World of Regalia

The seat beside power

Damian navigated the halls of Alpha Academy, following the signs that directed him toward the main academic block. The building was vast, its corridors lined with lockers and bulletin boards advertising club activities, upcoming events, and warnings about Ajuma activity in the outer districts. Students milled about in small groups, their voices a low hum beneath the fluorescent lights.

He found the stairwell leading to the second floor and climbed, his heart beating a steady rhythm against his ribs. Class 2A. His class. He still couldn't quite believe it.

The door was plain wood with a small brass plaque: 2A. Through the thin walls, he could hear the muffled sounds of conversation, the scrape of chairs, the occasional laugh. But beneath all that, Damian sensed something else—a pressure, faint but unmistakable, like static electricity prickling against his skin. It was Zeta energy, concentrated in certain spots within the room. Some of his future classmates were already powerful.

He took a deep breath, squared his shoulders, and pushed open the door.

The room fell silent.

Every head turned toward him. Damian counted quickly—about thirty students, seated in four rows of four double chairs, most of them occupied. Some desks held two students; others had only one. At the front stood a man in a rumpled suit, a piece of chalk in his hand and an irritated expression on his face.

“You must be the new student,” the man said, his voice clipped. “Introduce yourself and find an empty seat. We don’t have all day.”

Damian caught the edge in his tone, the barely concealed annoyance. He pushed aside the flicker of anxiety and walked to the front of the classroom, facing the rows of watching eyes.

“My name is Damian,” he said, keeping his voice steady. “I have a growth‑type body enhancement Regalia. I hope you’ll all take care of me.” He offered a small, polite smile.

Silence.

Then someone laughed. It started as a snicker from somewhere in the back, then spread like wildfire. Soon half the room was chuckling, some openly grinning, others shaking their heads. Damian stood frozen, confusion washing over him. What had he said that was so funny?

A voice cut through the noise, sharp and mocking. “You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that.” Damian’s gaze followed the sound to the far right of the front row. A boy sat there, lounging back in his chair with an air of casual arrogance. His clothes were expensive—Damian could tell even without knowing brands. Assistant class leader, judging by the badge pinned to his collar. “I hope you’ve got the strength to back it up.”

Realization dawned. Damian had just announced his Regalia’s type and ability to a room full of strangers. A growth‑type enhancement Regalia was rare—valuable. He might as well have painted a target on his back. But he felt nothing. No fear, no regret. They couldn’t take it from him. Let them know. Let them wonder.

He swept his gaze across the room, searching for an empty seat. Most desks were full. One, however, sat completely empty—a double chair in the back corner, untouched. It was inviting in its emptiness, and Damian began walking toward it.

A few students grinned as he passed. Others exchanged glances. He guessed there was something about that seat, something he didn’t know, but he kept walking. The worst that could happen was someone claiming it belonged to them.

“If I were you,” a voice said behind him, soft and sweet, “I’d stand up from that chair.”

Damian turned. The girl who had spoken was beautiful in a way that seemed almost unreal. Her hair was long, a shade of blanc that caught the light like silk. Her eyes were the same pale colour, her lashes long and dark against her fair skin. She looked like something from a painting, an angel brought to life.

“The owner hasn’t been here for a week,” she added, her tone gentle but pointed. “But you never know what might happen.”

Damian hesitated. “Alright. Thanks for the heads‑up.”

The classroom went silent.

The pressure hit him like a physical weight, pressing down on his shoulders, freezing his limbs, stopping his breath. His body locked in place, muscles refusing to obey. Every instinct screamed at him to run, but he couldn’t move—couldn’t even turn his head.

With immense effort, he forced his gaze toward the source of the pressure. A boy stood at the back of the room, mid‑length silver hair spiked and unruly, a strip of white cloth wrapped around his eyes. A blindfold. He was lean, unremarkable in build, yet something about him radiated a power that made Damian’s blood run cold.

Is he blind?

“No, I’m not blind.”

The voice was calm, melodic, like distant chimes. It carried a weight that pressed directly against Damian’s thoughts.

“You have a peculiar set of eyes,” the boy continued. “They each hold great power.”

Damian’s mind reeled. He read my thoughts.

“No, I can’t read your mind. I’m sure you’re thinking that as well.” A faint smile touched the boy’s lips. “Your face is as readable as a book. It’s amusing to see someone like you around.” He gestured to the empty seat beside him. “You can share my seat with me. But don’t bother me, or I’ll kill you.”

The smile didn’t waver, but Damian felt the truth behind the words. This was not a joke.

The classroom watched in stunned silence. Students who had been smirking moments before now stared with wide eyes, disbelief written across their faces. In all their time here, none of them had ever seen him act this way toward anyone.

“Enough of this ruckus!” The teacher’s voice cracked like a whip, and a wave of pressure exploded from him, forcing nearly every student to their knees. Damian braced himself, expecting to be crushed—but instead, a strange warmth enveloped him, shielding him from the force. He realized it came from the silver‑haired boy beside him. A few others remained standing: the blanc‑haired girl, the assistant class leader, and a figure in a black hoodie at the back, face hidden.

“Sagara Kaname!” the teacher barked. “After being absent for a week, the first thing you do is cause a disturbance in my classroom? How dar—”

“Do not call my full name,” the boy interrupted, his tone flat. “You are not allowed.”

He tilted his head slightly, and the teacher flinched, stepping back as if struck. For a moment, Damian glimpsed something behind the blindfold—a flicker of light, of power, of something far beyond his understanding.

The teacher cleared his throat, regaining his composure. “Sit down.”

The pressure in the room dissipated. Students scrambled back to their seats, whispering among themselves. Damian let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding.

Sagara Kaname, he thought. There’s no way I’m calling him that. He’d probably kill me.

“What’s your name?” Sagara asked, settling into his seat.

“D-Damian. I’m Damian.”

“Good. I’ll remember it well. You can call me Sagara.”

The boy turned toward the teacher, who had begun explaining something about the dangers of overusing a Regalia. Damian tried to listen, but his mind was still spinning from everything that had just happened.

After a few seconds, Sagara slumped forward, resting his head on the desk. “This class is boring. Wake me when it’s over, Damian.”

Damian stared at him. What’s wrong with this guy? He looks like he comes from money—maybe the rich get bored easily.

The lesson continued. Damian forced himself to focus, absorbing every word the teacher said. Minutes passed. Then the teacher’s voice sharpened.

“This brat. Who does he think he is?”

A piece of chalk flew from the teacher’s hand, wrapped in red energy, speeding toward Sagara’s head like a bullet. Damian saw it in slow motion, his enhanced perception kicking in, but his body couldn’t move fast enough to intervene. The chalk stopped inches from Sagara’s skull, caught between two fingers.

Sagara raised his head slowly. “Can’t I just enjoy a peaceful moment?”

Golden energy flickered around the chalk. With a flick of his wrist, he sent it hurtling back toward the teacher. It stopped again, mere inches away, held by the same golden light. The force of the sudden halt, however, was enough to send the teacher’s wig flying, revealing hair that looked like it had been struck by lightning—charred, uneven, permanently damaged.

The classroom erupted in laughter.

“So Mr. Mark isn’t bald after all,” someone shouted. “He’s just got a burnt head! No wonder he always wears those flashy wigs!”

The teacher’s face turned crimson. Red energy seeped from his body, tinged with black. Sagara watched, unimpressed.

“Sagara!” the teacher roared, barely containing himself. “Detention! But in the meantime, leave my classroom!”

Sagara rose, hands in his pockets, and walked toward the door with fluid, unhurried steps. Damian stared after him, unsure what to do.

“Since your attention was on him,” the teacher said, his voice dripping with cold fury, “you can face the same treatment as well.”

Damian’s heart sank. He rose slowly, slumping toward the door, already regretting every decision that had led him to this moment. Just by doing nothing, he had been dragged into this mess. A bad first day. He could only wonder what the future held if he continued being Sagara’s seatmate.

He followed Sagara at a careful distance, having nowhere else to go. Soon, they reached the rooftop. The door opened onto a wide open space overlooking the academy grounds, the city sprawling beyond. Sagara stood at the edge, facing the sun, his blindfold catching the light. Damian couldn’t tell if his eyes were open or closed.

“This world is full of many mysteries, isn’t it?” Sagara said without turning.

Damian started. He had been sure he was being quiet.

“Y-Yes.”

Sagara’s back was lean, unassuming. Nothing about his appearance suggested the power Damian had felt radiating from him earlier. Yet the aura he carried was unmistakable. Damian could only guess that Sagara was the strongest in their class—while he was still a novice, barely understanding his own Regalia.

The gap between them was vast. But that was exactly why Damian needed to ask.

“Umm… Sagara?” His voice came out low, hesitant. “Could you… could you train me?”

The wind whistled across the rooftop, carrying his words away. Silence stretched between them. Damian’s chest tightened.

“Sure.”

Damian blinked. “Are you sure? When can we—”

Before he could finish, Sagara was beside him, lips near his ear, his voice a whisper. Damian’s heart leaped into his throat. He couldn’t process what was happening. Then, in an instant, they were both standing at the edge of the roof, barely a millimeter of space left between Damian’s heels and the drop.

“We can start once you survive,” Sagara said, and pushed.