Chapter 230: Rumors
Finally, Sun muttered, voice low, controlled. "He’s slipping out of hand. The academy praises him. The teachers turn blind eyes. And now..." His jaw worked as though the words themselves tasted foul. He could imagine it, the smirk on Jae’s face, the way he had dared to stand so close to Hana, bold as anything. The thought twisted inside him like a blade.
Fin tilted his head, dark hair falling slightly into his eyes. He didn’t answer right away, just let the silence stretch before speaking. "Then don’t fight him where he’s strongest. You’ll lose more than you gain."
Sun’s gaze lifted slowly. His eyes narrowed, sharp as drawn steel. "And where is he weak?"
"Not in battle," Fin said simply. "That much is obvious. He thrives there, and if you go at him directly, you’ll only make him shine brighter. But here? In this place? Perception matters as much as strength. Strength draws eyes, but reputation decides whether those eyes look with respect or with suspicion."
One of the others shifted uncomfortably, his voice breaking into the conversation. "Rumors spread fast in this place. Faster than fire."
The words seemed to hang in the air, heavy and dangerous.
Sun leaned back slowly, straightening from his hunched posture. His shoulders rolled once, a motion like loosening a blade from its sheath. His eyes darkened in thought, gaze flicking toward the lantern on his desk as if the steady flame were an echo of the idea taking root inside him.
The academy was a place where every movement was seen, where every gesture was judged. Teachers pretended to look only at discipline and results, but even they were not immune to whispers. Students lived on them, breathed them in like air. A rumor could sink deeper than any sword.
Jae’s strength was his aura—his calmness in battle, the way he smirked even when bloodied, the casual air that drew others toward him.
Admiration clung to him, and the academy, foolishly, fed that fire. But admiration was fragile.
It could be bent. It could be soured. It could be chipped away piece by piece until the thing people once praised became the thing they looked at with suspicion.
Sun’s hands curled slowly into fists.
xxxx
A rumor. Something sharp enough to wound, subtle enough to fester.
Sun said nothing for a long time. His friends waited, tense, the room heavy with unspoken thoughts.
Finally, Sun gave a slow nod. "Yes. We’ll rot him from the inside. One whisper at a time."
The others seemed satisfied, but as the silence returned, Sun lay back against the wall, eyes fixed on the ceiling beams. He had not yet decided which rumor would cut deepest. That choice, he knew, mattered more than the strike of any blade.
xxxx
The news spread like a sickness.
By morning, the academy thrummed with it. From the baths to the practice fields, from the dining hall to the dormitory corridors, every whisper carried the same sharp edge: Jae, the common-born student who had risen too quickly, had not only fought Sun in a duel—he had tried to assassinate the prince.
The words "assassination" and "prince" clung to every hushed voice like burrs. They gave weight to the rumor, turned it from petty gossip into something dangerous. Students leaned in close to one another, hands half-covering their mouths, as though speaking the words aloud might summon trouble to their own doorsteps.
By the time the sun was high, the tale had already twisted into new shapes.
"He nearly struck Sun down," one boy whispered in the dining hall, voice trembling with excitement. "Right at the neck."
"They say it took three healers to keep the prince alive," another girl added, her eyes wide. "Three. Imagine that. A peasant nearly killing the heir to the throne."
"Disgraceful. Dangerous," someone muttered.
The story shifted depending on who told it. In one version, Jae had drawn his blade with murder in his eyes. In another, he had been caught plotting in the shadows before their duel. Some even claimed he had been overheard muttering about Sun’s death in his sleep. It didn’t matter that none of it was true. The shape of the lie didn’t need to be perfect. It only needed to echo in enough ears.
When Jae walked into the dining hall, tray in hand, the air turned tight. Conversations snapped off mid-sentence, only to start again in softer tones as he passed. Some students turned their backs deliberately, their shoulders stiff with exaggerated dismissal. Others stared at him openly, suspicion and fear warring in their expressions.
He set his tray down at an empty table, his face unreadable. The bread on his plate looked stale, the stew lukewarm, but he didn’t seem to care. He sat down heavily, his eyes fixed on the food as though it were the only thing keeping him tethered.
Elise arrived moments later, sliding onto the bench across from him. Her brow was furrowed, her jaw set. "Ignore them," she said firmly, though her fingers twisted against the edge of her plate. "They weren’t there. They don’t know what really happened."
Jae stabbed his bread with unnecessary force, tearing off a piece and chewing more to keep his mouth busy than because he was hungry. "Doesn’t matter. They’ve already decided what happened. Doesn’t matter what I say."
Elise looked at him, lips pressed thin, but didn’t argue. She knew he was right.
Tirel dropped into the seat beside her, her short hair damp with sweat from morning drills, the faint flicker of flame still dancing at her fingertips. "Cowards," she said flatly, loud enough for the nearest table to hear. "They’d piss themselves against a single practice construct, but they talk big when it comes to you."
Across the room, a few students flinched at her words but pretended not to notice.
Byun slid into the seat opposite Jae, setting his tray down with quiet care. He didn’t speak at once.
His gaze moved over Jae, sharp and measuring, before settling.