Fenrir decided to head toward the Academy the next morning.
He ignored the pristine, custom-tailored uniform that had been delivered to his apartment the night before.
It looked stiff, uncomfortable, and too flashy—designed more to flaunt status than serve any practical purpose.
Instead, he wore a plain black hoodie and dark jeans, blending into the city's morning crowd as he made his way to school.
'This is fine. How can they expect anyone to learn in those fancy clothes? They're more of a hindrance than any help during dangerous situations. I won't put myself into that situation.'
The Academy loomed in the distance, its towering spires casting long shadows against the pale blue sky.
Fenrir wasn't nervous, but there was a distinct buzz in his gut.
Not anxiety—more like anticipation. It felt like he was heading to a battlefield that would only benefit him.
He had barely reached the main gate when he came across a group of students gathered in a tight circle near the sidewalk.
They all wore the silver-accented uniforms of Argent Academy, making them immediately recognizable.
Most of them were laughing, their expressions ranging from amused to smug, and their focus was fixed on something—or someone—in the middle of the circle.
Fenrir could see a flash of green hair among the crowd.
His first instinct was to walk away.
Bullying was nothing new, and frankly, he didn't care.
People being cruel for sport wasn't worth his attention.
But just as he turned his body slightly to move past the crowd, something in him tugged—an instinctual sense that said-
Stop. Look closer.
He sighed and stepped toward the group.
The students didn't acknowledge his presence at first.
They were too busy laughing at the girl kneeling on the ground, hastily gathering up books, pens, and some scattered pieces of paper.
Her green hair fell like a curtain around her face, shielding her expression, but Fenrir caught the tremble in her fingers and the way her shoulders curled inwards, like she was used to making herself smaller.
The system pinged softly, identifying her as Betty Rose, first-year, combat track.
[Overall potential: D]
'D, huh?'
Fenrir frowned slightly.
There was nothing obviously special about her. Weak aura. Slouched posture. Easily ignorable.
But then she spoke, murmuring a flustered "Sorry," to no one in particular. Her voice was soft, shy even—but it had an edge beneath it.
A subtle tension, almost too controlled.
It set off every alarm in Fenrir's body.
His instincts screamed danger, but not in a threatening way—more like… potential. Something buried and dangerous, like a dormant predator waiting for the right trigger.
Fenrir knelt beside her and picked up a laminated photocard that had fluttered near his foot. He handed it to her silently.
Betty blinked at him, clearly startled.
"T-Thank you…"
There it was again—that note in her voice.
Polite, gentle, but too measured. Her eyes flicked up to meet his for a brief moment, and Fenrir felt a chill crawl down his spine.
He stood up and turned toward the crowd, his expression unreadable.
"Get lost."
He said simply.
The group blinked, confused. Then one of them—taller, cockier than the others—snorted.
"What's your problem, man? You siding with that freak?"
Fenrir didn't respond. He just stared.
That was enough.
Another voice cut through the tension.
"Wait… isn't that Fenrir Black?"
Heads turned. Whispers started.
"The youngest Black heir?"
"He's the one with the high-tier mana gun, right?"
"I heard he was a troublemaker. It's best not to engage with him?"
"Tch. Rich kid. Leave him alone."
The mood shifted. The mockery turned into murmurs of caution.
A few students gave Betty disdainful glances as they backed away, clearly not wanting to deal with potential fallout from messing with a Black.
Fenrir watched them scatter before glancing back at Betty.
She was still on her knees, looking at him with wide eyes, the photocard clutched tightly in her hand. She looked confused… and oddly disappointed.
"You alright?"
He asked.
She nodded slowly.
"I'm… used to it."
"That doesn't mean it's okay."
He said, more to himself than to her.
He turned and began walking toward the school gate. After a moment, he heard soft footsteps behind him—Betty was following. Not too close. Just enough to not be left behind.
Fenrir didn't tell her to stop.
He'd made a decision.
Betty Rose may look weak, and the system might say she was average—but Fenrir trusted his instincts more than a flawed machine.
Something inside that girl was dangerous. Maybe she didn't know it herself yet, but he had no intention of ignoring it.
______
As the last of the students dispersed and Fenrir walked away without a backward glance, Betty remained kneeling on the ground, her hand still wrapped around the photocard he had returned to her.
Slowly, almost reluctantly, she eased her other hand open.
A small glint of metal slipped from her palm and fell to the ground with a soft clink—a concealed blade, thin and sharp, perfect for quiet cuts.
She stared at it for a moment before clicking her tongue and muttering.
"Tch. Ruined again."
Her green eyes narrowed slightly as she reached down and picked the knife back up, slipping it into her sleeve with practiced ease.
"I wasn't done with them. A few more minutes and they would've begged me to stop. But nooo, someone had to play the hero."
She said with an annoyed sigh, brushing imaginary dust from her skirt.
Her gaze flicked up in the direction Fenrir had gone, her lips curving into a small pout.
"Idiot. Doesn't he know it's rude to interrupt someone else's hunt?"
But even as she complained, a faint pink hue dusted her cheeks.
It was subtle—almost unnoticeable—but the way her fingers toyed with the edge of the photocard betrayed a strange excitement.
Her heart, which had been cold and bored for so long, now beat just a bit faster.
"That look in his eyes…He wasn't scared. He looked at me like he saw something."
She whispered to herself.
The thought made her smile—genuinely, this time. A slow, eerie kind of smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
"He might be the first person who actually noticed me."
Standing up, Betty dusted herself off and turned away from the scene entirely, the incident already behind her.
She walked down the path alone, humming softly under her breath, the same tune she always hummed after a kill—except this time, she hadn't gotten to finish.
But she wasn't upset for long.
Because now, her interest had a new direction.
"Fenrir Black, you're interesting. Too interesting to let go."
She murmured, the name rolling off her tongue like a promise.
She paused near the edge of the garden path and looked up at the sky, her eyes gleaming with a strange mix of amusement and hunger.
"I'll make you mine. Not now. Not yet. But one day… I'll hunt you properly."
She said sweetly, almost dreamily.
And for the first time in what felt like forever, Betty Rose felt alive.
Not because she'd scared someone. Not because she'd almost drawn blood. But because he had stepped into her world uninvited… and left a mark.
That was how Betty found herself obsessed with Fenrir.