The First Rule

It may seem trivial, but you see, I took the liberty of acquiring a notebook for myself.

When I visited the Academy's library in the morning, just before the 'Theory of Magic' classes commenced, I approached Mrs. Seucon, the responsible-person of the place, and made a request for one.

She inquired about the precise reason I needed a "notebook" for myself.

We, cadets, were expected to have our own materials and, if not, to procure them with our own money.

When I say "money," I'm talking about the points system; just to clarify things.

And, oh, what a wonder, it seemed that, just like in my previous life, I was poor.

Extremely f*cking poor, to be precise.

I'm referring to my personal points balance, of course—I could not see the rest as my shared account with the Tortoise House had been temporarily blocked due to my "blunders" in Professor Buscost's classes.

Moreover, from the other documents given to me, other teachers had also made complaints about me.

Their motives were as banal as they could be, but it wasn't like I could argue back, given my situation.

''You're certainly in a critical state. Mr. Frontera,'' was the first thing the employees told me.

It made sense though.

My points were in a dire situation that would bring financial troubles even to my future generations if I decided to have children. When I inquired at the office last night, I was informed that they were in the negatives.

It would have been better if they were merely at zero, to be honest.

Nevertheless, according to the kind woman who attended to me, it was a staggering -30 points, putting me on the brink of expulsion for lack of merit.

With a smile, she tried to offer her kindness to me, telling that it was a recurring case that had been recorded several times before; but when I looked into it, I realized it hadn't happened in years.

So, congratulations to me. I had accomplished an astounding feat without help: earning the title of "biggest debtor of the year."

Fortunately, Seucon was susceptible to flattery. That was something I vividly remembered from the novel.

She was solitary, because the library received few visitors, as the students were not particularly interested in a place of books amidst a Battle Academy where soldiers were being trained.

All it took was a little bit of fawning allied to a few old tricks, like claiming I would "dedicate myself more to my studies," and voilà! She handed me a notebook.

Yeah, yeah; it was a rather rudimentary one, with a leather cover that was completely covered in dust and slightly torn on the inside.

But it served my purpose well enough.

The reason I embarked on this quest for a tattered object was clear: I needed to jot down important things.

The information from the novel was of utmost importance to me if I wanted to survive the looming trials ticking away on the clock and uncover the reason for my presence here.

However, those details would soon begin to fade away.

Whether it was due to my "elderly consciousness" or the fact that I had been transported to this world, they were already becoming hazy, much like the rest of my life.

As a simple human, my memory was not eternal. 

While the System offered a lot of skills in the [Skill Learning] tab to enhance the user's memory capacity, I lacked the necessary points to acquire them. These skills were quite costly, given their remarkable effects.

And once again, I found myself without any form of "currency." It was a somber state of affairs.

"You hear the latest? I heard that..."

"The professor made it clear that..."

"Next week's schedule includes..."

A cacophony of animated chatter surrounded me, but I paid it no heed. It held no relevance to me.

So, during that break between classes, I made my way to the Academy's bustling public cafeteria.

There, a diverse mix of students, ranging from wide-eyed first-years to seasoned veterans from the fourth-year, congregated to engage in lighthearted banter, revelry, and, of course, satiate their appetites.

As I strolled through the bustling tables, I cast a swift glance over the array of dishes. Some boasted extravagant culinary creations, while others offered simpler fare.

The echoes of social strata and economic divisions mirrored those of Earth. People indulged themselves, even with meager portions.

Yet, I felt no hunger within me, allowing me the opportunity to settle at a modest table amidst the grandeur of the cafeteria space.

After surveying every nook and cranny, I settled on the least desirable location, according to everyone else's standards.

This particular spot went unnoticed, providing me with the perfect stability. It was tucked away in a corner, where I rested my elbows on the table, propping my head with my undeveloped forearms to prevent it from sinking a few inches downward.

Sadly, before I could lose myself in my own thoughts, Fryz Madrigal burst through the cafeteria gates, that separated it from the academy's grand corridor.

"Killian! You accursed swordsman! Face me in combat!" she proclaimed the moment her feet touched the polished tiles.

Killian Lyurei, a strikingly handsome young man with golden hair, the protagonist of this novel, sat on the opposite side of the cafeteria.

I deliberately chose a distant spot to observe him without any interruptions and take notes. It seems my efforts were in vain.

"Hmm...?"

He paused, removing a tuna sandwich from his mouth, and raised his slender eyebrows in a questioning manner at Fryz, as if to say, 'Again?'

"Well...?" Fryz inquired, maintaining her stance.

The boy that looked at her, the protagonist of this world—a secret knowledge that only I possessed—gave her a thorough once-over.

It wasn't a malicious gaze; he simply seemed weary.

"Do you seriously want to fight?" Killian finally spoke, displaying his impatience. "Isn't it getting tiresome? This is already the tenth time today," he added.

"It doesn't matter! Let's fight!" she insisted, her demeanor resembling that of a child pleading for a toy.

He let out a sigh, and a certain tension filled the cafeteria; even the workers, the caretaker, and the middle-aged men responsible for selling the delicacies and dishes there, paused to witness the unfolding scene.

On one side stood the irritable and talented "super genius" of the Madrigal family, Fryz Madrigal.

On the other side stood the imposing and charismatic, unrivaled number one of the first-year students: Killian Lyurei.

Killian furrowed his brow slightly, his eyes swirling as if lost in thought. The room fell silent as everyone held their breath.

They mistook the situation for a provocation, but I understood what was truly happening: Killian was simply a complete scatterbrain. He never harbored any ill intentions, and he never would.

Knowing his kind-hearted nature, molded by my brother to be extremely accommodating and caring towards others, Killian Lyurei possessed more than just kindness.

He had an unparalleled power that no one else in this world possessed: the System.

An almost infinite capacity for evolution bestowed upon him by dimensional entities that granted him a powerful "Ascension."

I can still picture my brother enthusiastically waving his small, adorable hands as he explained the concept, as if it were a genre-defining revolution.

Despite the abundance of similar stories available online, I chose not to dampen his excitement and allowed his narrative to flow.

And, well... If David were alive to hear it, I'm sure he would have been overcome with joy to know that now, in addition to Killian, there was another bearer of the System—me.

"Very well," the boy said, a smile playing on his lips. "I agree to your mad requests. Let's duel."

"Great! Fame Obbfonteri Training Grounds, south of the Academy. Right now. I'll guide you."

"Let's go," he replied, the smile still lingering on his face.

The surrounding crowd, both girls and boys, erupted in applause, brimming with excitement.

I remained silent, a mere shadow in the background. Meanwhile, with a disapproving click of her tongue, Fryz expressed her annoyance at Killian's contagious joy that seemed to permeate the atmosphere.

Turning theirs backs, they made their way towards the training grounds, accompanied by a throng of students eager to witness the impending clash.

Petrified, I didn't join them as I remembered this part of the novel.

It was even more astonishing that Regulus Frontera wasn't mentioned at all in this particular section of the story, and yet here I ('he') was.

And, also, there we were, standing out (even if badly) during class.

In the novel, Killian effortlessly emerged as the victorious one at the end of the duel. A humiliating defeat for the Ice Queen, Fryz.

It was one of the many defeats that would shape the dark path she would tread from that point forward.

"But could I prevent it from happening?" I pondered to myself. "Perhaps..."

Maybe I was thinking too ambitiously, considering my lack of notable accomplishments since I arrived. I didn't need to worry so much about these people.

The sounds of magic colliding with the surroundings, reminiscent of bombs falling from the sky during war, caught my attention as they echoed through the long corridor.

The training grounds seemed to beckon me.

It felt as though my time in the army was urging me onward. Every bone in my body seemed to groan, resonating with a message: "Go."

"Let's witness the protagonist in action then," I said, even though I already knew the final outcome.

Alright. It's time to see a real magical duel.

Gripping the notebook and pen tightly in my hands, I jotted down "First rule" and continued with "Learn from others' mistakes," as I finally took a few steps away from the crowd's dwindling presence.

*****

''Polluc!''

A powerful gust of wind, akin to a category three hurricane, strikes the opposite side of the arena, narrowly missing Killian as he deftly dodges at the last moment.

We, the spectators—too numerous to count—remained protected by an invisible barrier. Hence, instead of worry, expressions of pure astonishment and awe grace people' faces.

Icicle stalactites, sharp as knives, materialized from the water particles in the air and hurtled towards Killian with near-supersonic speed.

Once again, his graceful steps guided him effortlessly between each projectile, as if he possessed an innate understanding of their trajectories.

And indeed, he did.

Through the System's gift of the ability known as 'Eagle Eyes,' Killian had the uncanny ability to anticipate not only his opponents' movements but also their use of abilities.

It's safe to say he could peer into the future to some extent, endowing him with an absurd advantage.

In short, hitting him was a near impossibility.

"Cease..." Fryz commanded as she molded larger chunks of ice, now towering above shoulder height, "...your attempts to..." she paused to hurl the frozen projectiles towards Killian, who calmly activated his 'Eagle Eyes' ability, "...evade!"

With fluidity, Killian harnessed the power of the air element—which induced a state of near ecstasy in some of the onlookers enamored by his "perfection"—and effortlessly sidestepped the deadly ice.

Not even a second later, he glided across the arena like a dancer on a stage, his movements leaving my eyes struggling to keep up.

It was good that I had 'Cat's Eyes' -- similar to Killian's 'Eagle Eyes'. Yet, I doubted that anyone without a similar ability could fully comprehend his extraordinary speed and grace.

Closing the distance between them, his eyes gleaming with blue sparks, Killian confronted Fryz.

Reacting slightly slower, she lowered her gaze to meet his; his eyes now as radiant as the azure sky, as retrieved a massive sword from somewhere within the arena.

Unbeknownst to all except myself (and Killiam himself), the blond had just employed the 'inventory' function.

''So it is possible to use it like that. Huh?'' I commented to myself, taking note. ''He's very creative. It was good that I came to watch.''

In one swift, precise motion, matching his imperceptible speed, strands of hair that once rested upon Fryz Madrigal's left shoulder descended slowly to the ground.

Pressed against her neck was the gleaming blade of the sword, its reflective surface mirroring the lethal intensity in Fryz's eyes.

As a warning, with a simple and unassuming gesture, Killian delivered a slight cut to Fryz's skin. Blood poured, little by litle.

She stood frozen, her upper lip trembling as if she yearned to scream something.

The outcome of the battle was clear in that moment.

Fryz raised her hands in surrender. As result, the crowd erupted in cheers for Killian, who turned to the audience, innocently waving.

"He finally used it," remarked a dark-haired boy next to me. "The 'One-Cut Sword.' It's finally in action!" he exclaimed.

"Didn't he use it last semester?" another student countered.

"I heard he used it against Burke Rosenfield from Class 5-A in the first semester," replied the black-haired boy.

Finally, my attention was fully captivated.

"The American girl?" someone else inquired. "My goodness. Killian truly is the future of the kingdom," they added.

Burke Rosenfield.

That name... that cursed name. Why was it mentioned here...

And why so soon?