"I surrender."
How embarrassing, thought Charles Barn as the words left his mouth.
He lay crumpled on the cold, rune-carved tiles of a high school hallway—though it looked nothing like any school he'd ever known. Arcane glyphs pulsed faintly beneath the floor, and crystalline lanterns floated overhead, casting shimmering light across the walls. Around him, students in strange uniforms stared, wide-eyed. Fights weren't uncommon here, but surrender? That was unheard of.
"What did you say?" Oscar growled, his fists still glowing faintly with residual mana.
"I said I surrender," Charles repeated, his voice trembling.
"What do you mean, surrender?"
"You win. I don't want to fight anymore."
The silence that followed was more suffocating than the pain in his ribs.
What no one knew—not Oscar, not the onlookers—was that Charles had no memory of this world or the life he was supposed to have lived.
This has to be a dream, he thought. A cruel, vivid dream.
But the sharp sting of blood on his tongue and the burn in his muscles told him otherwise.
He scanned the hall. He didn't know these people. The last memory he had—clear as day—was of standing victorious, not broken. His fists had done the damage then. Now, he was the one crushed.
"That's enough! Fights are forbidden during aura training!"
A deep voice rang out. The crowd parted as a man in a dark cloak strode forward. His eyes lingered on Charles with quiet pity.
You poor thing... if only your House hadn't fallen, the man thought.
"Robert, get yourself to a healer."
Robert? My name's not—
But as the name echoed in his head, something clicked. Or is it?
A sharp pain lanced through his skull. His vision warped. Before he could cry out, something crashed in front of him—no, someone. A cloaked figure descended from the air, boots cracking the tile.
Wait… he was flying?
That was Charles's final thought before darkness claimed him.