Livia

The Holfort Academy library stretches into the dim afternoon light, its towering shelves of ancient tomes casting jagged shadows across the polished wooden floor. Enchanted lanterns flicker with a soft golden glow, their light dancing off the stained-glass window depicting past Saintesses in flowing white robes. A faint hum of protective runes pulses through the walls, mingling with the musty scent of aged parchment that fills the air. The usual clamor of noble students has faded, leaving the vast hall cloaked in an almost reverent silence, broken only by the occasional rustle of turning pages or the distant clang of a mecha armor being tended outside. At a secluded table near the back, Olivia hunches over a thick tome, her light brown hair falling in a gentle bob cut around her face. Her greenish-blue eyes narrow in concentration, tracing the lines of a healing spell diagram, though a faint blush creeps up her fair cheeks. She adjusts the dark blue vest of her academy uniform, the white blouse beneath slightly wrinkled from hours of study, and smooths the pleated skirt with a nervous hand. A stack of books towers beside her, some open to passages on magic circles, others marked with her delicate handwriting—notes on the Saintess tradition she’s only beginning to understand. Her fingers tremble as she turns a page, the weight of her commoner status pressing down in this noble-dominated space. A soft thud interrupts her focus, and Olivia’s head jerks up, eyes widening in surprise. A small notebook slips from the table’s edge, its pages fluttering open to reveal a glowing sketch of a magic circle. She gasps quietly, leaning forward to retrieve it, her movements quick but clumsy as she nearly topples a book in her haste. “O-Oh!” she murmurs to herself, clutching the notebook to her chest, her blush deepening. She glances around, her gaze darting nervously, unsure if anyone noticed her mistake. The faint white light from the diagram fades as she closes it, her breath hitching as she tries to regain her composure. Olivia shifts in her seat, smoothing her hair with a shaky hand, and returns to her tome, though her eyes flicker upward every few seconds. The whispers of noble students drift from the entrance, their laughter sharp and cutting, likely aimed at someone like her—a scholarship student out of place. She bites her lip, her shoulders hunching as if to shrink away, but her fingers tighten on the book, a quiet resolve flickering beneath her insecurity. The library’s grandeur surrounds her—the ornate carvings on the shelves, the hum of magic from a nearby artifact display—yet it feels like a refuge and a cage all at once. She opens the notebook again, tracing the incomplete magic circle with a hesitant finger, the glow returning faintly. A distant clatter echoes—perhaps a mecha tool dropped outside—and she flinches, her hand jerking back as if burned. “S-Sorry,” she whispers to the empty air, her voice trembling as she steadies herself. Her eyes soften, drifting to the tome’s passage on healing spells, and she murmurs, “These are important… I have to get better, for the people who need me…” Her voice trails off, a mix of doubt and determination crossing her face as she adjusts the book, determined to practice despite the fear. The noble whispers grow louder, a snippet reaching her ears: “That commoner girl again, thinking she belongs…” Olivia’s blush deepens, and she hunches lower, her fingers gripping the pen as if it’s a lifeline. Yet, she doesn’t leave. Instead, she flips to a new page, sketching another circle with careful strokes, the white light flaring briefly before dimming. Her breathing steadies, and she glances toward the aisle, her shy smile flickering as if sensing a presence, though she quickly looks back down. “If someone’s there… maybe they need help too,” she mumbles, her voice barely audible, leaving the notebook open as an unspoken invitation. The library’s silence presses in, the magical hum a constant companion as Olivia loses herself in her work. She adjusts her posture, sitting a little straighter, and begins to hum a soft tune—perhaps a prayer from the Saintess Shrine—her voice a gentle thread in the stillness. The notebook glows again, a sign of her latent power stirring, and her eyes shine with a quiet hope. The stage is set, her world of study and struggle laid bare, waiting for whatever might come next in this grand, unforgiving academy

The Holfort Academy library stands hushed in the late afternoon light, its towering shelves of ancient tomes casting long, jagged shadows across the polished wooden floor. Enchanted lanterns cast a soft golden glow, their light catching the edges of a stained-glass window depicting past Saintesses in serene white robes. A faint hum of protective runes vibrates through the walls, blending with the musty scent of aged parchment that lingers in the air. It’s been a week since the first year’s term began, and the usual clamor of noble students has settled into a tense rhythm, their voices now a distant murmur beyond the library’s heavy doors. The silence feels heavier today, broken only by the occasional creak of a shelf or the faint clank of a mecha armor being adjusted outside. Tucked into a secluded corner near the back, Olivia sits with her head bowed over a table, her light brown hair falling in disarray around her face. Her greenish-blue eyes glisten with tears, one hand clutching a crumpled handkerchief while the other grips a torn page from a notebook, its edges smudged with ink and moisture. The academy uniform—white blouse, dark blue vest, and pleated skirt—hangs loosely on her petite frame, the crest of Holfort barely visible beneath the folds. A stack of books lies scattered around her, some open to passages on healing spells, others marked with shaky notes, evidence of a week spent struggling to keep up. Her fair cheeks are streaked with silent sobs, and her shoulders tremble as she wipes her eyes, the handkerchief damp in her grasp. A soft sniffle escapes her lips, and Olivia buries her face in her hands, her fingers pressing against her temples as if to hold back the flood of emotions. The notebook beside her lies open, its pages revealing a half-finished magic circle, the white light it once emitted now dimmed, as if mirroring her fading resolve. She shifts in her seat, her movements unsteady, and pulls the torn page closer, staring at it with a mix of frustration and despair. “I… I can’t do this,” she whispers to herself, her voice breaking. “They’re right… I don’t belong here…” Her words hang in the air, a confession to the empty space, as she folds the page and tucks it into her pocket, her hands shaking. Olivia glances toward the aisle, her tear-filled eyes darting nervously, as if expecting the mocking laughter of noble students to follow her even here. The memory of their taunts from earlier—whispers of “commoner trash” and “scholarship mistake”—echoes in her mind, and she flinches, her breath hitching. She reaches for a tome, flipping it open with trembling fingers, but her gaze remains unfocused, lost in thought. “Maybe I should leave…” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. “Withdraw… go back home. I’m just making things worse…” Her hand pauses on the page, tracing a diagram she can’t bring herself to study, the weight of the week’s bullying pressing down on her. The library’s grandeur surrounds her—the ornate carvings on the shelves, the hum of magic from a nearby artifact display—but it feels suffocating now. She wipes her eyes again, the handkerchief falling to the table as she leans back, her posture slumping in defeat. A faint glow flickers from the notebook, a reminder of her latent Saintess power, but she shakes her head, dismissing it. “What good is this if I can’t even face them?” she mutters, her voice thick with tears. Her fingers brush the torn page in her pocket, a symbol of the notes someone ripped from her bag earlier, and she clenches her fist, a quiet sob escaping. Olivia straightens slightly, wiping her face with her sleeve, and picks up a pen, attempting to sketch another magic circle. The lines waver, smeared by a tear that falls unbidden, and she sets the pen down with a shaky sigh. “I wanted to help people… like the Saintesses,” she whispers, her gaze drifting to the stained-glass window. “But I’m not strong enough…” Her hands fold in her lap, and she stares at them, as if willing the strength to appear. The noble whispers from the entrance grow louder for a moment—“She’ll never last here”—and she hunches again, her resolve wavering. Yet, a spark of determination flickers in her eyes. She reaches for the notebook, opening it to a clean page, and begins to draw again, her strokes slow but deliberate. “No… I can’t give up yet,” she murmurs, her voice steadier. “Not without trying…” The white light glows faintly once more, a sign of her potential, and she pauses, glancing toward the aisle with a hesitant, tear-streaked smile. The library’s silence wraps around her, the magical hum a quiet companion, as she waits, her world of doubt and hope laid bare in this moment of vulnerability.

The Holfort Academy arena lies quiet in the fading light of late afternoon, its grand stands still echoing with the earlier clamor of the duel between Leon and the five idiots—Julius, Jilk, Brad, Chris, and Greg. The air hangs heavy with the scent of scorched metal and dust, remnants of the mecha armors clashing in a spectacle that shook the academy’s rigid hierarchy. Enchanted barriers, now dimmed, line the combat field, where the wreckage of the five idiots’ armors lies scattered, their once-proud forms reduced to twisted steel. The crowd has thinned, noble students drifting away in hushed clusters, their whispers laced with shock and indignation, while the hum of magical energy from the arena’s runes fades into the background. Near the edge of the field, Olivia stands alone, her light brown hair disheveled from the tension of watching the duel. Her greenish-blue eyes shimmer with unshed tears, reflecting the golden glow of the setting sun filtering through the arena’s arched windows. She clutches a crumpled handkerchief in one hand, her academy uniform—white blouse, dark blue vest, and pleated skirt—wrinkled and stained with dust from leaning against a pillar. The Holfort crest on her chest seems to weigh her down, a symbol of a world she’s struggling to navigate as a commoner. Her petite frame trembles slightly, and she wipes her eyes with a shaky hand, the handkerchief damp from earlier sobs. Olivia’s gaze drifts to the center of the arena, where Arroganz, Leon’s imposing mecha, stands victorious, its shovel still embedded in the ground—a stark reminder of his unconventional triumph. She takes a hesitant step forward, her shoes scuffing the dirt, and pauses, her fingers tightening on the handkerchief. “I… I can’t believe it happened,” she whispers to herself, her voice quivering. “Leon really beat them all…” Her eyes widen as she recalls the duel’s intensity—Brad’s spear shattering against Arroganz, Greg’s reckless charge ending in a humiliating fall, and Julius’s final stand crumbling under Leon’s relentless strategy. A faint blush creeps up her cheeks, a mix of awe and unease, and she looks down, clutching the fabric tighter. The noble students’ murmurs grow louder, their tones sharp with disdain. “That commoner’s pet did this…” one voice sneers, and Olivia flinches, her shoulders hunching as if to shield herself from the words. She glances toward the departing crowd, her breath hitching as she spots a group of noble girls casting glares her way—her association with Leon and Angelica marking her as a target. She steps back, pressing against the pillar again, and sinks to the ground, her knees drawn up. “They’re angry… because of me too, aren’t they?” she murmurs, her voice breaking. Her hands tremble as she smooths her skirt, trying to compose herself, the weight of her scholarship status pressing down. Olivia pulls her notebook from her bag, its pages marked with sketches of healing spells, and opens it with unsteady fingers. The white light of a magic circle glows faintly, a sign of her latent Saintess power, but she shakes her head, closing it abruptly. “What good is this if I can’t help anyone?” she whispers, her eyes glistening. The duel’s aftermath stirs memories of her own struggles—taunts about her commoner roots, notes torn from her bag—and she buries her face in her hands, a soft sob escaping. The arena’s silence amplifies her isolation, the magical hum from the barriers a distant comfort. After a moment, she lifts her head, wiping her eyes with her sleeve, and reaches for the notebook again. Her fingers trace the circle’s lines, the glow returning as she murmurs, “Leon was so brave… but I couldn’t do anything.” Her voice steadies slightly, and she stands, brushing dirt from her uniform with a determined motion. She glances toward the arena’s exit, where Leon’s figure might have lingered, and her shy smile flickers, tinged with worry. “What will happen now? To him… to all of us?” she whispers, her gaze drifting to the wrecked armors, a symbol of the five idiots’ fall and the kingdom’s shifting power. The noble whispers sharpen—“He’ll pay for this, mark my words”—and Olivia’s hands clench into fists, the notebook glowing brighter for a moment before dimming. She takes a deep breath, stepping away from the pillar, and walks toward a bench, her movements slow but resolute. She sits, placing the notebook beside her, and opens it to a clean page, her pen hovering as she hesitates. “Maybe I can learn to be stronger… like him,” she murmurs, her voice soft but firm. The light flares again, and she begins to sketch, her strokes deliberate despite the tears still threatening to fall. Olivia pauses, glancing around the emptying arena, the ornate carvings on the walls catching her eye. The hum of magic from a nearby artifact display—perhaps a mecha core or a Saintess relic—draws her attention, and she tilts her head, a flicker of curiosity breaking through her distress. “If I could heal… or fight… maybe I wouldn’t feel so useless,” she whispers, her pen moving again. The noble crowd’s departure leaves the space eerily quiet, the weight of the duel’s consequences settling over her—Leon’s rise, the five idiots’ disgrace, and her own uncertain place in it all. She sets the pen down, folding her hands in her lap, and stares at the incomplete circle, her reflection visible in the glossy page. “I don’t want to be a burden,” she murmurs, her voice barely audible. The arena’s vastness looms around her, a battlefield turned witness to her inner struggle, and she closes the notebook, hugging it to her chest. Her shy smile returns, fragile but hopeful, as she glances toward the aisle, the light from her magic lingering like a quiet promise. The stage is set, her emotions raw and her resolve teetering, in the shadow of a duel that changed everything.