I CHOSE to be a VILLAIN, not a THIRD-RATE EXTRA!!

"I DON'T HAVE ALL DAY TO WATCH YOU WEAKLINGS stumble around like withered trees gasping their last breaths!" Griselda's voice cracked through the air once again, her shout shaking the students out of their haze as if thunder had struck just above their heads.

Her piercing gaze swept across the trembling lines of students, each pair of eyes that met hers quickly lowering or darting away in fear.

"I don't care if you fell dizziness, or nausea," she growled, voice laced with disdain.

"You've got thirty seconds. I don't care if your head is spinning or your guts are twisting—if even one of you fails to stand straight in the next half-minute, I will personally strike your name from my course."

Her words were delivered with the finality of a judge's verdict.

"And your thirty seconds..." she continued, her voice now lower but somehow even sharper, "start now."

With that, she pulled out a sleek pocket watch and flicked it open with a click that felt far too loud in the tense silence.

She held it before her with a soldier's stillness, the second hand ticking audibly like the countdown to execution.

Griselda's eyes, now cold and focused like a predator measuring prey, swept slowly across the training field.

Her gaze moved first across the rows of Wyrd Class, then over to the Aether students.

No one escaped her attention.

The twitch of a limb.

A bend in the spine.

Eyes that couldn't hold forward.

Griselda had no interest in which noble house a student belonged to or what bloodline pulsed in their veins.

She was one of the few instructors in the Academy who outright rejected the classist divide between the elite Aether and the overlooked Wyrd, to her, they were all growing seed as she herself was someone who knew what it felt like to be differentiated just because of her race.

Even if time dulled the rest of her memories—if her scars someday faded or if the countless battles she'd fought were swallowed by the shadows of time—there was one thing Griselda knew she would never forget: the disgusted gazes.

The way eyes narrowed and lips curled, not in fear or respect, but revulsion.

Those looks had followed her everywhere—from bustling cities to quiet outposts—and now, even here in the prestigious heights of the Academy, they clung to her like invisible chains.

It wasn't just the students. No, they were merely the new generation inheriting old traditions.

It had been the same among the teachers when she first arrived.

Some concealed it better than others, their prejudices tucked behind civil smiles and veiled politeness, but Griselda had seen it all before.

She knew exactly what lay beneath their hollow greetings and stiff nods.

Still, it wasn't all rotten.

Griselda remained deeply thankful—perhaps even quietly loyal—to the Dean and the three Senior Teachers who had shown her what few others ever did: indifference.

They didn't care for what species she belonged to or where she had come from. They judged her on merit alone—and that, in Griselda's life, had been a rare kindness.

It was because of their silent endorsement that she had even been offered a place within the Academy's faculty.

And she still remembered, with vivid clarity, the words the Dean had spoken the day she received the position:

"I doubt life will be much different for you even up here—high above the world. But you're free to carve out peace, should you want it.

As for your place among teachers? Just challenge the arrogant ones to a duel and beat them win or loss doesn't matter.

And for the students? They're all weaklings. Just become the kind of instructor that frightens them into respecting you. They'll fall in line soon enough."

It was blunt.

It was absurd.

It was a statement only someone like the Dean could say—half-serious, half-mocking. And yet, it was the most practical advice she had ever been given in the Empire.

And strangely enough, it worked.

Griselda had done just that and over time, their disdain turned to fear, and fear turned to grudging respect.

As Griselda's sharp eyes swept once more over the gathered students, the initial waves of disdain and hesitation were now all but gone.

What remained in their expressions was no longer judgment or contempt, but something more raw and human—struggle

The field was slowly shifting.

Where weakness had briefly reigned, resolve was beginning to rise.

Among the students of Wyrd Class, a handful still showed signs of lingering instability.

Some were slower in straightening their postures, and others blinked rapidly as they tried to recalibrate their senses. But among the Aether Class… there was a notable difference.

They had begun adjusting quickly—faster than expected, even by her standards.

And leading that adjustment, as if it were preordained, was Leon.

The boy stood like a proper knight-in-training, his back straight, eyes forward, his breathing calm and controlled as he had reoriented himself. to the sensation of powerlessness.

Following him, Gideon and then Elara too had steadied himself,.

Then Griselda's gaze shifted, catching two very specific figures in the crowd—figures that pulled at something deeper in her chest.

Zog and Mira.

Two students who stood out not just for their presence in the Aether Class, but for who—and what—they were.

Griselda's heart stirred, quietly and unexpectedly.

It had been decades since she'd started teaching, and in all those years, not once had she seen one of her own kind seated among the elites of the Academy. Until now.

A Tiger Kin and a Panther Kin, standing shoulder to shoulder with the sons and daughters of nobles, blessed by bloodlines and prestige.

The boy, Zog, still showed signs of minor struggle—his breath still labored, his footing not entirely set—but he held his ground. Mira, on the other hand, her composure already restored, even as her feline ears subtly twitched in response to the stress.

'A Panther Kin… like myself', Griselda thought as she quietly watched the girl. 'Though her bloodline isn't fully awakened yet—there's potential.'

And in that quiet moment, a decision bloomed in her mind like iron locking into place.

She would train them.

She would take these two under her as disciples. They were the first, and in them she saw seeds that could challenge even the strongest the Empire had to offer.

Even the so-called Hero of Light.

To an outsider, it might seem like favoritism—partiality rooted in race—but Griselda scoffed at the idea. Let them try to lecture her on fairness.

And then, finally, Griselda's eyes landed on the oddball.

He was standing in the front row, both hands tucked casually into his pockets.

Even with his hands inside the pocket, his posture was perfect.

Most telling of all, not once had he shown the slightest sign of discomfort when he'd donned the Energy Shackle.

And that fact alone had made her take special notice of him.

But what truly made her brow twitch wasn't his physical ease—it was the way he was looking at her.

From the moment she had set foot in the field, he had not stopped staring.

Griselda wasn't easily unsettled.

She had endured the worst of gazes—ones filled with scorn, hate, fear.

She could read a thousand meanings from a single glance. But this boy… this boy's eyes had flickered with things she hadn't expected.

For just one brief second, she had seen something flicker across his face—Admiration, Appreciation, as if she was worthy of her place. And finally—Lust, like he had sized her up not just as an instructor but as a woman.

Even for Griselda, that had caught her off guard.

'Why?' she had wondered.

'Why would a human—especially one from Aether Class—look at me like that?'

But before she could find even a moment to contemplate the reason, it all vanished.

Like fog clearing from a mirror. The eyes that once instantly turned ice cold.

Now, he was looking at her not as an instructor—but as something beneath him.

It was the look of a man standing atop a throne of stone, staring down from a height so distant that the people below no longer registered as real.

A King… peering at a servant.

And he didn't look away.

And it was not Griselda not alone, Students from both Wyrd and Aether Classes began to notice. Adlet who he stood motionless in their front row, hands still buried in his pockets, posture unshaken, face unreadable.

Regardless, something about that stillness sparked a flicker of challenge in the hearts of those who noticed.

'Why is he fine while we're struggling?'

'Surely, anyone taken in personally by the Dean… couldn't be normal,' Griselda thought.

She had, of course, read his file. Adlet—the only student in her entire decade of teaching and in the history of the Academy the first to be accepted late from Dean's permission.

Even while her thoughts drifted—Griselda never once lost track of time.

Her gaze flickered toward the pocket watch in her hand every few seconds, keeping perfect count as the needle inched closer to the mark.

The moment the second hand touched the thirty-second mark, she closed the watch with a crisp snap.

"Time's up."

Her voice rang out again.

Griselda's eyes scanned the crowd again. Some still looked like they were hanging on by a thread—but they were standing.

"Better"

Then, with a smooth flick of her hand, another wave of items burst forth from her storage ring—dozens of them while the faces of student's paled seeing what they were.

Metal bracers—cold, gleaming, and thick—shot out into the air and hovered momentarily before dropping precisely in front of select students.