Whispers filled the library like smoke.
"Did you hear? They've put Professor Arkwright in charge of that class."
"You mean … Class 1-F?"
"What else would I be talking about?"
"Seven days before the monthly evaluation? Now that's brutal."
"Right? I think Professor Varenthal's involved somehow."
"Wait, weren't they close recently?"
"Exactly. Mixing romance with work never ends well. Maybe he screwed something up on a date and—"
"And now she's pulling strings with the Dean to get rid of him?"
"Does the report for Class 3-A ready yet?"
The hushed voices snapped into silence.
Celeste Varenthal stood in front of them, her presence like a sudden frost. Her silver hair—normally tied with a black ribbon—now flowed loose, as if even it had been sharpened by her mood.
The librarians froze.
"I asked, is the Class 3-A report finished?" she repeated, her voice cool and laced with pointed sarcasm.
"Y-yes, Professor! Just a moment!"
One bolted away, leaving the other behind to drown in the silence.
You traitor, the remaining one cursed mentally, forcing a nervous smile. "H-how are you today, Professor?"
"It was a pleasant morning … until the gossip started flying." Her eyes narrowed. "Funny how brave people get when I'm not around."
The tension crackled in the air.
"Here's the report, Professor!" the other librarian returned, just in time to save her friend from further humiliation.
Fortunately, the report was accurate and tidy.
"At least you're doing your job."
It was the highest praise anyone could hope for from Celeste Varenthal.
"Orla Vein. Heath Mannerick."
"Y-yes, ma'am!" They stood straight as boards.
An urge to salute crept in, but instinct warned it'd only make things worse.
"Seems like you two have plenty of free time. I'll be sure to inform the Dean."
"Th-the Dean?!" Orla's voice cracked, her thoughts spiraling into panic: unemployment, homelessness, her mom saying 'I told you so'...
"Don't worry," Celeste added coolly. "Just a few extra duties to keep you focused."
Her violet eyes glinted—eyes that, according to rumor, once cursed a man into a statue of glowing red stone.
"…Better than wasting time whispering like schoolgirls, wouldn't you say?"
*#*
If there was one thing Silas hated about his new life, it was the coffee.
Bitter as hell.
Unless he drowned it in three sugar cubes, it was basically liquid despair.
Still awful, he thought, sipping with a grimace.
The heat singed his tongue. The flavor was chaos: bitter, sweet, sour—and was that salt?
I might vomit.
He dropped in another sugar cube anyway. At worst, he'd get diabetes.
Not that he knew if this body was even susceptible.
Because it wasn't his body.
Silas Redfield had died. Crushed in some meaningless accident. Swallowed by a void that didn't even echo.
And then, one day, he'd opened his eyes in a new world.
In a new body.
Lucien Arkwright—magic instructor, professional scapegoat.
Wasn't this called… irrigation? Transmigrated? Reincarnation?
He'd seen the term somewhere online. In some webcomicl forum, probably. He never read the stories, though.
No time. No interest.
Knock! Knock!
"Professor Arkwright? Are you awake?"
Silas turned to the door. Awake?
He hadn't slept. Twenty-four hours since his arrival, twenty-two of them spent reading like a man possessed.
They expect me to teach today …
He'd mentored interns before—but teaching? That was a whole different arena.
"Wide awake and positively glowing. You may come in, ma'am."
The door opened. Celeste Varenthal stepped in, gaze sweeping the room.
Curtains closed. Books everywhere. Bed unmade.
She frowned. Last time she'd visited, Lucien's room was military-grade neat. Can someone change this much in one day?, she thought.
Before the silence grew sharp, Silas spoke. "You've got something on your mind?"
He only had fragments of Lucien's memories—mostly from the past week. But they were enough to sketch a picture of Celeste.
Pragmatic. Direct. No tolerance for fluff.
And they weren't close. No reason for her to visit this early.
"You forgot your keycard." She held it out—a crimson badge with Lucien's face and the label Class 1-F.
"…Thanks."
That was it?
"After everything that happened, I didn't expect you to stay," Celeste said, her tone unreadable.
Wait. Did the original Lucien screw something up?
Silas had zero interest in inheriting someone else's workplace drama.
Celeste turned away, voice slicing through the air. "Whatever's driving you … I hope you're ready for the consequences."
The door shut behind her with a soft finality.
Well, that's a great start. Career's already circling the drain.
Silas sat back, staring at nothing.
Celeste Varenthal. Instructor of Class 3-A. Cold, calculated, and revered like a noble queen.
Maybe that was just how she treated everyone.
Assumptions were dangerous. He'd learned that much.
He ran a hand through his still-damp hair and opened the wardrobe.
He blinked.
Sky blue shirts. Lemon-yellow vests. Maroon shoes.
Okay. That explains her attitude.
The original Lucien dressed like a peacock with seasonal confusion.
An awkward extrovert and cynical introvert.
Yeah, that dynamic won't work well.
After ten minutes of pain and regret, he settled on a maroon turtleneck, black blazer, and black pants.
At least now he could look in the mirror and see something semi-human.
Tousled black hair. Pale skin. Sleep-deprived eyes.
One thing left.
He picked up the coffee and took a sip.
Still disgusting.