A fateful meeting? Really?

After the Duel — Silence.

But in a magic academy, silence is just background noise.

The real horror... hides on a plate.

From the arena to the dining hall — just two hundred steps.

Marcus counted them automatically.

One. Two. Three.

With each step, he recalled a blow, a block, someone’s line.

Then Illya’s expression.

Then the crunch of sand in his teeth.

It all felt like a strange dream.

But his sore muscles made it very real.

The cafeteria was loud. Voices, clattering dishes, and smells...

Let’s just say they weren’t appetizing — more like a sensory ambush.

Marcus grabbed a tray and sat by the window.

His food was... moving.

The bowl of “braised slime” pulsed with his breath.

Or maybe… someone else’s death throes.

He sighed.

“Why is it moving…”

> The System said nothing.

Which, honestly, was more terrifying than the food.

He reached for the bread — reflexively.

And suddenly, another hand touched his.

Soft. Firm. Definitely female. Confident.

He looked up.

Standing there: Illya von Meridian.

Still calm. Still composed.

Like reality itself had taken human form —

And brought a cinnamon roll.

“You just stole my bread,” she said.

He blinked.

“I— uh… you… bread?”

She tilted her head slightly.

“Impressive vocabulary.”

“I usually speak better. When a fork isn’t threatening me.”

Her face twitched. Not a smile.

But a faint, spiderweb-thin crack in the ice.

He saw it.

He handed her the bread.

“Sorry. Didn’t realize it was your family’s sacred artifact.”

“It’s not sacred. But I’ve been hunting it since nine a.m.”

And she sat down.

Not across from him — beside him.

As if it were normal.

As if they were familiar.

As if he wasn’t some random world-hopping insomniac.

“You chose to sit here?” he asked.

“In the past thirty minutes, you’re the only one who didn’t try to flirt with me,” she said.

“That earns respect.”

He stayed silent.

Not because he had nothing to say —

But because he had too much, and none of it was appropriate.

The cafeteria briefly quieted.

Between them — only the sound of plates.

And maybe the squishy defiance of a slime that hadn’t given up yet.

He was about to say something awkward.

Maybe even sincere.

But then the voice of an announcer cut through the air:

> “All participants, report to the central arena. Immediately. Stage Three begins now.”

She stood up first.

“Try not to die,” Illya said.

“It’d be boring.”

He stood too.

This time — silent.

Serious.

Even the bread stayed on the tray.

---

Stage Three: Illusions, Mazes, and the Joys of Growing Up

The crowd gathered around a new arena —

This one grander.

A circular dome. A glowing crystal above it.

The air felt thicker.

“A labyrinth?” someone muttered.

“Hallucinations?” another whispered.

> The System spoke again. Calm. Almost cheerful.

> “Stage Three: The Illusion Labyrinth.

Each participant will enter a unique magical domain,

filled with traps, barriers, and manifestations of your deepest fears.

Complete it before sunset.

Or be disqualified.

Or… worse.”

Marcus closed his eyes.

“And here we go again.

But this time — no sword.

No enemy I can hit.

Just... what's inside.

I can’t fight it.

Only walk through it.

Or break.”

He inhaled. Exhaled.

“Tell me honestly,” he muttered to no one.

“Will I ever get to eat breakfast in peace?”

> The System didn’t answer.

But somewhere inside, he felt it.

No. Never.

He took a step forward.

Into the circle.

Light wrapped around his body.

Reality warped and cracked.

The world vanished.

Only he remained.

And silence.

Marcus Kannet. Sixteen years old.

Temporarily a writer.

Accidentally a protagonist.

No magic.

No script.

No bread.

And so—

Stage Three begins.