He pulled up his status window.
Name: Cane Valerian
Level: 4
Class: Unclassed
Skills: None
STR: 8
AGI: 11
INT: 15
CHA: 3
CON: 6
The stats for strength, agility, and intelligence were humiliatingly average. Some were worse than average. His noble bloodline apparently came with no built-in competence. He was a rich bully with a loud mouth and nothing else.
Then he reopened the quest details.
Reward: +10 Unallocated Stat Points.
He stared at the number. Ten points. That wasn’t small. At his level, that could be the difference between a helpless joke and someone who might survive the plot. Ten points could make him faster, stronger, sharper. He clenched his jaw.
Fuck. Okay. He needed that reward.
The carriage was expensive enough to be annoying. Black lacquered wood, a silver Valerian crest on the door, and cushioned leather seats that smelled of polish and cold. Elana sat across from him, keeping as much distance as the space allowed. Her berry perfume somehow made the enclosed space feel even more suffocating.
"Sit farther away from me," she said.
He glanced at the empty space between them. There was plenty.
She curled her lip. "You’re breathing too close, pervert." She added under her breath, "Loser."
According to the memories, this was normal. The original Cane would have swallowed it, maybe muttered something under his breath before looking away. He had always been strangely pathetic around her. This new Cane, however, had no intention of preserving that tradition.
He sneered. "Shut up, bitch."
The carriage went silent. Elana’s eyes widened, just for a second, before her shock twisted into pure outrage.
"That’s the second time." Her voice was low and dangerous. "That’s the second time you’ve talked back to me today."
Cane leaned back against the seat, lifted a hand, and stuck his pinky finger in his ear, digging around while staring vacantly out the window. The gesture was deliberately, magnificently rude. He didn’t reply. Her face flushed, her fingers curling into tight fists against her skirt. She spent the rest of the ride glaring at him in furious silence, making small, irritated sounds every few minutes as if waiting for an apology that never came.
He watched the city pass, using the memories to orient himself. They were heading to Hale Academy, one of the central locations of the novel. It was where nobles, commoners, mercenaries, and monsters gathered. It was where Vincent Loravelle, talented but underestimated, would begin his legend. And it was where Cane Valerian, his first real enemy, would continue being a persistent, disposable nuisance.
The carriage rolled through the academy gates. The place was massive. White stone towers clawed at the morning sky, connected by long bridges over manicured courtyards. Blue banners with the academy crest hung from high balconies. Students poured through the grounds: nobles in tailored uniforms, scholarship students clutching documents, beastfolk, foreign heirs, mages with staffs, and swordsmen with polished blades.
The carriage stopped. Elana opened the door and stepped out without a word. She turned back only long enough to fix him with one last glare.
"Don’t follow me."
She vanished into the crowd.
Cane stepped out a moment later into air thick with the smell of cut grass, horse sweat, and expensive perfume. Voices overlapped everywhere—gossip, laughter, arguments. The first day had the energy of a market, a battlefield, and a fashion parade rolled into one. He shrugged and started walking. He didn’t limp. He didn’t cower.
Noble students recognised him. Their expressions shifted from disgust to amusement to wariness. Whispers followed him. Cane Valerian. The scumbag.
He ignored them. Mostly. The rumors were already there, acting gentle now would only make him look suspicious. The original Cane was shameless, lecherous, and arrogant. If he suddenly started acting like a repentant monk, people would notice. So, he embraced the reputation. It was tactical. It was camouflage.
His gaze moved over the crowd. Hale Academy was unfair. Beautiful girls were everywhere. Tall girls with long legs and sword belts. Soft-faced mages with shining hair. Confident upperclassmen walking in groups, their skirts swishing.
He stared shamelessly.
Not subtly. Not politely. If they already thought he was a scumbag, there was no benefit in pretending otherwise.
Yes, that’s why he was doing it! It was strategy!
As he had that very noble and strategic thought, his attention settled on a girl walking ahead of him.
She wore the standard uniform, but the skirt fit her especially well. Her hips moved with each step, the fabric shifting in a steady, mesmerising rhythm. His gaze followed her with extreme seriousness.
Hmm. Yes. Incredible. Very important intelligence gathering.
Then suddenly, a hand clamped onto his shoulder. The grip was powerful, the fingers digging in with controlled force, not enough to injure, but enough to offer the possibility. His body went stiff.
A cold voice spoke directly behind him. "What are you looking at?"
His throat went dry. He turned his head slowly. The young man was tall and broad-shouldered, handsome in that clean, heroic way that made side characters look uglier just by proximity. Dark brown hair, tousled by the wind. Clear, stormy blue eyes. A firm jaw. His plain uniform fit him perfectly. He radiated a disciplined, capable energy, and he already looked tired of people like Cane.
He recognised him instantly. Vincent Loravelle. Vinny. The protagonist.
Vincent’s grip tightened. Cane gulped.
Vincent’s grip was a vice.
Cane’s mind spun, a frantic scramble through every scene he could recall from the novel.
Did Vinny ever actually throw the first punch? No. He was a hero, after all. He only fought when provoked.
A slow smirk crawled across Cane’s face, the kind of sneer the original Valerian had perfected. He opened his mouth, ready to unleash a stream of crude insults that would cement his reputation and push the protagonist’s buttons.
"Vincent. Stop it."
The voice was light but carried a firm, cutting edge. It came from the girl. She had stopped walking and turned to face them, her brows drawn together in a frown of disapproval. Vincent’s eyes widened, his anger momentarily forgotten. He looked from Cane to the girl, his grip faltering on Cane’s shoulder.
"Aria, he was—"
Aria.
Holy fuck.