Misha Noren had lived for eleven years.
She had already learned many things.
She learned to shut her mouth immediately when her father frowned, to shrink herself even smaller when her mother sighed, and to bow her head submissively when her eldest brother came home.
She learned not to vie for favor with her sisters and brothers, because with more than ten children in the family, she had never been anything special.
She learned to sit in the farthest corner during tea parties, smiling and answering if anyone spoke to her, and quietly sipping her tea if no one did.
She learned to nod and say “yes” when ordered around by Margaret Horn—because Margaret's father was a Count and her own father was a viscount, and the gap between their two noble ranks was as vast as the heavens and the earth.
Though that last lesson was one she had only learned today.
She thought she had already learned everything necessary to survive, believing that as long as she remained humble and kept her head down, others would leave her alone.
Yet, some people harbored an extraordinary amount of malice.
And there was one thing she had never learned—
what to do when someone stepped on a precious gift given to her by someone she cherished.
Even now, she could still remember that afternoon five months ago. They were having tea in the garden pavilion when Misha accidentally knocked over her teacup. Tea spilled all over the table, and she was so terrified that her entire body froze.
Fortunately, Miss Loris did not scold her.
She merely said, somewhat reservedly, that she wanted to thank her for the gift Misha had given her and was only now returning the favor. Then, she handed over a deep blue, lily-of-the-valley-scented handkerchief with a small silver bell tied to the end.
It seemed to match the bracelet on Miss Loris's wrist—the very one Misha had hand-woven herself—only the colors were different, and it looked slightly cruder.
But this meant it was handmade.
Such a gift was significant enough to prove their friendship. From then on, the handkerchief and the bracelet had never left her side.
Yet, even though it was only their first day of acquaintance,
when Margaret Horn took the handkerchief from her drawer, Misha had been in the bath.
When she came out and saw the drawer half-open, with both the bracelet and the handkerchief gone, her heart skipped a beat.
Then she saw Margaret—sitting on her own bed with her legs crossed, using that very handkerchief to wipe her leather shoes.
Black shoe polish stained the delicate patterns of the cherished handkerchief.
Misha stood there, her mind going completely blank.
She walked over. “Miss Horn, please give it back to me.”
Margaret looked up at her, as if she had just heard a highly amusing joke.
“Give what back? This rag? Why are you being so stingy about letting me borrow it? Or is your family so poor that you have to treasure even a scrap of cloth?”
She lifted the handkerchief, dangling and shaking it like a piece of trash as she spoke mockingly.
Misha reached out. “Please give it back.”
Of course, Margaret did not return it. She crumpled the handkerchief into a ball and threw it onto the floor.
Misha bit her lip and squatted down to pick it up.
Then, Margaret's foot stepped on a corner of the handkerchief.
A dark leather shoe, its sole covered in fine sand tracked in from outside, pressed down on the deep blue and silver-white handkerchief.
“Ah, my apologies.” Margaret glanced down. “I accidentally stepped on it.”
Malice. Pure, unadulterated malice.
Squatting on the floor, Misha stared at the shoe stepping on her handkerchief. Her fingers were trembling.
She wasn't angry about being insulted; she was already used to that. But this was the handkerchief Miss Loris had given her.
So she stood up and gave Margaret an indignant push.
The shove wasn't heavy at all.
Margaret deliberately took a step back, her grin widening. Then she raised her hand, exclaiming how dare Misha lay a hand on her.
And so, the first slap landed.
Misha's left cheek felt as if it were on fire, burning hot from her cheekbone all the way to her ear. Her hair tie slipped, and her light brown hair fell loose, obscuring her eyes.
For a moment, she was completely dazed.
“You pushed me first,” Margaret's voice came from very close by.
Misha wanted to say, “You stepped on it first.” But though her lips moved, no sound came out.
Then, a second slap landed.
On the same cheek, hurting even more than the first.
Her eyes welled with involuntary tears, which she couldn't control, but she refused to let them fall.
“Give me back my bracelet,” she choked out, remembering something.
“Bracelet? What bracelet?”
“The one in the drawer.”
“You mean this one?”
Margaret held out her hand. For a split second, Misha felt that it didn't look like her own bracelet, though it looked extremely similar and also had a small silver bell.
But in this situation, she had no choice but to reach out and take it back—and then...
Snap. It broke. Margaret had deliberately refused to let go.
“Well, look at that! You broke my bracelet! Let's go find the teacher and let them judge!”
Just like that, Misha was dragged out of the dormitory to the first floor to find a teacher. On the way, she grew terrified that news of her expulsion would reach her family, so she bowed her head and admitted fault.
Leading to the present scene of onlookers.
...
People were watching all around, and more and more were gathering.
Several female students in various colored uniforms gathered in the corridor, as if watching some amusing performance.
Vera Klein stood behind Margaret, her eyes slightly blank as she wondered what was going on.
And in her hand was none other than Misha's bracelet.
Margaret had stuffed it into her hands not long ago, telling her to hide it for a good show. The more Vera looked at the bracelet, the more familiar it seemed, feeling somewhat similar to the one on Loris's wrist, which instantly triggered her PTSD.
She had planned to ask about it, but Margaret was in a hurry and left immediately, leaving Vera to figure out a way to quietly place it in the lost and found. After all, the events of the afternoon had been too humiliating, and she needed to wait at least three days before provoking that little sprout again.
Then, on her way, she witnessed this scene.
No one stepped forward; everyone was just spectating.
Such a grand show was playing out on the very first day of school.
Misha stood in the center of the corridor, her uniform crumpled, a button torn from her collar, and two overlapping handprints burning hot on her left cheek.
The handkerchief lay by her feet, stained with shoe polish and dust.
Standing there, she no longer felt aggrieved. Her eyes were vacant, replaced by a strange sense of emptiness.
It felt as if a piece of her chest had been scooped out, leaving a hole through which the wind blew, cold and chilling.
What was Margaret saying?
“...Miss Noren, you must understand one thing. Pushing me first is insubordination, and slapping you is simply teaching you manners.”
Her voice was lazy, as if she were talking about something incredibly boring, prompting a few quiet snickers from the onlookers.
Misha's light brown hair covered her face.
When a viscount's daughter was slapped by a Count's daughter, especially when she was supposedly at fault, no one would see any issue with it. Even if it were reported to the dormitory supervisor, the supervisor would only say, “Watch your words and behavior.”
There would be nothing more.
This was the rule.
She had lived for eleven years and had learned this long ago.
Having finished her speech, Margaret nodded in satisfaction and prepared to make an announcement to the crowd to embarrass Misha even further.
And then,
the crisp sound of footsteps echoed down the corridor.
The crowd of onlookers automatically parted, as if pushed aside by some invisible force. The noisy chatter instantly died down, replaced by a tense, breath-holding silence.
Someone stood there.
Misha couldn't help but look up.
Loris von Aldheim stood there.
She wore the deep blue uniform of the Magic Department, its silver trim at the cuffs and collar gleaming softly under the magical lights. Her golden twin drills hung over her shoulders, her emerald-green eyes half-squinted, and her lips flat without a hint of a smile.
Cold. Never before had anyone seen her expression so icy.
A certain troublemaking young lady was already trembling all over, even though she knew nothing of what had happened.
Tied around Loris's left wrist was a deep blue and silver-white woven bracelet. As she lightly rested her hand by her waist, the bracelet swayed gently.
Ting.
Misha's eyes burned even more intensely.
...
I didn't look at Misha. My gaze was pinned straight onto Margaret.
The corridor was so quiet it felt as though a silence spell had been cast. The seven or eight onlookers held their breath, and even the rustle of fabric disappeared entirely.
The magical lamps on the ceiling cast a warm yellow glow, pinning everyone's shadows firmly onto the wooden floorboards. In an instant, the excitement on Margaret's face faded into a bloodless, ashen gray, her lips trembling.
She looked as if she wanted to say something, but couldn't squeeze out a single syllable.
The male guard behind her, responsible for her protection, sensed the danger and quietly took half a step forward, his shoulder bumping into the wall of people and drawing side-eyes.
Vera stood slightly behind Margaret to her side, her cheek twitching in utter helplessness.
It seemed that because my reputation was even more widespread than in the original timeline—to put it in plain English, my excessive excellence combined with my wicked personality made certain people harbor even greater malice toward me.
Margaret's character was a prime example of this.
What was originally supposed to happen a year later had occurred early, which was highly unusual.
But that didn't matter anymore.
I was angry.
Loris was angry.
As if sensing my palpable indignation, Margaret immediately took a step back. Her deep brown, wavy hair swayed with her movement, the ends brushing against Vera's arm.
“Miss Aldheim,” Margaret said, her voice significantly quieter than before as she struggled to maintain her noble dignity. “What do you mean by suddenly walking out and glaring at me like that? This matter... has nothing to do with you, does it?”
“It does,” I said. “The handkerchief and the bracelet are both mine. I merely left them with Misha.”
“In other words,” I took a deep breath.
“the things you destroyed belong to me—Margaret.”
The moment those words left my mouth, the surrounding first-years gasped. One had to understand that whether it was a physical fight or a verbal dispute, one always needed to seize the moral high ground of “justice.”
Without a doubt, this statement was more than enough to justify my intervention.
Margaret's expression became complicated and strained. In her eyes, this was absolute sophistry. “How is that possible?”
“How could it not be mine? I gave them to her, so in my eyes, they are mine,” I sneered.
Margaret's lips instantly pressed into a thin, tight line.
“By the way, Miss Horn, while I was listening, I heard you bragging about your status quite smugly. You said you are from a Count's family, and she is from a viscount's family, so this is teaching manners rather than bullying, correct?”
I paused, my emerald-green eyes devoid of any warmth.
“Then, as a member of the Aldheim Ducal House, I can use the exact same reasoning to teach you a lesson, right?”
“W-what are you planning to do?!”
Margaret's eyes suddenly went wide. She probably never in her wildest dreams expected that I would actually lay hands on her in public.
In this circle where noble etiquette was valued above life itself, striking someone to their face was considered the most vulgar behavior on the surface. In the shadows, nobles had a hundred ways to make someone's life a living hell without ever dirtying their own hands.
But I preferred the direct approach.
Slap!
The slap landed squarely on her left cheek.
Margaret's head was whipped to the side, a red handprint instantly appearing on her face. Her body stumbled backward, her high heels clicking sharply twice against the wooden floorboards before she barely managed to steady herself.
Another wave of sharp gasps echoed through the corridor, yet still, no one dared to utter a single word.
Some had already run off to call more people to watch.
In the first-year dormitory (dormitories were divided by grade), some wanted to call others to watch, while others went to fetch the teachers.
As if dazed by the blow, Margaret slowly turned her head back.
A bright red handprint swelled on her left cheek. She stared at me, her eyes churning with deep, bone-deep humiliation.
This matter would spread throughout the entire academy by the end of today, and by tomorrow, it would sweep through the entire noble circle of the royal capital. Her dignity had been completely shattered at this moment.
“You...”
You still dare to talk back?!
Slap! This time, her head was whipped to the right.
“My lady!” her personal guard cried out in alarm.
But he didn't dare to take any further action. He knew he was just earning a living. Facing Loris—or rather, Shirune behind her, and more importantly, the massive Aldheim family behind them both—he could only bow his head.
Margaret's voice shook violently.
“You dare strike me?”
“Are two slaps not enough?” I looked at her, my tone as casual as if I were commenting on the fine weather. “Does the saying 'it takes two hands to clap' need to be changed to 'it takes two slaps'?”
Her hand suddenly shot up!
I watched coldly as she raised her hand. Her nails were painted a delicate pale pink and meticulously manicured, but now they trembled like a leaf in the autumn wind.
In the end, she didn't dare to bring it down.
I was actually a bit disappointed. If she had fought back, we could have had a proper brawl, and I could have shown her the fruits of my grueling swordplay training over the past two years.
“...You will regret this,” she hissed through gritted teeth. “Aldheim. You will regret this.”
“I'll be waiting.” She wasn't the only one who held a grudge against me anyway.
She spun around and barked a low command at her personal guard. The man froze in place, looking at the furious Margaret and then at the expressionless me, looking exactly like a rabbit targeted by two hungry wolves at the same time.
His feet seemed nailed to the floor. He didn't dare budge an inch, only keeping his head lowered with his hand resting on his sword hilt.
Margaret's face turned even uglier.
“Didn't you hear me?!” Her voice rose sharply. “I ordered you to—”
A very faint sound of scraping metal rang out.
It wasn't fully unsheathed, only sliding out by a few centimeters.
A bright, sharp blade peeked out from its scabbard, carrying a chilling light that reflected a thin silver line under the magical lamps.
Whoosh!
The gasps of the surrounding first-year students reached an absolute crescendo!
“Oh my god!”
“So fast!”
“What just flew past?!”
Shirune stood half a step in front of me, her silver-white high ponytail draped behind her shoulder, her crimson eyes locked dead onto Margaret and the man behind her.
Shirune had never looked so chillingly cold.
Expressionless, she drew her sword.
A wisp of sword energy had already sliced off a few strands of Margaret's hair; what had just flew past was a sharp thread of sword intent.
The male guard froze instantly.
His eyes stared intently at the blade, as if looking at a viper baring its fangs. Still, out of sheer necessity, he shielded Margaret behind him, preparing for combat.
Even though he knew that if a real fight broke out, he probably wouldn't last twenty exchanges.
“You—your servant dares to draw a sword inside the academy?!” Margaret's voice cracked completely, shrieking like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “This is an open threat! I'm going to report this to the dean!”
“Miss Horn.”
My voice remained very soft, yet it carried an unquestionable coldness.
“My servant is merely fulfilling her duty to protect me. After all, you were the one who ordered your follower to make a move first.”
“You were the one who broke the rules first.”
Margaret opened her mouth, her face contorted as if a walnut were lodged in her throat, yet she couldn't squeeze out a single word.
Without giving her another glance, I turned around and walked toward Misha.
Shirune would protect me anyway, and with so many onlookers around, I didn't believe Margaret would dare do anything.
As far as this matter was concerned, I believed the onlookers would draw their own conclusions, and I felt I was firmly on the side of justice.
I walked up to Misha's side.
Misha was still sitting dejectedly on the floor. Her light brown hair was completely loose, and the two overlapping red handprints on her left cheek had already swollen high, distorting her delicate features.
Her eyes were brimming with tears.
I walked over to her, bent down, and reached out to support her.
“It's alright now,” I said, gently patting her head.
“...Miss Loris.”
Her tears finally spilled over uncontrollably.
“Those two items aren't actually worth much. If something like this happens, just tell me. You don't need to try to reason with unreasonable people yourself,” I said calmly, wiping away her tears.
Then, I took the deep blue, lily-patterned handkerchief from my pocket and gently placed it in Misha's palm. Her fingers slowly curled around it, clutching it tightly as if it were a priceless treasure.
“I-I'm so sorry...” Misha choked out.
“Thank you...” She burst into loud, sorrowful wails.
Her sobbing sounded like dense mist, her grief spreading like physical water.
She was truly heartbroken.
Thinking of this, I turned around once more to face all the onlookers in the corridor.
At this moment, those who met my gaze looked terrified of being singled out, several of them letting out squeaks of fright, like deer watching a lion pacing among them.
The deep blue uniforms of the Magic Department, the white uniforms of the Swordsmanship Department, and the light gray uniforms of the Comprehensive Department were all mixed together, the first-years standing around like a scrambled puzzle.
Sigh... Forget it.
The teachers had arrived, so trying to settle the score any further wouldn't work anyway.
“What happened?! What happened?! Oh my goodness, both of you stop at once!”
The dormitory supervisor shrieked as she rushed over.
Shirune silently sheathed her sword, though her hand remained resting on the hilt. The male guard let go of his own hilt with a sigh of relief, the suffocating killing intent having left him breathless.
Once the two dormitory supervisors and several student council members arrived, they first dispersed the surrounding crowd, and then dragged the three of us involved over—even including my dear roommate, the little green tea.
Wait, what did she do?
I didn't know for now, but in any case, the four of us were hauled off to the office for questioning.
I had already prepared my arguments. I was on the side of justice; this was a case of bullying the weak, and I had simply acted as a chivalrous hero, so I wasn't afraid in the slightest.
As we passed the corner of the corridor, among the dispersing crowd of spectators, I saw Liliana looking back.
With her pale pink hair, it was definitely her. She had probably just returned from the cafeteria, still clutching a book borrowed from the library in her arms, blinking in a mix of confusion and curiosity.
She had likely only caught half of the spectacle.
She just stood there quietly watching me, as if looking at an unsolvable puzzle, perhaps with a hint of emotion? Our eyes met briefly in the air for only an instant before I withdrew my gaze, continuing to walk forward beside Misha, following the teachers.
Rate on N.U.
