Saturday morning broke quietly over the capital, painting the city in soft hues of peach and gold. The academy campus still dozed under the early light, but in a well-hidden corner of the city—inside a reinforced, high-ceilinged workshop funded by the royal family—Elara Wyrmshade was already hard at work.
Her long hair was pulled into a sloppy bun, sleeves rolled, soot on her cheek. Around her: parchment blueprints, gemstone fragments, glowing stabilizer cores, and a desk cluttered with half-assembled trinkets.
She held up a pair of delicate silver rings—no bigger than a coin. Elegant, discreet, and lined with micro-runes only visible under mana detection.
"Please work this time," she muttered, sliding the Mana-Kompressor-Ohrringe into place.
A faint hum. A chill up her spine. Her breath hitched.
Clarity.
Her thoughts sharpened as if a fog had lifted. Peripheral distractions faded. Her heartbeat slowed. Even the slight soreness in her shoulders eased.
Curious, she checked her reflection in a polished scrap of metal.
Her eyes shimmered faintly with an unnatural gleam—like liquid crystal. Her cheekbones looked higher, her skin smoother, her jawline more elegant.
"...What."
She poked her own cheek. "No way. Already?"
There was no mistaking it. She looked subtly—dangerously—gorgeous.
Trying not to panic, she turned to her second invention: a gleaming golden anklet, set with tiny embedded diamonds acting as mana capacitors. Elegant runes wrapped around its surface, each etched with precision into the fine metal. This was her Gravitationstalisman, reborn in ornamental luxury.
She clipped it around her ankle beneath her stockings and slowly fed mana into it.
Instantly, her entire frame aligned.
Her posture lifted without effort. Her stance felt… perfect. When she walked, her movements had a slow, flowing precision—as if she'd trained for years in noble courts.
She tried to stomp.
Graceful.
She tried to slouch.
Still graceful.
She facepalmed, then groaned.
"Oh, come on—this is ridiculous."
In the cafeteria later, Lyria and Sylv both noticed.
"Okay," Lyria said, squinting. "You're definitely shinier."
"Elara, your gaze could cut glass," Sylv added, her spoon pausing midair. "That's not a complaint. Your eyes look lethal. I love it."
"I didn't do this on purpose!"
"You're practically glowing."
"I just wanted to focus better while working on rune sequences."
"And accidentally invented elegance."
Sylv leaned in dramatically, "Tell me the truth. Are you secretly from noble blood? Because your gait screams 'royal debutante.'"
Elara nearly choked on her tea.
In Etiketteklasse that afternoon, the nightmare became real.
The teacher, a sharp-eyed noblewoman named Lady Mirvelle, instructed the students on courtly walking.
"Lift your chin. Shoulders back. Every step must glide, not stomp. Like this."
Elara mimicked the pose.
Lady Mirvelle paused. Stared.
"Miss Wyrmshade… That is perfect. No—exemplary. Everyone, observe her form."
Half the class turned to look.
Elara wanted to implode on the spot.
"Note the heel placement. The balance of the stride. The subtle, regal curve of her spine. This is what noble comportment looks like."
A boy whispered, "She must be a duchess's daughter."
A girl murmured, "I heard she glows because of some highblood ritual."
Elara's soul left her body.
Back in the dorms, she collapsed face-first onto her bed.
Sylv flopped down beside her. "You realize you just got crowned class queen, right?"
"I didn't ask for this."
"But your ankles did."
Elara groaned into her pillow.
Meanwhile, across the cafeteria, her fanclubs were meeting again.
"Silverflame says her balance is unnatural. Definitely enhanced," one student declared.
"Lichtrosen disagrees. We believe she's simply that elegant."
A third chimed in, "Either way, she must be from some secret royal bloodline. Her magic, her gait, those eyes?"
"Should we… propose?"
"Absolutely not. We're dignified admirers."
Their club president raised a hand. "Then we await her next appearance. In heels."
Everyone nodded in solemn agreement.
Elara, oblivious, stared at herself in the mirror.
Glowing eyes. Impossibly elegant bearing. A beauty she didn't ask for.
She touched the earrings. The anklet.
"They were just tools," she whispered. "So why do I look like this?"
Her hand slid down to her waistline—firmer. Defined.
She hated how good she looked.
How am I going to survive this year?