Alma never answered my question.
One of the upperclassmen called out to her, and she turned. I waved her off—go ahead, I was leaving anyway.
After clearing my tray, I was finally alone.
I tried to walk calmly toward the exit, even though every instinct told me to hurry.
"Hey, Holivan."
A mocking voice came from somewhere above.
It took me a second to realize they were talking to me.
"What, hit your head so hard you lost your hearing too?"
I looked up.
Two young men were coming down from the elite section.
"If you don't need anything, I'm leaving," I said evenly, already turning away.
One of them grabbed my wrist.
I looked at him—cold, dismissive.
"I've been waiting a long time for a chance to put you in your place," the aristocrat said, tightening his grip.
"I'm not in the mood to talk," I replied through clenched teeth.
It hurt.
"Holivan, who would've thought you'd fall this low?" he sneered. "My father said you disappeared. Search teams couldn't find you anywhere."
"So what—did someone hate you enough to dump you here with the trash?"
"Trash?" I echoed, feigning surprise. "No, I just got lucky I wasn't accepted here… with the trash."
"What exactly are you implying?" the second one snapped.
"Oh, sorry," I said lightly. "Maybe that was too much for you to process all at once."
"I came here by choice. Because being around the gifted is far more interesting than dealing with arrogant snobs who can't even dress themselves."
"You bastard—"
The one holding me raised his free hand.
I tensed.
Shut my eyes.
Braced for the slap—
—but it never came.
I opened my eyes.
A strong, tanned hand had caught his wrist mid-swing.
"You—who the hell are you?" the aristocrat snapped.
"First-year, gifted division," Robert said calmly. "Also planning to be a model student. That's why I stayed for lunch—reading the rules very carefully."
"If you read them, then let go and apologize, trash!"
"Apologize?" Robert tilted his head. "Let me think… Physical violence outside a duel leads to punishment."
"What was next…?"
"Oh, right. Violence is only allowed for defense."
"Something like that, yeah."
"Exactly, you idiot!" the aristocrat snapped. "You grabbed me—that's an attack! I didn't touch you! And those rules are for people like you!"
"Really?" Robert said mildly. "As far as I know, the rules are split into three sections."
"General rules. Gifted division rules. Elite division rules."
"And what I just quoted? That's from the general section."
"You still attacked me!" the aristocrat barked. "You broke the rule!"
His gaze flicked to me.
I snapped out of it.
"You squeezed my wrist," I said, lifting my chin. "I'm pretty sure it'll leave a mark."
"The rules say violence is allowed for defense. Not just self-defense."
"He helped me. That's intervention. Perfectly valid."
I added coldly:
"Your Highness."
"You realize you're making a very dangerous enemy?" the aristocrat said, turning to Robert. "All I have to do is file a complaint—"
"To express disfavor," I cut in, recalling one of the few elite rules I remembered, "you need proof. Bodily memory."
"I don't know exactly what that is, but I doubt it's called 'memory' for no reason."
"Enough."
A calm voice cut through the tension.
All the upperclassmen had been in uniform since the ceremony.
At the top of the stairs stood a young man in a crisp white shirt without a jacket, straight white trousers, and polished shoes.
Around him stood several students—each wearing four ribbons.
White hair with a faint silver sheen.
Long bangs swept carelessly back.
Relaxed posture—yet unmistakably superior.
His blue eyes swept over us.
Then stopped on me.
Our gazes met.
I couldn't keep eye contact.
I looked away.
"Korhenger," he said coolly, "let go of the first-year."
I caught it—
fear.
Just for a moment.
The aristocrat released me, shoving me aside in disgust.
"If you haven't learned the rules yet, I suggest you do so before classes begin," the white-haired student continued calmly.
"Only the best are admitted here. Don't disgrace your family name."
He descended the stairs.
His group followed in silence.
He stopped in front of me.
Tall.
Almost as tall as Andrew.
Robert tensed beside me.
I lifted my head—and this time forced myself not to look away.
"Alan Holivan," he said thoughtfully. "I heard the second son wasn't accepted into the academy."
"But judging by your presence here… that rumor was false."
"Yes," I replied simply.
"I hope you're not holding a grudge against Milon," he added. "He was… a bit overwhelmed seeing his former classmate in such unusual circumstances."
I said nothing.
More people were gathering.
Watching.
Whispering.
I just wanted to get out of there.
"We didn't have the chance to meet properly before," he continued. "During my visit to the Holivan estate, you had already been reported missing."
"My name is Clyde Silius."
Silius.
The name felt familiar.
But I couldn't place it.
Silence stretched.
I had to say something.
"Alan Holivan," I said. "Nice to meet you, Clyde… or should I call you Lord Silius?"
The corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile.
"Call me whatever you prefer," he said.
"I hope we'll have the chance to talk soon. I'm curious how all the… chaos surrounding you led to this outcome."
His gaze flicked briefly to Robert.
Only after Clyde and his group left—with the two aristocrats trailing behind—did the tension ease.
"Why did you help me?" I asked, still watching them go.
"I just wanted to check if it's true aristocrats can't dress themselves," Robert snorted.
I blinked.
"You're so scrawny you might've dropped dead from that slap," he added with a shrug. "And then I'd never get my answer."
The tension snapped.
I couldn't help it—I started laughing.
When I finally calmed down, I shook my head.
"I can dress myself."
"We'll see," he said, already heading back toward the cafeteria.