"Hm? Are you... inviting me?"

Muen's gaze sharpened at the girl's stammering.

That bashful expression.

That halting voice.

Could it be...

But that didn’t make sense. He’d only met Shali twice before.

“D-Don’t get the wrong idea, Muen! I—it’s my father! Yes, my father asked me to invite you to our home!”

Under Muen’s gaze, Shali blushed so hard it looked like she might burst into flames. She scrambled to explain:

"I wrote to my father and told him everything. He just wrote back and scolded me terribly—asked how I could think a few cakes were enough for someone like Muen Campbell!

So he asked me to invite you over to our house. He’s a well-known chef in our region. He wants to prepare a feast as an apology to you."

"I see..."

So it wasn’t from Shali, but from her father.

That made sense. The more life experience one had, the more they cared about status and relationships.

He was probably worried his daughter had offended the son of a duke.

"I appreciate both your and your father’s kindness. But I’m sorry—I already have plans during Open House."

"But... Open House lasts for three days."

"I can’t guarantee I’ll have time. If I say yes and end up canceling on you and your father, wouldn’t that be worse?"

"I... I see."

Shali visibly drooped in disappointment.

"That’s understandable. Someone like Muen must be very busy during Open House."

Why did that sound like she was accusing him of juggling multiple dates?

Muen’s mouth twitched slightly. He offered a few more words of consolation.

"Sorry, Shali. I appreciate the thought, really. But like I said before, I never held that little misunderstanding against you. You can tell your father that—I hope he won’t worry about it."

"That’s not the reason at all..." Shali muttered under her breath.

"Hm? What was that?"

"N-Nothing!"

She shook her head frantically, then suddenly shoved a small piece of paper into Muen’s hand—it looked like she’d written it in advance.

"In that case, if you do have time... please visit."

"Huh? Wait a second—"

"I’ll be waiting for all three days!"

And before Muen could respond, Shali turned and fled in a panic.

...

"Downtown district, Durank Street, No. 15."

Standing in place, Muen looked at the paper in his hand and let out a helpless smile.

"Now this is... going to be tricky."

"Quite youthful of you, Muen Campbell."

A strict, old-fashioned voice cut in suddenly.

An elderly man in formal attire, holding a silver cane, stood not far away. Like an ancient pine, he simply stood and looked at Muen in silence.

"Professor Prang? What are you doing here?" Muen nearly jumped. He hastily stuffed the note into his pocket.

You’re visiting the hospital too?

Professor Prang didn’t answer. He simply turned around and said:

"Come with me."

"Huh? You need something?"

Muen blinked in confusion and opened his mouth to ask—but the professor had already started walking away. Muen had no choice but to jog after him.

...

The Grand Clock Tower.

Underground.

The Silver Well.

With a mechanical ding, the magic-powered lift opened its doors, revealing an unfamiliar underground world.

Beneath his feet, the metal floor gleamed like a mirror, reflecting his image with eerie clarity. Twisting pipelines glowed faintly blue and red, slithering like giant serpents into the corners and then vanishing into darkness.

On either side of the corridor, enormous mechanical constructs stood like giants. The moment Muen stepped down, he felt /N_o_v_e_l_i_g_h_t/ a pair of terrifying gazes sweep across his body.

The sheer pressure made his breath catch. It felt like he had sunk to the deepest ocean floor.

"Don’t be afraid."

Professor Prang placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder.

"Those are the guardians of the Silver Well. As long as you have authorization, they won’t harm you."

The pressure vanished instantly. Muen let out a sharp breath—then, true to form, couldn’t help asking something snarky:

"What if you don’t have authorization?"

"Don’t?"

Prang’s tone lifted slightly—almost mocking.

"Any enemy who dares infiltrate the Silver Well must first bypass the eyes of its guardians. If they fail..."

He cast a glance toward the floor near the lift—at a large, dark red stain that looked like dried blood.

"Those who fail are already dead."

For decades now, that section of floor—where countless powerful invaders were crushed to pulp—had never come clean.

Muen shivered at the image, shrinking his neck. He sped up his pace to follow behind the professor, casting wary glances at the steel giants as he passed.

Their footsteps echoed crisply through the silent corridor, reverberating in haunting layers—like hundreds of unseen hands clapping in rhythm from the darkness.

Muen rubbed his arms, wanting to spark up conversation to chase off the chill. But with the stiff, severe Professor Prang in front of him, he had no idea what to say.

"Your father was my student too," Prang suddenly said.

"Huh?"

Muen blinked, then quickly understood.

"My father... studied at Saint Maria Academy too?"

"Since the Academy was founded, every heir of the Campbell family has studied here."

Prang paused for a beat, then added:

"The Campbells were one of the Academy’s founders. To this day, they remain one of its largest shareholders, holding sway over certain institutional decisions."

"I didn’t even know... the Campbells were shareholders," Muen said, amazed.

"Don’t overthink it."

Prang’s voice turned cold again.

"According to the agreement, only the Duke of Campbell has the authority to interfere in Academy affairs. So whether it was your father then, or you now, you're just another student. No one here has the right to meddle."

"I had no such thoughts."

Muen scratched his head innocently.

Meddling with the Academy could easily end with Prang slapping him so hard he’d leave a dent in the wall.

He wasn’t the kind of pampered noble who poured champagne into swimming pools or used ballroom parties as excuses to ogle girls' legs under white dresses.

He preferred black stockings.

"Then what was my father like when he studied here?" Muen asked.

"Your father..."

Prang paused, seemingly lost in a memory.

His voice softened—just slightly—with nostalgia.

"Back then, Lorne Campbell was exactly what his current title implies."

"Title?"

Muen thought for a moment. "The Lion King?"

"That’s right. The Lion King—the leader of the pride."

A gleam appeared in the professor’s aged eyes.

"From the moment he entered the Academy, he stood tall like a lion above the beasts—radiant, dazzling.

Humble, brave, diligent, devoted—he embodied every noble virtue like a set of medals proudly displayed on his chest. Many students admired his character and followed him sincerely. And with their support, he advanced ceaselessly.

What he built during those years became the foundation that allowed him to raise the Campbell banner after the chaos—after the incident where your grandfather perished.

He was a man who, at first glance, made everyone think: This is a Campbell worthy of the name.

That’s why..."

Prang turned to look at Muen, his expression conflicted.

"Why, when I saw you for the first time last year, I was so... disappointed."