She reached out and gently rubbed that fluffy head.
“Mm.”
Outside the window, phoenix tree leaves were blown off by the wind, spinning in the air.
Autumn was deepening, but the sunlight was still warm.
Irina began to move.
It was a perfectly ordinary morning when Freya and Lyra walked into the canteen and saw the walls plastered with light pink flyers.
The flyers bore the Mutual Aid Society’s emblem—a white flower, and below it a bold line: “The dignity of the commoners shall not be trampled.”
Anke was already waiting there, her expression terrible. She lowered her voice.
“They were pasted up last night. They’re all over the entire academy. Guess what they say?”
Freya picked up a flyer and glanced at it.
It listed the “crimes” of noble students oppressing commoner students in recent years, from verbal insults to magical attacks, described vividly, but without any specific times, places, or parties involved.
The last paragraph was bolded and enlarged: “We can no longer remain silent. Unite, and let those high above hear our voices.”
“What is all this rubbish?”
Lyra leaned in and looked, her red eyes full of confusion.
“None of this ever happened.”
“Whether it happened or not doesn’t matter.”
Anke gave a cold laugh. “What matters is that people believe it.”
In the canteen, students wearing light purple armbands gathered in small groups, whispering about something.
When they saw Freya enter, their gazes all turned toward her—not the previous dodging and avoiding, but a more direct, hostile stare. It was as if they were saying: You are the one we need to deal with.
Lyra frowned and took a half step forward.
Freya grabbed her wrist.
“Eat.”
They sat down and ate as usual.
But the air around them was different. Those whispers were like countless tiny needles stabbing from all directions.
“It’s her… House Dale… noble birth… she must have been part of those things too…”
Lyra’s fork clattered onto the plate.
She turned her head, her red eyes fixed on the speakers at the nearest table.
Those people looked a bit guilty under her gaze, their voices dropped, but they didn’t completely shut up.
“Boss,” Lyra lowered her voice.
“They—”
“Eat.”
Freya’s voice was very calm.
She picked up a piece of vegetable, put it in her mouth, and chewed slowly, her movements as elegant as ever.
Lyra watched her profile, watched those light purple eyes that showed no ripples. She took a deep breath, picked up her fork, and continued eating.
That afternoon, the Mutual Aid Society organized a gathering in the plaza.
Several hundred students gathered, most wearing light purple armbands. Someone stood on the steps giving a speech—not Irina, but a senior male student, his voice loud and passionate.
“We want fairness! We want respect! We want those nobles to know that commoners are not their servants!”
Thunderous applause.
Someone started shouting slogans, the voices growing louder and more synchronized.
“Rise of the commoners! Nobles bow down!”
Freya stood at the library window, looking down at the plaza below. Lyra crouched at her feet, her red eyes watching the dense crowd, her lips pressed into a straight line.
“Boss, that crybaby isn’t here.”
Freya didn’t answer. Of course she had noticed—Irina was not at the gathering, not in the crowd, not even in any conspicuous position.
She was hiding behind the scenes, like a spider spinning its web, watching the prey walk step by step into her trap.
“She will come out,” Freya said softly.
The gathering lasted nearly an hour, then the crowd gradually dispersed. The plaza was left with a mess of flyers and trash. Irina never appeared.
That night, Freya received a letter. No signature, no sender, only a line: “Tomorrow afternoon, training ground. Let’s talk.”
Lyra looked at the letter, small flames burning in her red eyes.
“That crybaby wrote it.”
Freya folded the letter and put it in the drawer.
“I know.”
“Boss, are you going?”
“Yes.”
Lyra stood up.
“I’m going too.”
Freya looked at her, at those red eyes filled with determination and worry.
“Okay.”
The next afternoon, the training ground was empty.
When Freya and Lyra walked in, they saw Irina standing in the center of the field, wearing a light purple dress, her hair loose over her shoulders, looking frail and harmless.
Behind her stood a dozen students wearing light purple armbands, both male and female, all staring expressionlessly at Freya.
“Freya.”
Irina spoke, her voice gentle as if greeting an old friend.
“Thank you for coming.”
Freya stopped a few steps away from her.
“What do you want to say?”
Irina sighed softly.
“Freya, you know a lot has been happening at the academy lately. The conflict between commoner and noble students is deepening. I’m very worried…”
She paused.
“If this continues, something serious will happen.”
Freya said nothing.
“I’ve thought about it for a long time, and I think there’s only one way to calm this storm.”
Irina looked up, her pink eyes full of sincerity.
“You, as a representative of the noble students, should apologize to the commoner students. You don’t need to say anything specific, just express some regret, say a few words like ‘everyone should get along.’ That way, the commoner students’ anger will subside.”
Lyra’s fists clenched suddenly.
“Why should—”
“Lyra.”
Freya held her hand.
She looked at Irina, at those pink eyes full of sincerity.
“Apologize? Why should I apologize?”
Irina’s expression froze for a moment.
“Because… you are the representative of the noble students. Even though you didn’t do those things, your status—”
“My status is not your excuse to use me as a target.”
Freya interrupted her.
“Do those so-called ‘oppression incidents’ have evidence? Witnesses? Times and places?”
She paused.
“Nothing. You just made them up.”
Irina’s expression changed. The students behind her also started whispering among themselves.
“Freya, hearing you say that makes me very sad.”
Irina lowered her head, her voice beginning to tremble.
“I just want everyone to get along…”
“You want the commoner students to hate the noble students.”
Freya’s voice was calm, as if stating a fact.
“Then you stand in the middle, becoming the leader of the commoner students, their spokesperson. Once you have power, you have a voice. When that time comes, whoever you want to bow down will bow down.”
The training ground fell silent. The students wearing armbands looked at each other, and some faces began to show signs of wavering.
Irina stood there, motionless.
The gentleness and frailty on her face faded little by little, revealing what was underneath—not anger, not panic, but a kind of calmness that came from being seen through, almost frank.
“You’re very clever, Freya. But have you considered that clever people often don’t live long?”
The students behind her began to stir. Someone took a step forward, someone clenched their fists.
Lyra stepped in front of Freya, flames burning in her red eyes.
“Who dares to move?”
Her voice was not loud, but it clearly reached everyone’s ears.
“Anyone who moves so much as a finger, I’ll put them in bed for a month.”
No one moved.
Those students looked at the white-haired girl, at her red eyes cold as ice, and suddenly remembered the rumors about her—how she alone had beaten Serar until his face was a bloody mess.
Someone took a step back.
Another person stepped back.
Irina watched her own ranks beginning to waver, her fingers slowly tightening.
“Irina,”
Freya’s voice came from behind Lyra.
“Your charm magic has been broken. Your book was burned. Your mana is damaged. What else do you have?”
Irina’s expression finally changed completely.
She looked at Freya, at those calm light purple eyes, at those eyes that seemed to see through everything.
She suddenly smiled, a smile so cold, cold like frost on a winter night.
“Freya, you won’t win every time.”
She turned and walked toward the door.
The students wearing armbands hesitated for a moment; some followed her, some stayed where they were.
The training ground fell quiet. Lyra turned around and looked at Freya.
“Boss, are you okay?”
Freya shook her head.
“Let’s go.”
They walked out of the training ground; the sunlight was dazzling. In the distance, Irina’s figure had already disappeared at the end of the corridor.
Those who had once followed her were scattered on the road in twos and threes, some with heads lowered, some looking around, like a flock of sheep that had lost its shepherd.
“Boss,” Lyra suddenly spoke.
“Will that crybaby cause more trouble?”
Freya was silent for a moment.
“Yes.”
“Then what do we do?”
Freya looked at the distant sky shining brightly in the sunlight.
“Wait. The more anxious she gets, the more she’ll make mistakes.”
After the gathering, Irina disappeared for three days.
Not really disappeared—her textbooks were still on her desk, her dormitory light stayed on until late at night, and occasionally someone saw her sitting alone in a corner of the canteen, the food in front of her untouched.
But her presence suddenly became very faint, faint like a drop of ink falling into the sea, instantly diluted and gone without a trace.
Those who had once followed her began to feel lost.
The Mutual Aid Society’s activities stopped; people still wore the light purple armbands, but no one organized gatherings, distributed flyers, or shouted slogans.
Some came to Irina, asking what to do next.
She just shook her head gently, showing a tired but gentle smile.
“Let me think.”
What was she thinking? No one knew.
Freya knew.
She was waiting.
Waiting for the right moment, waiting for an opportunity that could turn the tables.
Like a wounded beast, hiding in the dark and licking its wounds; once the wounds heal, she will pounce again. And this time, she won’t miss.
“Boss, I’ve polished that stone.”
Lyra pulled a thumb-sized stone from her pocket. The gray outer shell had been ground away, revealing a crystalline texture inside.
It was a color Freya had never seen before—