Andel hated the Academy. Hated his class.

  The Kergastel bloodline was known for one thing—[Knight]. His father was one. His eldest three brothers were already leading platoons. Even his fourth brother, who recently graduated from the academy, had been sent to the border with a gleaming badge as his first task.

  Andel?

  He was the fifth son. His class? [Lancer].

  The last known [Lancer] on record was a successful farmer from the province who used his pitchfork more often than his skill. Even his little sister, the sixth child, was granted [Mage]. That was acceptable, especially for a girl. One of the common classes but still considered as one of the strongest classes.

  But him?

  He wasn’t even sure if [Lancer] was a combat class. He came last in Physical Enhancement I, trailing behind even the support casters. He tried swords, hammers, axes—even a bow once. None of them felt right in his hands. Not even the spear, his so-called destined weapon.

  He used to be ashamed of being placed in the Copper Class. The lowest of the low. But that changed.

  Because they were like him—strange, uncertain. Misfits. He finally felt a flicker of belonging. Commoners they might be, but they were his people.

  At least, that’s what he thought.

  Now, he just felt left behind. The room had shifted. Everyone else seemed to be growing.

  Kana, Boris, Suri—the odd trio who enrolled late to new classes and somehow still rose to the top according to the rumours. Rin already had figured out her skill, and Suri was helping her hone it. Toby received a special license from the Adventurer’s Guild—his healing could apparently fix wounds that shouldn’t be possible to heal. Roy, quiet but focused, took diligent notes and seemed to be cracking the mechanics of his strange ability. Adam had found some weird method to increase his strength, and was already talking theory with Boris like a proper scholar though they kind of weird to be called scholar.

  He was still at square one.

  When someone had a question about a class or skill, they went to Kana. A village girl who reads books like she was born in a library. She always had an answer, and worse—she was usually right.

  But he wouldn’t ask her.

  Because if he didn’t understand his class, then she wouldn’t either. He probably read more books than her.

  It happened on a normal day. Nothing special. The sun was too bright in the afternoon, the training grounds too loud. Andel was catching his breath after the third set of laps in Physical Enhancement I when Suri approached him.

  She didn’t even look winded. Her boots barely left tracks on the dirt.

  “You’re too weak,” she said simply.

  He couldn’t argue.

  She was right.

  Even a mana-type user class like her, not to mention a support type—one who focused on illusions—had crossed the finish line minutes before him.

  Before he could say anything, she added, “You should ask Kana. About your class.”

  Then she walked off, no more words offered. As if the matter was already settled.

  Ask Kana.

  As if it were that easy.

  It wasn’t about pride. Not anymore. He’d lost that a long time ago. It was fear.

  What if she looked at him, and said, Yes, Andel. Your class is as the records say. A farmer’s lineage.

  What if the books were right?

  What then?

  Could he keep training? Could he keep showing up every day with a class meant to grow wheat, not wield weapons?

  Better to know. It was better than wasting time. Maybe there was something more about farming.

  …..

  It was early morning on the second day of the week. Combat classes were scheduled later in the afternoon, leaving the trio and a handful of copper-class students lounging around, talking about everything and nothing. Kana sat in her usual corner, a small pile of books beside her—this time, she was buried in texts about the adoption process.

  “Can I talk to you?”

  Andel’s voice broke the rhythm of idle chatter. He stood at the doorway, gesturing toward outside the classroom.

  It was unusual. Andel rarely initiated conversation. The class fell silent, more out of surprise than curiosity. Kana blinked once, looked up from her book, then glanced at Rin and Suri—who gave her a subtle nod. Rin’s [Judgement] skill confirmed it before that Andel was not a bad person.

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  Kana stood and nodded, “Sure.”

  They walked under the nearest tree—far enough from the others to avoid prying ears.

  Andel took a deep breath. “I… I want to know. If my class is really meant for farming. Like in the books.”

  Kana stared at him, then… laughed. A short, honest laugh, one hand on her stomach. Andel was stunned for a moment, it was the first time she saw Kana laugh like that. He knew she was laughing at him but he couldn’t help but smile.

  “Sorry,” she said between chuckles. “It’s just—I don’t know what books you’ve been reading, but no. Your class wasn’t meant for farming.”

  Andel blinked. “Really? But I can’t use any weapons properly. I also can’t feel or use mana.”

  Kana tilted her head, considering. There was no harm in helping him—not when he was the son of a high ranking noble house like Kergastel. A small favor here could open a good opportunity in the future.

  The problem was, she wasn’t even sure if lances existed. She’d visited the spear shops with Boris a few times, scanning every rack, every wall—yet never saw anything resembling a proper lance. Not even close.

  But then… a memory surfaced.

  “The Jousting Tournament,” she said suddenly.

  It was one of the events before the main event in the annual tournament. She read the tales of them from the books and heard the excitement it brought from the merchants passed by back in the village.

  Andel frowned. “You mean that festival sport? With the long, blunt wooden spears?”

  “Yes,” Kana said. “Try using one of those—alongside your skill.”

  He hesitated. “But… that’s not a real weapon. It’s for mounted duels. It’s too long, too heavy. No one actually uses it in a fight.”

  “Try it anyway,” Kana gave him a hint, “If it feels right, you can always modify it.”

  Andel stared at her for a moment, then slowly nodded. “I’ll try.”

  ……

  He was too late.

  By the time they called him, the mana traces in the underground vault were already fading—mere echoes of what had happened. Pit stepped softly across the cold stone floor, gaze sweeping across the racks that once held dozens of secure vaults. All gone now.

  He could picture it: rows of reinforced chests, enchanted and sealed, heavy with coin and forbidden contracts. Now only dust and emptiness remained.

  He exhaled a slow sigh. "Thieves disguised as merchants," he muttered under his breath. "Robbed by thieves. How ironic."

  They must have had their own investigation team—amateurs, most likely. And when that failed, they called in someone reliable. Someone expensive.

  Someone like him.

  [Finder], a rare class. So rare, in fact, that to his knowledge, he was the only one still active. Not a fighter. Not a support. Not production type. He was something else entirely. A one-man division of truth. And was granted a special type of license by the adventurer guild.

  He’d been employed by nobles, royalty, guilds, common people who wanted to find the truth. It didn’t matter who they were—as long as he was paid.

  He wasn’t reckless, though. Not anymore. He had a team now. Three copper-class adventurers who specialized in detection and protection. Hiring them had drained a good chunk of his fee, but it was worth it. When you dug into secrets this deep, you needed people watching your back.

  “Nothing but footprints,” Roa reported. She was the best of the three—sharp-eyed, a [Scout] who had top notch detection skills and strong enough to pass the Adventurer’s guild exam.

  “They’re good,” Pit murmured. He knelt and touched the floor. Cold mana brushed against his fingers, disturbed, but not erased.

  “They knew how to cover their tracks,” he said, narrowing his eyes. “But not well enough.”

  To anyone else, the place would feel empty. Sterile. But to him, the magic was still whispering—faint, fragile, but there.

  He closed his eyes, centered his breathing, and pressed his hand to the floor.

  [Rerun]

  It was one of his signature skills—his secret edge. When activated, it could show back the past, reconstructing events by unraveling the mana that had once filled the space. Like a trail of smoke revealing the fire that made it.

  But this time, the Voice of God roared in his mind. The text of God flashing across his vision like an angry accusation.

  [ERROR: Insufficient Residual Mana Detected]

  He gritted his teeth from the loud sound coming from the Text of God. He didn’t know what it really meant but either too much time had passed, or someone had tampered with the mana traces. His skill wouldn’t be able to help him this time around.

  He let out a long breath, then stood.

  "You called me too late," he said, his voice calm but carrying the weight of finality. A dozen members of the organization stood in silence behind him, watching from the shadowed corners of the ruined vault. “This wasn’t yesterday. Could’ve been days ago. Weeks. The mana’s nearly gone. I can’t use [Rerun], and even [Trace] won’t show anything.”

  Murmurs passed among them, edged with unease. They had paid well for results. But Pit had never promised miracles—only truth.

  When the magic failed, there was only one path left: back to basics. Old school then.

  No skills. No system notifications. Just intuition, and years of walking through lies to find the thread of what really happened.

  He crouched beside a section of scorched stone. Dust shifted beneath his fingers. Most of the footprints were standard issue—thick-soled boots worn by the guards or personnel of the organization. Uniform, heavy.

  But one... no, two sets stood out. Lighter. One larger than the rest—taller man, maybe wide-shouldered. The other… small.

  Not delicate, like a noblewoman’s heel. Not clumsy like a child’s.

  “A girl,” he murmured aloud. “Young. But not too young. Not a fighter’s weight, but not ordinary either... She manipulated mana. And she did it well.”

  He didn’t say the rest.

  Because there was only one place in the city that nurtured people like that.

  The Academy.

  He met Roa’s eyes across the vault of racks. A simple look exchanged between professionals. She’d already noticed it too.

  But more than that—her expression was wary. Tense.

  Before they’d entered, she’d whispered a warning. Something was watching.

  Because whoever these thieves were… they weren’t just skilled.

  They were dangerous.

  And very likely, still watching.