Not the Hero, Not the Villain — Just the One Who Wins
Chapter 63: When the World First Tasted Shadow

Chapter 63: When the World First Tasted Shadow

The sun rose like an artist’s brushstroke over the Academy grounds, painting the skies in hues of amber and fire. A light, cool wind carried the scent of fresh pastries from the baking guild’s stall, the savory aroma of grilled meats from the beastkin vendors, and the faint, sweet tang of arcane incense through the main plaza. Colorful flags, bearing the sigils of a hundred noble houses, fluttered from the towering spires. Enchanted streamers, shimmering with iridescent mana trails, danced along the rooftops like captive rainbows. Music played in the distance—the soft, ethereal notes of an elven flute, the jaunty strumming of a human lyre, and the deep, resonant beat of a strange beastkin drum made from the hollowed-out tusks of a great boar.

It was the opening day of the Academy Fest.

And for the first time in my strange, violent, second-chance life, I felt something more dangerous than battle hunger, more potent than the thirst for revenge.

Anticipation.

Everywhere I looked, students rushed to ready their stalls. Makeshift booths of every size and description had been erected overnight, lining both sides of the central thoroughfare in a chaotic, vibrant tapestry of commerce and creativity. Some offered enchanted pastries that glowed with a soft, inner light. Others sold rare, exotic teas sourced from the far corners of the continent, or magical trinkets that hummed with a low, latent power. There was a stall offering illusionary portraits that moved and spoke, one with a petting zone for adorable, and only slightly dangerous, spirit foxes, and even a duel booth where ambitious students could challenge low-tier summoned beasts for prizes and glory.

It was chaos. It was beautiful.

And yet—in the middle of it all, one stall stood proud, a bastion of dark elegance in a sea of cheerful color. It was structured like a half-open restaurant, draped in rich crimson cloth and black banners that had been stitched with intricate, silver embroidery by Masha herself. Its name, etched in glowing, shadowy runes above the entrance, was a simple, confident declaration:

The Shadow’s Hearth

To me, it wasn’t just a stall. It was our battlefield.

We had arrived early, a full two hours before the academy gates were set to open to the public. The layout, meticulously planned by Masha, was flawless. The dark, polished wooden benches were clean, the grills gleamed under the morning sun, and the staff wore their freshly pressed uniforms—deep black with crimson belts and a subtle, silver shadow-sigil sewn into the collar.

Masha stood at the front, a clipboard in her hand, her expression one of focused, professional intensity. Julie was already prepping the first, massive batch of ramen broth, her sleeves rolled up, her eyes sharper than obsidian as she added spices with the precision of a master alchemist. Sasha, a blur of motion, checked the noodle racks, her hands moving with a practiced, confident ease. Noora was syncing the rune-based order display, her fingers dancing across the glowing glyphs. And Seraphina, in a surprising display of practical magic, had conjured a massive, floating crystal light that pulsed with a soft, subtle ambiance. Eren was... sweeping, surprisingly focused and not complaining.

Yumi, in a tiny, custom-made apron that Masha had stitched for her, labeled Chief Critic, was chasing a mana-butterfly near the entrance, her laughter a bright, musical sound in the tense, pre-dawn quiet.

We were ready.

Then it happened.

A brilliant, golden flare shot into the sky from the Academy’s central tower.

BOOM!

A magical cannon fired a shimmering blast of confetti and illusion-light into the air. A ripple of colored sparks burst overhead, raining harmless, glittering motes of light across the plaza like a star shower.

And with that, the festival began.

From the main gates and the various dormitory wings, the crowd arrived in waves—students, professors, nobles in their fine silks, wealthy merchants with their entourages, and foreign guests with eyes wide with wonder. They poured in from every path, their faces a mixture of curiosity, excitement, and a hunger for novelty.

The thoroughfare began to swell, a river of people flowing through the heart of the Academy. Every stall came alive with the shouts of vendors and the sizzle of cooking food.

And so did we.

I took my position near the front of our stall, my hands clasped behind my back, my expression a mask of calm, detached confidence. I watched the crowd with the composure of a general observing the opening moves of a war.

The first people passed us. A pair of elven nobles, their expressions a mixture of arrogance and boredom. They eyed our floating menu with a flicker of intrigue, sniffed the air... and walked away.

Then a trio of students from Class 4A. They paused. Whispered. Smirked. And walked away.

More followed. Some stared. Some pointed. Some just strolled past without a second glance, their attention drawn by the flashier, more conventional stalls.

Ten minutes passed. Then fifteen.

Zero customers.

The air around our stall, once filled with a hopeful, nervous energy, began to tighten.

Julie looked up from her pot, a flicker of doubt in her eyes. Sasha stopped adjusting the noodle strainers, her hands falling to her sides. Even Masha’s clipboard dipped a little, her confident posture slumping just a fraction.

I met their eyes. I said nothing. But I knew what they were all thinking.

Did we miscalculate? Is no one interested in our strange, foreign food? Was this all a terrible, arrogant mistake?

Then, like a miracle written into the very fabric of fate—she returned.

The golden-haired noble girl from our chaotic dry run.

Except this time, she had brought backup.

I watched as she approached, her head held high like a royal patron, her every movement a declaration of her status. Behind her marched a veritable platoon of people—her family, her friends, her cousins, and possibly even a few of her personal servants. A full entourage of nearly thirty people.

"We came for the ramen," she said simply, her voice clear and confident.

I blinked. "All of you?"

She nodded. "They didn’t believe me when I told them about it. Now they will."

Julie leaned toward me, her voice a panicked whisper. "Ashen, we don’t have enough seating."

"Borrow from the neighboring stalls," I said, my voice calm, my mind already racing.

Sasha had already dashed to the tea booth next door. They were barely setting up, their own business slow to start. Seraphina, seeing Sasha’s struggle, followed, flashing a brilliant, dazzling smile that convinced another, more reluctant stall owner to hand over their spare benches. Noora, ever the pragmatist, conjured a floating, glowing text above our space: Please wait. Your taste miracle is coming.

And still, we didn’t have enough. Half of the girl’s entourage waited standing, their expressions a mixture of impatience and curiosity.

"Take their orders," I said, my voice cutting through the rising tension. "Begin service."

The first order was placed. Then five more.

Julie barked commands like a seasoned field captain. Sasha moved like her knives were on fire. The broth steamed, the noodles boiled, and the plates clinked together in a frantic, chaotic rhythm. The air thickened with that scent—that divine, intoxicating scent.

The first bowl of ramen was delivered to the golden-haired girl.

She took one, deep breath, inhaling the rich, complex aroma. One breath, and the world around her seemed to pause.

"...It’s the same," she whispered, her eyes closing in a moment of pure, unadulterated bliss.

Her family leaned closer, their expressions a mixture of skepticism and intrigue.

Then she took her first, noisy slurp. And her eyes, when she opened them again, were wide with a religious fervor.

"This," she said slowly, reverently, her voice ringing with a conviction that could not be denied, "is divinity. In a bowl."

The people nearby, the ones who had been watching with a detached amusement, took notice. A passing pair of mages, their robes embroidered with the sigils of a powerful guild, stopped in their tracks. An orc merchant, his tusks adorned with rings of gold, turned his head, his nostrils flaring. A noblewoman from the powerful House of Vernis narrowed her eyes and walked over, her own entourage trailing behind her.

They sniffed the air. They saw the girl’s glowing, ecstatic face.

And they moved.

More people arrived. Slowly at first, then in a steady, ever-growing stream. Like moths drawn to a strange, new, and utterly irresistible flame.

Julie nodded toward the growing line, a bead of sweat on her brow. "We’ve got twelve more orders."

"Fifteen," Noora added, her fingers a blur as she updated the rune display.

"Nineteen now!" Sasha called out from the noodle station, her voice a mixture of panic and exhilaration.

Yumi ran up to me, tugging on my coat, her rose-pink eyes wide with excitement. "Ashen! A bard is writing a song about the ramen! He said it tastes like memory and moonlight!"

I didn’t even blink. "Tell him to spell our name right."

Then came the moment that changed it all.

An elderly man, his back hunched with age, his scholar’s cloak battered and worn, took a seat at the edge of the stall. He had no entourage, no flashy jewels, just a quiet, weary curiosity in his old, tired eyes.

We served him a simple bowl of our savory ramen.

He took one bite. And tears, thick and silent, began to fill his eyes.

He set the spoon down, his hand trembling.

"This," he said softly, his voice thick with an emotion that was almost too painful to bear, "is what my wife used to make. Before the war. Before we lost everything."

He bowed his head to me, a gesture of profound, heartbreaking gratitude. "Thank you."

And just like that, the festival had its first story.