Castor Whitmore.
Certainly the average, ordinary, run-of-the-mill commoner you'd find everywhere.
Seated among the thousand other students, it'd be hard to spot him as he doesn't have any distinguishable features.
He's not exactly charming but he's not bad-looking either.
Looking at his phone during an entrance ceremony, he was that type of student—the one who didn't care about the same, old boring speech that was given every year by the highest scoring student in their grade.
Text Message: [Castor, where are you? Can't see!]
Castor lifted his head up and looked around, trying to spot a familiar face from atop the seats, however, he was unsuccessful. He was hoping to know of his friend's location.
Reply: [I'm on the top layer. Can you see me?]
He had his eyes fixated on the bottom section, if any student in the distance looked around, he'd know that was his friend.
However, he did not find any student acting like that, in response, he got an awkward silence from his friend before another text message.
Text Message: [Can you be more specific?]
Castor: [How specific do you need me to be...]
Castor murmured to himself, making sure the person next to him couldn't hear him.
He thought of an absurd plan that would probably give him a few weird stares but at least it would end this pointless conversation between him and his friend and they could find eachother in the stands.
Reply: [I'll wave my hand when I text you again, keep looking at the top section!]
He had to be specific, so she wouldn't miss it.
Text Message: [OK.]
Reply: [Now!]
Castor immediately started waving his hand, although a few students near him started to give him weird looks, he was finally able to spot his friend—Misha Caleb, in the bottom section, waving her hand in response.
They'd been friends since childhood, weirdly enough, people say, "Boys and girls can't ever be friends," because the sex part gets in the way, however, Castor and Misha didn't have any sort of problems. In fact, Castor didn't even care about Misha's gender, and he believed Misha didn't either.
They were comfortable with eachother and the fact they were both from the opposite sex didn't bother them at all.
It was a mutual and genuine friendship built on clear boundaries and trust.
Text Message: [Saw you. What a bold plan, though. Are you not embarrassed?]
There was no way Castor wouldn't be embarrassed after such a stunt, he cleared about his reputation and image more then anything.
Reply: [I am, but... ending this farce seemed more important. Are you even listening to this speech?]
Text Message: [Snowflake Everhart. The noble daughter of the Everhart family. The student representative. The prodigy—you betcha I am. I can guess what you're thinking, "It's just a same old boring speech about upholding the school's dignity, what's the point?" Right?]
Castor has never felt so seen before. Although that was exactly his thought process, he was surprised that Misha was actually paying attention, she must really be that impressive, Castor thought.
Reply: [Right.]
An ordinary reply to put an end to this conversation.
He laid back in his seat, deciding to make sense of the words being said aloud.
Snowflake Everhart: [...at Dicarthen, we will make sure we create a community where both nobles and commoners can study together without any discrimination or involvement of status, wealth or glory.]
Ha! Castor scoffed.
The difference between the commoners and the nobles was always gonna be there, no matter how much someone advocated against it.
It's strange, really—how two people can live in the same city, breathe the same air, and yet exist in completely different worlds. The rich walk like the ground owes them softness, like doors were made to open before they even knock. The poor... they carry themselves like they're always bracing for the next hit, always calculating, always surviving. For the rich, choices are luxuries. For the poor, choices are trade-offs—what to give up so something else can stay afloat. Maybe that's the real difference. Not money, but the illusion of freedom. One side lives, the other side endures.
Dicarthen Academy stands tall like a monument to perfection—marble towers, sprawling libraries, AI-integrated classrooms, and training grounds that rival military compounds. To the outside world, it is the pinnacle of academic and technological advancement, where young minds are molded into leaders. But behind the gilded walls lies a truth carefully hidden under polished uniforms and award ceremonies.
For nobles, Dicarthen is a kingdom within a kingdom—lavish dorms, private mentors, influence, and impunity. They walk the halls as if they own them, and often, they do. Their names echo in every building wing, etched in donor plaques and whispered in respect—or fear.
For commoners, Dicarthen is a daily warzone dressed as an opportunity. They're the scholarship kids, the background noise, the ones who sit at the edge of greatness but are never invited in. Harshly judged, constantly monitored, and always one misstep away from expulsion, their presence is tolerated, not welcomed. Equality is a myth here, written in brochures but never practiced in classrooms.
At Dicarthen, brilliance means nothing if it doesn't come with a bloodline.
That was the true reality of this academy and Francis.
Francis is a city that feels like it was carved out of legend—cobblestone streets winding through grand plazas, towering cathedrals casting long shadows, and flags fluttering from every balcony, each bearing the crest of old noble houses. The air always carries the faint clang of steel, not from war, but from tradition. In Francis, swordsmanship isn't just a skill—it's a language, a measure of honor, status, and identity.
Here, duels settle disputes more often than courts. Schools dedicated to the art of the blade line the city's heart, and children are taught stances before they learn to write. The nobility takes pride in their fencing lineage, with generations boasting titles earned in arenas as sacred as any church. Even commoners respect the blade—it's a rare, but real, way to rise.
Despite its elegance and old-world charm, Francis thrives in a tense equilibrium. Beneath its romance lies discipline, pride, and a touch of bloodlust passed down through centuries. In this city, a man's worth isn't counted in gold or intellect—it's measured in the sharpness of his blade and the grace with which he wields it.
In all honesty, Castor didn't know the first thing about swordsmanship or fencing.
Castor was here for a purpose.
Snowflake Everhart: [...with that, I'd like to conclude my speech, thank you very much!]
Sounds of clapping burst out in the auditorium, although most students including Castor didn't bother to listen the whole thing, everyone had to appreciate a lady—especially one from a renowned house.
Connections were everything—this is a dog-eat-dog world. Every step, every word, everything matters here.
As everyone stood up to leave the auditorium and head to their dorm rooms, Castor stood by the exit, waiting for a familiar face.
Misha: [Well, hello there, Prince Charming.]
Castor: [Can you forget about that? That was in elementary school.]
Elementary school. The starting and the dark phase of everyone's lives where no one has any fucking idea what they're doing. Innocent little Castor was given the role of Prince Charming, with the role to save a damsel in distress.
Misha still finds unique ways to tease Castor.
Misha: [You were a great actor.]
Castor: [Past tense. Heading for the dorms now?]
Misha: [Mhm, you?]
Of course, Castor was doing the same. He didn't have any purpose or something to do otherwise.
Castor: [Of course.]
So,
How the fuck did he end up here?
A knife in hand, blood splatter everywhere, blood-soaked hands, a lifeless body on the ground...
Castor: [...This isn't me. I-I didn't—]
To figure out how he even arrived at this situation, we need to rewind to about an hour ago.