"Mr. Frontera? Regulus Frontera, can you answer me?" the professor's voice pierced through the classroom, tinged with a touch of displeasure. "Are you paying attention in class, young man?"

I looked ahead; the surprise nearly causing my mute expressions to shift.

It took a fleeting moment for my mind to register that he was actually addressing me. The weight of this realization settled in as the gazes of my fellow students shifted toward me, their eyes silently demanding a response.

I was still grappling with the enormity of it all. Embracing this new identity of mine would require a monumental journey, an arduous path yet to be fully traversed.

Gone was Leonardo Grasso, a dispirited Italian soldier with little purpose in life. Now, I stood as Regulus Frontera, the very embodiment of the renowned Frontera lineage, known far and wide for their mercenary prowess.

I had tried to etch that name countless times, but it proved elusive.

I wasn't exactly the brightest or wisest in my family; far from it, I had always been more inclined towards cunning and athleticism. And just to be clear, this new body didn't aid me in the slightest when it came to memorizing things either.

But here I was, a young apprentice of magical specialization, assigned to Class 2-A, embarking on my first year, second semester, within the hallowed halls of the Discipline Academy of Magic. Situated in the southern reaches of the enigmatic kingdom of Poiofonteri, a land with a name that even I, begrudgingly, admit leaves much to be desired.

"Will you continue to ignore me, Regulus?" the professor pressed, his voice growing increasingly impatient, as if challenging me to dismiss his authority.

Disregarding him once more, I allowed myself to be consumed by my thoughts. It had become an all too familiar occurrence, an unstoppable force taking hold of me.

Regulus Frontera. A name that held a certain elegance, yet it adorned a man who seemed utterly forgettable.

I delved into countless searches, hoping to unearth anything substantial about him, or rather, about "me." Alas, my efforts yielded scarce results.

He was average at everything, possessing no exceptional talents at all. His family, the Fronteras, a lineage predominantly composed of mercenaries who pledged their loyalty to the highest bidder, boasted a modest fortune.

But beyond that, there was little else of note.

That was the extent of my findings—a mere glimpse into his existence. Into 'my' existence, that is.

There seemed to be a conspicuous absence of his presence in the story, if memory serves me right. In truth, I cannot recall ever encountering him. Nevertheless, I hold on to the hope that with time, his significance will become clear to me.

I mean, after all, he is me. And I am him.

"No, sir," I responded absentmindedly, jolting back to the present moment, remembering my current predicament.

After the loss of my family, I found myself navigating the solitary path of life. The looming presence of war quickly transformed serving in the military into an obligatory duty. I seized the opportunity, recognizing it as my sole chance for survival in these treacherous times.

Within the embrace of the army, I honed the art of speaking with directness and precision when addressing my superiors. Engaging in idle banter was best avoided if I wished to evade the sting of punishment. I learned that harsh lesson through firsthand experience.

Despite my personal reservations, Professor Buscost commanded a certain authority over me. For the time being, at least, while I inhabited this vessel and remained entwined within the clutches of this accursed academy.

"You... Regulus... You..."

A pulsating vein emerged from his forehead, threatening to rupture beneath the crimson flush that consumed his visage from top to bottom. No offense intended, but the man was aesthetically displeasing.

His bald pate bore the imperfections of neglect. A few unruly, spiky strands of hair danced in an unruly manner, a testament to his lackluster grooming habits. His teeth, stained with a yellowed hue, hardly exuded warmth or friendliness.

Hence, witnessing his face flush crimson like a freshly picked tomato merely heightened my inner desire to burst into unrestrained laughter at his expense.

Buscost drew in a deep breath, his trembling hands betraying his mounting frustration. "Lost in your whimsical reveries once more, are you?" he inquired, his voice strained.

Could the mere act of not paying attention to a specific portion of his lecture truly unsettle him to such a degree?

How remarkably immature.

"No, sir," I responded promptly, concealing the truth with practiced ease.

Revealing that I, Leonardo Grasso, a person from a far-away-land had somehow become ensnared within the body of a random student from an entirely different world, assuming his very existence, was out of the question.

Who would believe such an extraordinary account? And, above everything else, why would I expose a secret of such magnitude?

Only madness and judgment would befall anyone who dared to utter such audacious revelations. That certainty, I guarded closely within the depths of my being.

"Ugh, is that the extent of your vocabulary, young man? 'No, sir' this, 'No, sir' that..." His frustration emanated from every word, as he struggled to contain his mounting anger.

With a controlled breath, he seemed to be practicing a form of meditation, attempting to prevent himself from carrying out whatever ill-fated action he had contemplated.

Such behavior was beneath a professor, a lamentable display of power.

"I apologize, sir," I offered, though I knew my words would do little to quell his simmering fury.

Angrily, the middle-aged man clenched his teeth, a mixture of annoyance and resignation etched on his face.

"Very well; very well. Miss Madrigal," he turned his piercing gaze towards the distant figure of the aloof girl with her cascading locks of icy blue hair, "I am well aware of your extraordinary intellect and your eagerness to provide answers to my inquiries (that much is undeniable), but would you kindly make an exception, just this once, and allow our dear Regulus Frontera to respond?"

Unfazed by the unsettling grin that adorned his face, whether due to ignorance or intentional disregard, he remained unaware of the disquiet it stirred within me. I could see his intentions clearly.

He, much like me, was an outsider—an extra. Despite my reluctance to criticize my deceased younger brother's posthumous work, his creation was populated by loathsome characters.

I could practically hear the gears turning in his mind, plotting my public humiliation. It was all too predictable.

As tension mounted in the room, Fryz Madrigal carefully surveyed the scene. She exuded an eerie calmness, unbothered by the passing seconds.

In her entire time at the Discipline Academy, spanning two semesters, never before had a professor asked her to yield the floor to another student. It was a preposterous request.

"His fate is sealed..."

"His memory shall linger..."

"Poor Regulus..." Whispers reverberated through the classroom, as those around me shared their sympathies.

They understood, and so did I. Considering Fryz's unwarranted self-importance, this blow must have struck hard at the pinnacle of the Madrigal family's "super genius."

However, what transpired next surpassed all expectations.

''Ha...''

A malevolent smile began to blossom on her slender lips, mirroring the professor's own; the fusion of her icy demeanor and this newfound facet was bone-chilling, even for me.

She turned her gaze towards me, from across the room, resting her face upon her clenched fist, which found support on the small table attached to her wooden chair.

Her vacant black eyes bore into mine, as if emitting a piercing cry of "Disgust."

"Of course, Professor Buscost. It is always a noble endeavor to provide opportunities for those who may not shine as brightly in the classroom," she declared, relishing in her own delight.

But why did she harbor such a profound hatred for me? We had never even exchanged a single word since my arrival.

Could it be... had the true Regulus done something to incite her wrath? Had he provoked her in some way? Yet, based on what I had unearthed about him, it seemed utterly improbable.

Nevertheless, regardless of the cause, the predicament I found myself in was undeniably grim. There was no disputing that fact.

"Thank you kindly, Miss Madrigal. Your academic prowess is truly exceptional," the professor acknowledged, his nod carrying an air of formality.

It had become painfully evident, not only to me but to the entire classroom, that both he and Fryz sought to humiliate me on this very stage, in front of all my peers.

In the original tale, the only instance in which this enigmatic girl allowed someone else to respond in her place was to ensure that person would be thoroughly embarrassed, displaying their purported "dim intellect."

"Marvelous. Regulus Frontera, pray tell, respond to the inquiry I posed afore," he demanded, his voice laced with authority. I fix my gaze upon Professor Buscost's countenance, and he meets my unwavering stare with an unwavering resolve.

My lips move with deliberate slowness, anticipation mounting as they yearn to utter the forthcoming words. At last, my mouth opens, and the resounding utterance reverberates throughout the chamber.

"I beg your pardon, but might you refresh my memory on the precise nature of the query, sir?"

Buscost's visage contorts, disbelief etched upon his features as though he cannot fathom what has just transpired.

A peal of laughter escapes Fryz Madrigal's lips, infecting the surrounding students who join in the mirth. Not even those who had commiserated with my plight were spared from it.

"You... Who do you fancy yourself to be, lad?!"

Buscost's voice grew even more stern, erupting like the roar of a disgruntled warrior. It appears he believes my intention was to subject him to ridicule.

On the contrary of his assumption, I had no ill-intentions against him; I simply could not recall the question he had asked mere moments ago.

"SILENCE!" His thunderous voice reverberated through the room, causing the clamor to finally subside.

As expected, the rules seemed to exempt Frya Madrigal from the constraints, as she continued to laugh deliberately, her laughter piercing the air. Even her "personal lapdog," Professor Buscost, displayed a hint of discomfort, unable to contain her exuberant mirth.

"So," I calmly interjected, "would you be so kind as to repeat the question, sir?"

He clenched his fist tightly, his anger seething beneath his surface. "Yes, yes. I will repeat it, and this time, I hope you listen attentively, Regulus Frontera." His teeth clenched in a display of strained control. This man surely had some emotional turmoil within. "Explain to me the attributes of the water element, 'blood,' and 'cloud.'"

"In what manner?" I queried, feigning innocence.

"That is the question. I want you to elucidate their uses, their strategic applications, and the methods by which they can be harnessed. If possible, also provide the year of their discovery. Just the year will suffice. Now, come on, here and now."

With unwavering confidence, he puffed out his chest, causing the buttons on his snug shirt to strain. In his hand, the white chalk was poised like a weapon, while his forgotten book lay abandoned on the floor, casualties of his mounting stress.

Without uttering a single word, I rose from my chair, accepting the challenge with a solemn nod. The squeak of the seat sent a shiver through the room, the silence so palpable that the window panes trembled.

In the end, there was no escape. No matter how I wracked my brain, no loophole presented itself, no effective means of evasion. If I attempted to flee, I would only further complicate matters, spiraling them from bad to worse.

Damn. This felt like one of those grueling mental endurance trials from my army days.

The chalk now rested in my hands, akin to the weight of a rifle that I once carried in the real world.

"Let's see..." I whispered, my voice barely audible.

I strained to summon any fragments of information related to this topic, grasping for any morsel of knowledge. Yet, all I encountered was a searing pain, threatening to rend my mind asunder.

Do I truly have to endure this?, I wondered inwardly. I am a trained soldier. A killer. I have taken the lives of hundreds, perhaps thousands of individuals. And now, I am condemned to exist in this fabricated world of magical academia with a horde of insolent children?

Setting aside my deepest and morbid thoughts, which threatened to drown me in their relentless grip, I took a deep breath and shook my head, side to side repeatedly.

''Hahat...''

Amidst the stifled laughter that failed to conceal its presence behind me, I resolved to take a stand.

The chalk, once stationary in my hand, now made contact with the parched surface of the blackboard.

I hesitated for a moment, contemplating the words that would soon be etched upon it. I could feel the weight of the room's expectations pressing down on me, urging me to salvage my own dignity.

And then, a resolute decision sprouted within me like a stubborn seed. I would not succumb to the pressure or the taunts. Instead, I would confront the truth head-on.

"I do not know, sir," I declared, my voice carrying an unwavering composure.

As the words slipped from my lips, a mix of shock, disbelief, and ridicule filled the air. It was a blow to my own fragile psyche, the admission of my ignorance; a wound that pierced deeper than any physical pain.

But amidst the tremors of self-doubt, there was a flicker of defiance. I refused to pretend to possess knowledge I did not have. 

In this spot, I stood as a stranger, a mere vessel adrift in a sea of unfamiliarity. My mind held nothing but fragments of inconsequential conversations and fleeting glimpses of irrelevant details. I was an extra, an outsider in a world brimming with arcane wonders.

"Take a seat, Regulus Frontera," Professor Buscost declared, a sly smile tugging at his lips. "That will cost you 20 personal points, and 10 from the House of the Tortoise."

Points.

The word echoed in my mind, its significance slowly resurfacing from the conversations I had overheard between Fryz and the professor throughout my week of attending classes.

Yet, to be frank, the existence of such a point system had slipped from my thoughts.

In truth, I had no inkling of its workings. At least, before remembering it.

The points were divided into personal points, coveted tokens that could be traded for exclusive prizes found within the sprawling campus and its enchanting facilities. They served as a tangible representation of one's standing among their peers, a measure of skill and dedication.

But there was more. 

House points, an integral part of the prestigious academy, were earned through unity and collaboration among the students. A shared pursuit of excellence, ignited by the formation of these alliances just before the start of classes. It was a remarkable system, interweaving loyalty and competition.

Both types of points served to classify the houses and the students. And if the holders wished, they could be used to purchase battle equipment within the academy, which could either aid or hinder their progress during an examination.

I could recall David's excitement when he mentioned that he drew inspiration from a point system in a popular book about a certain British wizard with glasses.

"Fryz, care to enlighten those who detest studying?" he said as I settled into my chair.

Such taunts no longer bothered me since my time in the army, and they had almost disappeared altogether after the devastating loss of my parents and brother.

"Yes, sir, Professor," she replied, mocking me before delving into her explanation. "The blood attribute grants mages the power to manipulate blood, whether it be their own or that of another living being. It's akin to controlling the very essence of water. As for the cloud attribute, it extends beyond water and encompasses the air element as well. Weather manipulation necessitates the fusion of these two elements."

"Excellent," Buscost commended, his tone soothing. "Please, continue."

"Blood manipulation is often employed for blood donation, but on the battlefield, water-element specialists can use it to restrict their opponents."

Silence befell the entire room as Fryz's words captivated everyone. Despite her cruel and ignorant demeanor, her intelligence shone through at such a tender age. Her delivery was flawless, devoid of any nervousness.

"Temporal manipulation serves to prevent floods or adverse weather conditions during large-scale construction, for example. In battle, it's commonly employed to influence the very battleground where the war unfolds, preferably the enemy's location. I believe I have already addressed their purposes, timing, and rationale, Professor," she concluded, her smug smile ever-present.

Applause erupted as the professor encouraged the students to join in, realizing their initial hesitation.

"A perfect presentation, just as expected of the Madrigal house heir!" His gaze shifted towards me.

Fuck.

Why does every soul in this infernal academy feel the incessant need to peer at me? Am I attracting undue attention without even performing anything of significance during these lessons?

Go look at Killian Lyuri in the next room, he's literally the protagonist of this novel, damn it!

"Speaking of Killian, has 'that event' already taken place?" I ponder aloud. "No, no. Of course not. By now, I would surely know."

"Regulus Frontera?"

"Yes, sir?"

"I expect a five-page essay on the topics discussed in this classroom. It is due for our next lesson. Don't conjure excuses like today to evade your assigned task."

"Yes, sir."

"Very well. That will be all for today. Class dismissed, everyone."

And thus, my first lesson of 'Theory of Magic' since the start of the second semester of my first year had come to an end.