Then, Stella’s calm, commanding voice cut through the low murmurs.
"Damien Cross," she began. "Not only did you engage in a True Duel with Stanley—an outstanding elite student who was merely upholding the academy’s principles—you’ve also shown a complete disregard for this institution by appearing here in violation of our dress code and decorum."
Her dark blue eyes lingered on him, steady but disapproving.
Damien exhaled softly, leaning back slightly in his chair.
"Elite this, elite that..." he muttered under his breath, then looked towards her. "Do you really think I care about any of that?"
The room went utterly silent for a heartbeat.
Then, before anyone could react, he continued, his gaze sweeping lazily across the long table.
"Just don’t get in my way," he continued. "And I’ll stay out of yours."
A wave of indignant gasps and murmurs erupted immediately among the gathered students.
"Did he just—?"
"How dare he talk to the president like that?"
"He doesn’t even deserve his position as a commoner!"
"Such arrogance..."
Their words overlapped, a flurry of shock and outrage filling the air.
Stanley’s face tightened in barely suppressed fury, while Tart looked smug, as if Damien had just proven every prejudice he held.
Meanwhile, Stella’s expression darkened slightly, her lips pressing into a thin line.
She stayed silent for a few seconds, her fingers tapping gently against the armrest of her chair as she studied Damien closely.
Finally, she exhaled softly, her voice calm again—but colder this time.
"...We’ll postpone this meeting for now," she said, breaking the tension.
Her eyes shifted briefly toward Stanley, then Damien.
"Let’s give our two new elites some time to settle in properly. For now, everyone is dismissed. Return to your dorms."
The students slowly began to rise from their seats, chairs scraping lightly against the polished floor as the murmurs continued.
Damien remained seated, unfazed by the whispers and stared casted towards him.
"Oh, one last thing," he said casually.
Every head turned toward him once more.
A faint smirk curled his lips as he met Stella’s gaze directly.
"I don’t plan on staying in the elite dorm."
The eyes of the elite students widened almost instantly, their expressions freezing as Damien’s words sank in.
Then, one of the boys—broad-shouldered, with short blonde hair and a perfectly pressed black and gold uniform—slammed his palm against the table.
His brows were furrowed in irritation as he rose to his feet, his tone sharp and incredulous.
"What’s that supposed to mean?" he demanded, his voice echoing slightly in the hall. "You’re rejecting the academy’s benefits?"
Damien didn’t flinch. He only smiled faintly, his tone calm but firm as he met the boy’s angry stare.
"I’m not rejecting it," he said. "But I won’t be living there permanently."
The blonde-haired boy’s mouth fell slightly open at the audacity of the statement.
Before he could respond, Tart suddenly stood up, his chair screeching loudly against the marble floor.
The veins in his neck bulged slightly as his noble composure cracked, his expression twisting in fury.
"You’re nothing but a commoner!" he spat, slamming his palm against the table again. "Are you trying to say the academy doesn’t live up to your expectations? That you’d rather stay in your stinking village?!"
Gasps echoed across the room at his outburst.
A flicker of amusement crossed Damien’s eyes, but it was quickly replaced by a cold, razor-sharp glint. He didn’t even hesitate before replying, his tone calm—almost too calm.
"Yes."
That single word fell like a hammer in the silence that followed.
Tart’s eyes widened, disbelief flashing across his face as if he couldn’t comprehend that anyone—let alone a "commoner"—would dare to answer like that.
Around them, the other elites shifted uncomfortably, their gazes darting between the two.
Stella’s brows twitched, her lips pressing into a tight line before she finally spoke, her voice low but firm.
"Staying in the dorms," she said, her blue eyes narrowing slightly, "is a way of respecting the academy itself. We won’t have you desecrate the academy’s dignity by returning to a... village dump."
Her words were controlled, but there was no mistaking the disdain buried beneath the surface.
Damien clicked his tongue softly, his face twisting in faint annoyance.
"Here we go again," he muttered. "With this dignity whatever."
He turned his gaze fully toward Stella, his expression shifting to something colder, sharper—no longer amused.
"How many of you here actually live in the dorms twenty-four-seven?" he asked, his tone suddenly louder, cutting through the growing murmurs. "Don’t you all go back to your homes at the end of the day? Or is it only a problem because I’m not a noble?"
The words hung in the air like a blade.
The other students fell silent again, a few of them looking away awkwardly, while others frowned, unwilling to admit the obvious truth.
Damien could read them easily, and he understood their thinking perfectly.
To them, his defiance wasn’t about the dorms or the academy. It was about status.
They didn’t actually care where he slept. What they couldn’t stand was the idea of a "commoner" choosing to walk away from what they considered a privilege.
In their eyes, him leaving the academy grounds to return to that little village meant dragging their "elite image" through the mud.
To them, the village was filth, a dump unworthy of even being mentioned beside the academy’s golden halls.
And to make things worse, they believed he should be grateful.
After all, they’d taken someone like him—a nobody from a rural slum—and placed him in the highest dormitory, fed him luxuries he’d never had before, dressed him in black and gold, and called him elite.
In their minds, that was charity.
He was supposed to bow his head and thank them for it.
He was supposed to worship the academy for giving him a title he hadn’t begged for.
Instead, he was acting so nonchalant, refusing to play along.
Damien’s gaze swept across the table again, the faint smirk returning to his lips.