----

Evan King rummaged in his memory for his first class. Professor Stefano Ricci, apparently. A professor of Magic Theory. A timid enough class. Making his way to the classroom and ignoring the stares, he seated himself in the front row, next to a skittery-looking first-year whose eyes widened at his existence.

The classroom was quite big, with a large chalkboard the size of a floor-to-ceiling window and books. Many, many books.

A dark-haired man wearing the light purple of a Professor's robe walked in. He had on spectacles, and a no-nonsense expression. He didn't seem very complicated, but then again appearances could be deceiving - Evan King assumed that this was Professor Ricci. Right on time. Following behind him was a masked teaching assistant, a curiosity that moved with practiced, fluid posture and sharp eyes peeking from behind the full face covering.

Evan was tempted to activate his All-Seeing Eyes, but they were still burning after checking the hallway and Vicenza's [Status].

The Professor scanned the seats, and his dark-eyed gaze landed on him.

"Did someone leave their child behind?" he asked, incredulously.

The bluntness of the statement caused laughter all around before the - teaching assistant? - tapped his shoulder. Evan King frowned, but with his enhanced senses he could hear her say, "he's a new student. We received word from the count…"

Professor Ricci's eyes squinted, but he didn't say anything further other than: "Apologies, young man. Would you like to introduce yourself?"

Evan shook his head.

There would be too many questions.

Murmurs.

Seemingly undisturbed from the refusal, Professor Ricci continued on opening his lecture.

"Anyone know about the Metaphysical Classification Theory?" he asked. Spying a hand, he pointed, "Yes, you. Over there with the dark hair in the first row."

A teacher's pet type girl with straight hair and a preppy smile answered, "It is the theory of a classification used to describe those who can Manipulate the Metaphysical."

"And what is the Metaphysical?" Professor Ricci further prompted.

"The principles of fundamental existence," the girl continued, "There are Higher Principles, and Lower Principles. Higher Principles are forces like being, knowing, time, and space, dealing with existence itself; while Lower Concepts being forces like justice and worth, dealing with existences in people's minds."

Interesting…

"Good. Sit down." Professor Ricci continued pacing. "However, most agree that the Metaphysical's Lower Concepts mostly deal with Self. Imagine if someone could Manipulate your Existence. Your sense of justice, your sense of worth - the world's sense of justice, the world's morals - as well as where you are in time and space. They could erase you from the world's memory, or even carve you into a puppet. Imagine what that sounds like." A pause. "Yes, you in the back row?"

The uniformed first year stood up hotly. "It sounds ridiculous. It's based on unfounded speculations, Mr. Stefano. It's a theory for a reason, this shouldn't even be part of the curriculum-"

Ah, those types of bastards. Evan tsked internally. Even if the professor had annoyed him, these know-it-all types were even more irritating.

"Professor Ricci," the professor corrected, his tone steely. "Sit down, student, and let me explain."

The professor faced the audience.

"Is the class not called Magic Theory? If you don't want to learn, then don't learn. Quit this class. I, as a professor, could not care less, you uneducated sw-"

It was pretty obvious what he was about to say before he was cut off by the teaching assistant.

"Professor," she rebuked gently, "I think I should cut in."

"Ingrid? Ah yes, you can pick up where I left off if you'd like to," Professor Ricci replied, missing the point.

The masked teaching assistant turned, and Evan King could see a raw, bloody yet somewhat healed scar threateningly stretching until the assistant's pale neck. It should've been obvious, but he hadn't seen it at his seated angle.

"Continuing on from Gerald's most delightful point," Ingrid continued, "yes. It is a theory. And yes, it is just as important as regular subjects. Why? Because there is proof supporting it."

Gerald, the hot-tempered youth, could be seen wilting. It was clear that most of the class were somewhat scared of the scarred, masked lady with a sword.

"What proof?" he demanded, although a tad weaker. "And what qualifications have you?"

"Probably more than you," the assistant answered, "but that's besides the point. The Thief's Brand. I'm sure all of you are aware? The-"

Gerald insisted, "The Holy Swords are just a legend. They don't exist-"

"Might I remind you," Ingrid repeated, quietly but icily, "to not earn the ire of an entire kingdom's belief. It makes it difficult for people to input without bias." They made heated eye contact, and the teaching assistant's eyes grew chilling.

Almost as a reflex, Evan King stood ramrod up.

All eyes travelled to the young child's figure, in the first row.

"What's the Thief's Brand?" he blurted. He regretted it as some of the crowd burst in laughter, even including the professor who was at a table on the sidelines.

"It's alright." Ingrid smiled. "I can explain - what was your name again? It makes it a tad difficult to address you, since you neglected to introduce yourself earlier."

It wasn't neglected, I just didn't want to.

"Evan King."

Ingrid froze.

"Excuse me?" she asked.

"I said, it's Evan King. Of Central Resilia," he clarified.

----

"Do you know Richard King?" Novarra asked.

She could feel her features stiff, her eyes cold. Were her hands shaking? They couldn't be shaking. Novarra never shook. Or flinched. At least never unwillingly. Souveraine had told her that she would meet someone today.

It couldn't be.

It couldn't be.

It really couldn't be.

He was supposed to transmigrate twenty years after she left Resilia.

She kept her tone poised and perfect, as if she was asking a perfectly casual question. She couldn't take off her assistant mask yet, that would tip people off, and she couldn't murder an entire classroom.

The five-year-old child looked taken aback.

"You know my uncle?"

This could be just the commoner Novarra, blessed with magical powers. The System - that fucking butterfly effect, damn that infernal Meta. Unpredictability. She was fucked. Very, very fucked.

How could she know if he was a transmigrator? Fumbling for something, any phrase that Evan King liked from back on Earth, Novarra blinked.

She felt everyone's eyes on her, even the children and the professor's.

"Veni, vidi," she said, calmly, unlike what she was feeling on the inside. Blurting out the phrase that Evan had plastered as Cavialierre's motto...a decent enough spur-of-the-moment decision, she supposed. A tumultuous assortment of panic was felt, as the child's - no, Evan's - expression slowly contorted. Realization dawned on his face as it slowly morphed into one of understanding. And caution.

"Vici," he replied, finishing the saying. Julius Caesar. Evan would've known, since he went to X University and double-majored in history and literature for a while.

With a nod of acknowledgement and a knowing exchange of glances, Novarra resumed teaching. With her awareness of Evan King's personality, he would know better than to not make a scene right now.

Her heart wasn't in it.

Explaining, she meant.

She did have some interest in the Meta Theory, since it could prove the existence of the System, but having to explain it to a bunch of whiny teenagers when the professor just sat at his desk reading - while dealing with a crisis, she might add - wasn't exactly Novarra's definition of a good day.

After a while, she organized a debate - basically a pissing match between haughty children - for the existence of the theory. Gerald Vanahan, being the recipient of #1 Pissy Brat Award - hosted by Varra, judged by Varra, and set in Varra's head - that he was, almost punched someone in the face. Being a marquis' third son, he had nearly gotten away with it, if his other opponent hadn't been a noble of the same caliber. The two had been sent to the count's office, to await further judgement.

The incident was one of the tamer ones of what usually happened in the Academy, but Novarra was tempted to fling off the mask and slaughter everyone in sight.

She was panicking. That was an established fact.

Novarraliked to think of herself as a mostly calm person, who dealt with things as they came. That didn't mean she was unflappable. Who wouldn't panic if they isekai'ed into an isekai, and the original protagonist of said isekai transmigrated five years early?

She had no doubt that Novarra would use his All-Seeing Eyes on her, and if he did she was sure Varra would figure out that she was the Former Queen of Resilia and piece everything together.

Everything was ruined. Her goal of living a peaceful life? Also ruined.

No, scratch that - everything was ruined from the moment the System had visited her again.

Oh, how people love to crush my dreams, she thought half-sarcastically.

All she had ever wanted was a peaceful life.

And now the tatters of her once-flying banner of motivation rested on the ground, majestically torn. Novarra would've dramatically wept if it weren't for the audience.

The bell rang, and class was dismissed.

Evan King approached her first, the tall five year old waddling almost awkwardly. He reached barely her shoulder, as he tapped it and whispered, "Your Former Majesty Novarra. After class, where should we meet?"

Goddamnit.

"We do have much to discuss," Novarra mused, quietly, "couldn't you just skip the first day? I hear there's a deadline, especially for those at the border. After all, didn't you come here to find me?" A logical conclusion.

Evan gave a noise of hesitant assent. "I guess so, Your Former Majesty. Let us be off."

"Follow me, separately, to an inn," Novarra suggested. "I will depart, and you should follow after leaving discreetly."

Was that a forceful enough order? He had addressed her as Your Former Majesty - was he trying to make a point?

With that, she willed her body to [Shift]. Her fingers merged with the air around her, the soft drink sensation becoming molecules vibrating as she became air. It was disconcerting, how easily you could be something else here. Magic. Shifting was a rare skill, but the foreign feeling was an almost calming one. She could feel her form follow the currents, as she directed herself towards the general vicinity of the inn - light as a feather, as if she was made of cloud.

Colors sped past as she wafted out of a window, took a fast current and looked beneath as she floated above the skies. More smoke, much, much, more smoke than the bright pastels of Rook.

Finally, she spotted the tell-tale misshapen roof of the ragged Silver Leaf Inn, whirling past the open window of her room on the second floor and solidifying.

And stood, shaky.

Souveraine had said that the border rebels were planning to attack Rook. It hadn't been mentioned in the original story, so her advantage of knowing the future wasn't worth shit. It was probably a ripple effect from Evan King's early transmigration, which Novarra still had a hard time wrapping her head around. She had planned to leave after meeting, to either wipe the camp out by herself, gather intelligence, or even evacuate.

Assessing the choices, she rapidly calculated her current situation.

Evan King had transmigrated early. The soul of a twenty-year-old office worker that was supposed to be in the twenty-year-old body of a commoner in another world, was now in the five-year-old body of said commoner.

Options:

[1] Talk to Evan King and not reveal that he is in a book

[2] Talk to Evan and reveal information in exchange for help

[3] Team up with Evan to find the other transmigrator

[4] Ignore Evan and run away

Rook was going to be attacked, by an unknown amount of rebels in a vague timeframe, said to be a few weeks from now. This would likely provide both a disadvantage politically and have kingdom-wide effects. The matter would also likely gain a significant amount of attention.

Options:

[1] H-

------------

Her calculations were interrupted by a knock on the door.

"Your Former Majesty," Evan called, "I'm here."

Fuck.

---