Meddie stepped out of the carriage and looked up at the towering sprawl of the academy. It was massive, practically a mini city, and he was apprehensive. He was deeply apprehensive. He didn’t want to be here, but it was better than his brothers trying to kill him for the umpteenth time. He just needed to survive three years. He had already survived two years in a war, so he supposed he could survive this.

The attendants had already moved all of his things to his dorm room, and he could just walk in. Wearing the uniform was deeply uncomfortable to him. It fit him perfectly, of course, but he was missing the clothing of the Demonias Empire. He also stuck out like a sore thumb. It was a sea of arriving humans, and here he was with his snake hair, walking towards the entrance hall.

People were staring at him, probably all people that hadn’t attended the ball, and he was metaphorically sweating under his collar as he walked up the stairs to the main entrance hall. It was massive, with a lot of stained glass, and he looked around. There were no familiar faces in this sea of people, and he was grateful for that, but…

Where were the main characters?

Ah, there was Tatiana, standing alone with her hands all twisted up in her grip. She looked nervous. He felt for her, but he wasn’t about to approach her. People were giving him a wide berth, and he strode forward, trying to project confidence, so he wasn’t bullied.

“Freshmen!” a booming voice rolled over the room. “This way to orientation!”

Oh. Right. Orientation. Tristan sat next to Tatiana for that. That was probably going to change, now that the plot was all screwed up.

The crowd followed a tall young man Meddie recognized as Michael DuPont, the student body president. He was the son of a southern duke, and very skilled in magic. He was dual enrolled in magic and swordsmanship, because his family famously produced magic swordsmen, and Meddie sure hoped he didn’t gain the man’s attention. He was a second year this year, and would graduate before Meddie.

The crowd followed along behind him, and they reached a large auditorium decorated in even more stained glass windows, and Meddie took a seat near the back. Ada and Gladys coiled around his throat, and he swallowed down his anxiety as Michael took to the stage.

“Welcome, incoming freshmen,” he said as everyone took their seats, and his hands wrapped around the edges of the podium. “This is Vengyll Academy, the finest institution in the Holy Empire, required by law to be attended by the noblesse. I am Michael DuPont, your student body president.”

He paused, his eyes scanning over the crowd, and then his eyes landed on Meddie. They made direct eye contact, and Meddie wasn’t sure, but he thought his eye twitch.

“This institution has stood for thousands of years,” the duke’s son continued, and his eyes continued to scan over the audience. “We have withstood war, famine, natural disaster. We produce the best of the best, and we prepare all of you for your future as the nobility that will lead this great empire. Here at the academy, forget your etiquette. We are all of equal status. Forget what you’ve learned at home, with your tutors and teachers. Your education will be overhauled to create a more cohesive front that encourages cooperation.”

Meddie looked around the room. No one was sitting next to him. There were a good four seats between him and the nervous-looking eighteen year old next to him, and he tried to ignore the sting of isolation as Michael proceeded into his explanation of the code of conduct, imploring them all to read the student handbook. The speech drifted in one ear and out the other, and his eyes finally landed on the back of Tristan’s head. He was sitting at the front with Isilda, and they looked like a beautiful pair together. It was a pity she couldn’t be Empress, Meddie thought. She would make a great one.

But… Tatiana wasn’t up front with them, and Meddie’s heart fell as he realized he had changed the plot. It was at this point in this plot that Medusa in canon harassed Tatiana, and Michael stopped his speech to call her out. That obviously wasn’t going to happen this time, and Meddie was grateful for it, but…

He didn’t know. He felt weird and uncomfortable.

The speech wound down, and Michael cleared his throat.

“That’s all for today. Classes will commence tomorrow, and I implore you all to be on time,” he said, and nervous laughter spread over the class. “There’s a party tonight for the incoming freshmen, and I expect you all to be there.”

His eyes landed on Meddie again, and yeah… Yeah, Meddie was not going to be at that party. That was a one way track to becoming an event, and Tatiana did need her moment to shine. He would be safe and sound in his dorm room, thank you kindly.

The students all started to get up, and Meddie made a beeline for the door, only for someone to step in front of him. He paused at the teenager standing there, because he didn’t recognize this character. Was he a side character, or---

“Justin Emory,” the boy introduced himself, and Mally fought to not let his eyes widen. Ah… This was going to be a problem. “And you’re His Imperial Highness, Meduso Belial Demonias.”

“Hello, Justin,” Meddie greeted him politely as  the crowd trying to get out the door trickled to a halt.

“You’re in the swordsmanship course, aren’t you?” Justin asked mildly, and Meddie tried to think of a way to get out of this.

“I am, yes.”

“I heard you were cursed. Is that why your brother was so quick to sell you?” Justin asked curiously, and Meddie pursed his lips.

People were stopping to stare, and Meddie knew exactly what this was. He had humiliated Justin’s father, Admiral Emory, aka Marquis Emory, on multiple occasions, and now Justin was looking to pick a fight.

“Excuse me,” Meddie said bluntly and tried to push past him, but Justin caught him by the arm and dragged him back.

“Let me make one thing clear,” Justin said loudly. “You’re a freak of nature, and a demon at that. You have no place at this academy, and you have no place in this great empire. You can flaunt your military prowess all you want, but you still lost, because that’s what demons do. Cursed beasts, designed to lose, because the Goddess doesn’t tolerate your presence in her world. You’re little more than an animal.”

“What is going on here?” rang out a imperious voice before Meddie could even begin to respond to that racist tirade, and Justin let go of Meddie’s arm.

“I was having a conversation with Meduso here,” he said, completely unrepentant, and yeah, no, Meddie wasn’t going to take this.

“Was it a conversation, or a racist rampage?” he asked mildly, and murmurs spread through the crowd, as if they hadn’t expected him to hit back. “You should be careful grabbing people you don’t know. Especially ones with such sharp teeth.”

He bared his fangs at Justin in a sly smile, whose face twisted.

“Are you threatening me?” he demanded, and Meddie tilted his head.

“I don’t threaten,” he said, and Michael DuPont strode forward, the hero in no one’s story but his own.

“It’s the first day, and you’re already causing trouble,” he said to Meddie. “Do they not train you in the Demonias Empire?”

Oh, so Meddie was the problem now?

He studied Michael in silence. Long pale gray hair, pulled back in a ponytail. Piercing blue, angry eyes. Pale skin that had never seen the sun, or perhaps it just burned. He certainly looked like an ML, but he wasn’t really Meddie’s type.

“Let me make something clear,” Meddie said loudly. “I don’t intend on being anyone’s punching bag over frustration about the war. Nor will I entertain racist tirades about my species, or my mutation. So, yes, I will be causing problems on the first day, and I will continue to cause problems until everyone gets the message.”

With that, he turned and walked towards the doors, and the crowd parted like a wave before him.

“Demonias!” Michael snapped, but Meddie ignored him. “Meduso.”

Meddie simply continued walking, and Michael strode after him, ire twisting his freakishly handsome face as he reached forward and grabbed Meddie by the arm.

“Stop,” he hissed, and Meddie pulled his arm out of his grasp.

“My serpents don’t like it when I’m touched with permission, and their bite can be nasty,” he said mildly, and true to form, Ada and Gladys were reared up, ready to strike at a moment’s notice. “Try not to touch me.”

“Violence is strictly forbidden unless in training,” Michael snapped, and Meddie studied him in silence.

“And is blatant racism forbidden, too?” he asked, and Michael flushed. Murmurs were spreading through the crowd, and Meddie turned to Justin. “Your father is an honorable man. Don’t disappoint him.”

Justin turned bright red and lifted his hand.

“Invictus,” he hissed, and the spell shot at Meddie. His eyes widened, because all of his witchcraft had been confiscated, and he had been hit with that spell before. It was not a pleasant spell. Burning pain, all through your body, and for a second, he could swear he could feel the sway of the ship beneath his feet. Michael lifted his arm to cast a counter spell, but it was already too late.

The spell hit Meddie dead on, and pain crashed over his body, but he remained standing, only stiffening. It was comparable to the pain of trangor, and he and trangor were old friends. The pain washed over him, setting every nerve on fire, and he took a deep, shaky breath in.

“JUSTIN EMORY!” Michael thundered, and Justin’s face twisted in rage.

“Invictus,” he snapped again as girls began to scream, and the spell hit Meddie a second time. Ghostly, glowing chains burst from the floor, wrapping around Justin, and Meddie remained standing.

The pain was immense, but he was practiced in not showing weakness. Two hits of invictus could cause internal bleeding, though, so he didn’t even bother with stopping the cough that rose up. He barely managed to lift his hand in time, and blood splattered over his palm. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, smearing black blood over his white scales, and then he turned and walked down the hall.

“MEDUSO!” Michael thundered, but Meddie kept walking, because he could not afford to start vomiting blood right now. Pain was lighting up and down his body, electric and intense, and every step made him want to scream. It would take two hours to wear off, and he needed to curl up in his bed and just bear it. “Meduso, you need to go to the healers! Now!”

Meddie felt panic crawl in his throat, remembering healers hovering over him, roughly pouring potions down his throat, wrenching his jaw open, and the poison that snuck into the potion designed to save his life. He had been, what, fourteen when that happened?

No.

No healers.

Healers could kill as easily as they could save, and he just needed to sleep it off.

Meddie kept walking, and Michael looked between him and Justin desperately, not sure of which situation to deal with. Justin was struggling against the chains, practically foaming at the mouth, trying to lift his hand to cast another spell, and Meddie ignored them as he continued to walk. The crowd was parting like a wave before him, and then someone grabbed him for a third time.

“Well, I see you’re already failing to control the student body you’re in charge of,” came a lazy voice, and Meddie froze.

The Crown Prince had entered the fray.

“Meduso,” he called, and Meddie ignored him as he continued to walk. “Meduso, stop.”

“No, thank you,” Meddie called over his shoulder, and the prince strode after him. Meddie continued to walk, reaching the end of the hall and turning the corner, and the prince caught up with him.

“Meduso, stop,” he said, and reached for Meddie, and Meddie flinched away. “Let me heal you.”

“I’m fine,” Meddie rasped. “It’s not any worse than trangor. Please let me leave.”

“You just got hit by the invictus curse twice,” Tristan said, and Meddie hesitated. “That causes internal bleeding. Let me heal you.”

“I’m fine,” Meddie insisted, and the prince reached for him again, but Meddie flinched back like a wild animal backed into a corner.

“Meduso… I’m trying to help you,” the prince said gently, and Meddie stared at him in silence.

“You seem to be under the impression that we are closer than we are,” Meddie said, coldly, cruelly. “I don’t know what image you have of me inside that head of yours, but it is far from the truth. Stop following me. I don’t need your protection.”

He almost regretted it at the look on Tristan’s face. He looked as though Meddie had taken a knife, plunged it in his stomach, and twisted it. Meddie didn’t regret it, though. He knew he couldn’t afford to get involved with the ML. Not only was he the primary male lead, he was the Crown Prince of an enemy empire. They weren’t allowed to be friends. Meddie was aware of their social standings, so why wasn’t the prince?

Whatever.

He needed to walk away.

And, so, he did. He walked away, leaving Tristan alone in the hall, looking utterly devastated.

He had never looked like that in the game.

Then again, the artists hadn’t been all that good at drawing emotions, anyway.