The silence was suffocating. Ethan couldn't breathe. Couldn't move. Couldn't even think.
Lucien's gaze had sharpened to something cold and merciless, the kind of look you gave someone right before you took everything from them.
"Wycliffe?" Lucien repeated, his voice quiet and clipped. Like he was forcing the word through clenched teeth. "So you're one of them."
The accusation hit Ethan like a punch to the chest. He wanted to speak, to say something that would make the rage in Lucien's eyes disappear, but his mouth wouldn't cooperate.
His brain was screaming at him to run, to apologize, to say something—anything—that would convince Lucien not to kill him right here and now. But all he could do was stand there, his entire body frozen under the weight of Lucien's stare.
This was bad. Worse than bad. This was every worst-case scenario he'd ever imagined rolled into one.
"Guess that explains a lot," Lucien said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous tone. "The arrogance. The way you were throwing spells around like you had something to prove. It all makes sense now."
Ethan tried to swallow, but his throat felt like sandpaper. "I-I... It's not... I mean..."
The words tumbled out of him like broken glass. There was no way he could explain himself. Not when Lucien was looking at him like he was nothing more than a bug waiting to be crushed.
His mind reeled, memories crashing over him in a chaotic flood.
He remembered the story he'd spent years building. The tragic backstory he'd crafted for Lucien Ashford. A broken childhood. A family that had once been prosperous, respected—until the Wycliffe family tore it all apart.
It was supposed to be a tale of betrayal, survival, and revenge. One of Lucien's ancestors had ruthlessly ruined his parents' lives, destroying their reputation, seizing their assets, and leaving them to rot at the bottom of society.
Ethan had written it all. The cruel downfall, the years of poverty and desperation, Lucien's parents dying of illness and starvation while the nobles who caused their suffering thrived above them.
It was meant to be a powerful motivation. A burning desire to crush the ones who had destroyed him, and to rise above everything the world had thrown at him.
But the story was never supposed to stay that way.
The duel during the entrance exams was supposed to be the trigger. The moment when Lucien's hatred boiled over and he lost control. It was meant to be a tragic accident—something that would haunt him and push him toward growth. To learn that pure rage and revenge would only consume him.
Lucien was supposed to struggle with his anger. To face the darkness within himself and eventually learn to forgive the Wycliffe family, or at least let go of his grudge to become a better person.
But that was in the novel.
A carefully structured story where everything happened at the right time and place. Where Ethan had control over what happened next. Where Darius's death was meant to be a mistake, witnessed by others, forcing Lucien to face his own faults and grow from the experience.
But right now, they were alone.
No witnesses. No safety net. Nothing to stop Lucien from unleashing all of that rage right here, right now.
Ethan's breath came in shallow, ragged gasps. His mind spun with panic, desperately trying to find a way out of this.
"L-look, I... I didn't do anything to you," Ethan stammered, his voice shaking. "Whatever you think I did, I—"
"Save it," Lucien snapped, his tone as cold as ice. "You think I don't know what your family did?"
Ethan flinched, his pulse roaring in his ears.
"I've seen it. The people destroyed by your precious family's greed. The lives ruined while you all sit in your fancy estates, pretending you're above everyone else." Lucien's fists clenched, his shoulders tense like he was seconds away from lunging at him.
Ethan's stomach twisted into knots. This was bad. This was so much worse than bad.
"Whatever happened... I-I swear I didn't have anything to do with it," Ethan said, his voice breaking. "I-I'm not even... I wasn't..."
He couldn't even get the words out. How the hell was he supposed to explain that he wasn't really Darius Wycliffe? That he was just some random guy who'd been shoved into this messed-up world with nothing but half-baked memories and a talent for writing stories that got him into this situation in the first place?
And worse than that, how was he supposed to convince Lucien not to tear him apart when the guy's hatred was practically radiating off him like a physical force?
"Doesn't matter," Lucien said, his voice low and almost trembling with rage. "You carry the name. That's enough."
Ethan's legs felt like jelly. His entire body was shaking, his fingers twitching uselessly at his sides. The temperature in the room felt like it had dropped ten degrees.
He was going to die. Right here. Right now. All because of a name.
No. Not just a name.
A curse. One he'd brought upon himself by creating this world, these characters, and giving them all the reasons they needed to hate him.
And the worst part? He couldn't even blame Lucien for it.
He'd written this story. He'd created this hatred.
And now, he was about to get destroyed by it.
Ethan's mind raced, his heartbeat pounding like a drum in his chest. Every instinct screamed at him to run, to hide, to do anything except stand there like an idiot while Lucien glared at him with murder in his eyes.
But his legs wouldn't move. His body was frozen in place, locked up by fear.
"Why do you all act like the world owes you everything?" Lucien's voice was low, his tone trembling with a fury that barely kept itself in check. "Your family destroys lives and just expects everyone to bow to them like they're gods. And you—"
His eyes narrowed, pure contempt seeping into his voice. "You just waltz into this academy like you own the place. Like you're entitled to everything handed to you on a silver platter."
Ethan's throat went dry. "I-I'm not—"
"Save your excuses."
The air in the room thickened, and Ethan's breath hitched as the mana in the atmosphere suddenly grew heavier, colder. He could feel it—like a static charge building up before a lightning strike.
This wasn't how it was supposed to happen. In the story, Lucien didn't attack him on purpose. It was a mistake made in the heat of the duel, something that would haunt him afterward.
But right now, Lucien wasn't making a mistake.
He was doing this on purpose.
Lucien's eyes flashed with murderous intent, his fingers twitching as he gathered mana into his palm. The air around him shimmered with heat, the beginnings of a spell forming right in front of Ethan's eyes.
"Maybe if I destroy you here, your family will finally feel the pain they've caused everyone else."
Ethan's entire body seized up. His mind screamed at him to dodge, to raise a defense, to do anything.
But the fireball forming in Lucien's hand wasn't like the ones he'd shown earlier. This one was massive, nearly the size of a boulder, its edges crackling with wild, unstable heat.
Ethan could feel the scorching intensity even from several feet away. His skin prickled with pain just from the radiant heat.
"L-Lucien, wait! I-I didn't—"
Too late.
The Fireball roared to life as Lucien hurled it forward with a force that sent a shockwave through the air. The sheer heat of it was enough to make Ethan's eyes burn. And it was coming straight for him.
His mind went blank. His muscles locked up. All he could do was stare at the oncoming death and think, Is this really how I die?
"Gale Howl!"
The command was like thunder cracking through the air. Immediate. Overwhelming.
A howling wind exploded between them, a force so precise and powerful that it didn't just snuff out the Fireball—it ripped it apart, scattering the flames into harmless embers before they even had a chance to hit Ethan.
The sudden pressure of the wind was immense, like standing in the presence of a force of nature. It wasn't painful, but it was terrifying. The air itself felt like it was trembling with raw power.
Ethan stumbled backward, his legs giving out as he collapsed against the wall, his chest heaving with shallow, panicked breaths.
The world swam around him, the adrenaline surging through his veins making his hands tremble uncontrollably. His brain struggled to catch up with what just happened.
The wind died down, leaving only a heavy, unsettling silence in its wake. And standing at the entrance of the training room, his expression dark and furious, was Professor Ignatius.
The man looked nothing like the laid-back, casual instructor Ethan had seen during the previous lesson. His usual easygoing demeanor was gone, replaced by a towering presence that seemed to swallow the room's very air.
"Would one of you care to explain," Ignatius said, his voice sharp as a blade, "why I just sensed a murderous amount of mana being thrown around?"
Ethan couldn't respond. His body was still trying to remember how to breathe. His limbs felt like lead, his thoughts shattered and strewn across the floor.
He glanced toward Lucien and nearly choked on his own breath.
The calm confidence that usually surrounded Lucien was nowhere to be seen. His shoulders were hunched, his fists trembling, eyes wide with a mixture of rage, confusion, and something that looked dangerously close to regret.
Lucien's gaze was locked on the spot where his fireball had been obliterated, his mouth pressed into a thin line. It was as if he couldn't quite believe what he'd just done.
"Ignatius... I-I didn't..." Lucien's voice was tight, strained.
The professor's eyes narrowed, his presence somehow growing even heavier. "Thats Professor Ignatius to you, and I would suggest you choose your next words carefully, Mr. Ashford. Because right now, I'm struggling to decide whether or not I should throw you out of this academy for blatant stupidity!"
The sheer force of Ignatius's words made Ethan's stomach lurch. And yet, there was something oddly reassuring about the way the professor's attention was now divided between the two of them.
But the way Lucien's gaze refused to meet his own told Ethan everything he needed to know.
Whatever had just happened, it wasn't over. Not even close.
And the worst part? Ethan wasn't even sure if he'd made things better or a thousand times worse.