideon was visibly gritting his teeth.

The rest of the Aether Class showed similar symptoms, trying hard to mask the discomfort, but their bodies betrayed them.

At the center of it all, Griselda watched the chaos unfold with the same expression one might wear when watching weeds wilt under sunlight. Her eyes swept across the crowd and then, with a smirk tugging at the corner of her lips, she spoke:

"What beautiful expressions from weaklings."

Her voice held no malice—just cold amusement, the kind born from experience watching arrogance collapse.

She continued, arms loosely crossed as she addressed the group:

"As you may have already guessed, those bands around your arms are called Energy Shackles. A lovely little tool. The use is simple it blocks the usage of Mana or Aura ."

That was the true cause behind the students' dizziness, the breathlessness, the nausea. It wasn't because of fatigue—it was because a part of them had suddenly gone silent because the Energy Shackles did not simply blocked Mana or Aura, it pretty simply cut the connection all together.

Unlike Ashok—who couldn't sense mana unless he poured every ounce of focus into it—most of the other students had long grown accustomed to the natural flow of energy in and around them.

For Ashok, mana was something still distant.

But for the majority of students standing in the training field, mana and aura were second nature—an ever-present awareness that followed them like a heartbeat.

Even if they weren't trained enough to distinguish specific elemental energies—like fire, wind, or earth—or identify the precise movements of magical currents, nearly every student with a functioning aura or mana core could still sense something.

A hum beneath their skin, the sensation of mana around them.

From the moment they awakened, that sensation had been with most of them.

As the days turned to months and years, this awareness became habitual, something they no longer had to think about.

It became reflexive—automatic—woven into their lives as seamlessly as sight or sound. For many, it had become as subconscious as breathing.

But now… with the Energy Shackles clasped around their wrists, all of it was gone.

Not dulled.

Not suppressed.

Gone.

The internal mana didn't respond.

The sensation of external energy—the comforting blanket of the world's ambient mana—was completely cut off.

It was like suddenly thrusted into a world where breathing wasn't allowed.

The shock was immediate and suffocating.

Like waking up deaf, or blind.