Ophelia was going to murder someone today.

  Not literally, of course. She was a professional. She had standards. But the thought was comforting as she sat at her desk in the reception area of Professor Aldric Eryndor's office, quill scratching furiously across parchment while her jaw clenched hard enough to make her teeth ache.

  The morning had started poorly and deteriorated from there.

  Professor Eryndor had left. Just left. No warning, no explanation, nothing but a hastily scrawled note she'd found on his desk when she'd arrived at dawn to organize his schedule. Called away on urgent business. Handle my appointments. That was it. Five words to encompass the absolute catastrophe that was now her day.

  Handle his appointments. As if that were simple. As if she could simply wave her hand and make a council meeting disappear, or convince the Dean of Historical Studies that yes, the professor who had specifically requested this meeting about curriculum reforms had simply vanished into thin air and no, she had no idea when he'd return.

  Ophelia was thirty-two years old. She had worked as a secretary at the Astra Academy of Magic for nearly a decade. She had dealt with absent-minded professors, with arrogant nobles who thought their titles meant they could walk all over her, with budget disputes and scheduling conflicts and a thousand other minor catastrophes. She was good at her job. Excellent, even.

  But this was testing the very limits of her patience.

  The letter she was currently writing—the third one this morning—was an apology to the Council of Professors for Aldric's absence from their meeting. She had to phrase it just right. Respectful but not groveling. Apologetic but not weak. It had to sound like the professor had been called away on matters of genuine importance, not that he'd simply decided to abandon his responsibilities on a whim.

  Which, for all she knew, was exactly what had happened.

  Her quill scratched across the parchment. Professor Eryndor regrets to inform the esteemed council that unforeseen circumstances have necessitated his immediate attention elsewhere. He extends his sincerest apologies for this unavoidable absence and hopes to reschedule at the council's earliest convenience.

  Unforeseen circumstances. What a lovely way to say "I have no idea where my employer is or what he's doing."

  The morning had been a parade of increasingly irritated visitors. First, a minor noble from House Vestaria who had waited in the reception area for twenty minutes before demanding to know where the professor was. Ophelia had smiled politely and explained that urgent matters had called him away. The noble had not been pleased.

  Then came a delegation of senior students who needed approval for their thesis proposals. Then a colleague from the Department of Theoretical Mechanics who'd scheduled a research discussion three weeks ago. Then another noble, this one more understanding but no less inconvenient to deal with.

  Each time, Ophelia had maintained her composure. Each time, she'd smiled and apologized and rescheduled. Each time, she'd felt the pressure building behind her eyes, that tight feeling in her chest that warned her she was approaching her breaking point.

  She finished the letter with a flourish, signed it in the professor's name—she had the authority to do so for routine correspondence—and set it aside to dry. The ink gleamed wetly in the afternoon light streaming through the tall windows of the reception area.

  Her desk sat in a spacious room with high ceilings and dark wood paneling. Bookshelves lined one wall, filled with reference materials and old journals. The professor's office lay beyond the heavy oak door behind her. The whole space had the quiet dignity expected of a senior professor's workspace, which made it all the more frustrating that said professor couldn't be bothered to actually be here.

  Ophelia leaned back in her chair and pressed her fingers to her temples. A headache was building there, a dull throb that promised to get worse before it got better.

  One more interruption, she thought. Just one more person walking through that door with another problem she couldn't solve, another appointment she couldn't keep, another question she couldn't answer, and she would—

  "Excuse me."

  The voice was deep. Calm. Male.

  Ophelia did not look up. Her hands remained pressed to her temples. Her eyes stayed closed. She was clinging to her composure by her fingernails, and if she looked up right now, if she had to plaster on another smile and deliver another apology—

  "Excuse me," the voice said again, just as calm, just as measured.

  Something about the tone made her pause. Not impatient, despite repeating himself. Not demanding. Just... present.

  Ophelia's hands lowered slowly. She opened her eyes and raised her head.

  And stopped breathing.

  The man standing before her desk was, inconveniently, exactly her type.

  White hair, cut short—which was a shame, because Ophelia had the idle thought that he'd probably look even better with it longer. A face that couldn't have been more than thirty, paired with that white hair in a way that should have looked strange but didn't.

  There was something odd about the contradiction, like he'd aged in reverse or skipped a few decades somewhere along the way. A neat beard. Green eyes that were frankly distracting in how bright they were, like someone had taken actual gemstones and decided that would make a perfectly reasonable eye color. They were sharp too, focused in that way hunters' eyes were, the kind of gaze that saw everything and gave away nothing. He wore simple traveling clothes, well-made but unremarkable, and stood with a calm stillness she found... soothing.

  My, his charisma stat must be over 100. Ophelia thought, then realized she was staring.

  She also realized, with a sinking feeling of cosmic unfairness, that today of all days was the day she had decided not to wear her favorite perfume. The good one. The one she saved for special occasions and important meetings.

  Of course.

  She cleared her throat and straightened in her chair, trying to gather her scattered professionalism. "I apologize," she said, and was proud that her voice came out steady. "How may I help you?"

  "I'm looking for Professor Eryndor."

  The words hit Ophelia like a slap in the face.

  Of course. Of course he was.

  She felt something ugly twist in her chest. Why did he have to ask about that? Of all the things in the world he could have wanted, why did it have to be the one thing guaranteed to set her off? Though what else would he have asked about, really? This was the professor's office. People came here for the professor. That was how offices worked.

  Still. The universe had a cruel sense of timing.

  Ophelia opened her mouth to deliver her well-practiced apology, the same one she'd given a dozen times today, when the man spoke again.

  "You look overworked."

  Stolen story; please report.

  She blinked. Was he mocking her? But no—his face was calm, serious even. Those sharp green eyes studied her with what seemed like genuine concern.

  Before she could formulate a response, he reached into his coat and produced a small vial. Glass, stoppered with cork, filled with something that shimmered faintly in the sunlight. He set it on her desk with a quiet clink.

  Then he smiled.

  Oh.

  Oh, that was unfair.

  It wasn't a large smile. Just a slight upturn at the corners of his mouth. It made him look warmer.

  Ophelia's brain, already running on fumes, stuttered to a halt. She was probably exaggerating, but after the day she was having, surely this would be acceptable.

  "A restorative," he said, tapping the vial with one finger. "You can drink it. It'll help."

  She stared. A dozen questions rose in her mind. Who carries around restoratives to give to stressed secretaries? Why would he offer this to a stranger? Was this appropriate to accept?

  But underneath all those sensible concerns was a simpler thought: she liked him.

  That was it, really. No logic to it. The calm way he stood. The way he'd noticed she was having a terrible day without her having to say a word. The fact that he'd offered help without expecting anything in return.

  And somehow, none of this felt strange.

  "Thank you," Ophelia heard herself say. Her hand reached out, fingers closing around the vial. The glass was cool against her palm.

  She pulled the cork free with a soft pop and brought it to her lips. The liquid inside was clear as water but smelled faintly of honey and something else she couldn't quite place—herbs, maybe, or flowers. She tilted it back and drank.

  Sweet. Incredibly sweet, but not cloying. And then—

  It didn't make sense, but she felt it. Felt herself standing in a spring morning, dew-fresh grass beneath her feet. Felt the clear mountain air filling her lungs, crisp and clean and untouched. The potion placed her there, surrounded her in their essence, wrapped her in their peace.

  Magic sure was great.

  She finished it in one swallow and the effect was immediate.

  The tension that had been coiled tight in her shoulders for hours simply... dissolved. The throbbing behind her temples vanished as if someone had snuffed out a candle. Even the tight knot of frustration in her chest loosened, unraveling like thread. Her breathing deepened. Her heartbeat slowed to something steady and calm.

  Text flickered across her vision, the familiar blue glow of her status screen materializing unbidden:

  WIS +1134

  Duration: 168 hours

  Her breath caught.

  Eleven hundred wisdom. For a week.

  That was a Grade A potion. Easily. The expensive variety she'd seen listed in merchants' catalogs but never dreamed of affording. Three years of her salary. Maybe more.

  This man wasn't just some traveler. People didn't hand out potions worth small fortunes to secretaries they'd just met unless they were either incredibly wealthy or incredibly important. Possibly both.

  Her mind spun into motion, fueled now by that massive wisdom boost. Scenarios unfolded in her head like pages turning in a book. A wealthy merchant's son? No, he didn't have that soft look merchants' children got. A retired adventurer? He'd have more scars, surely. Someone from a noble house? He would have worn better clothes, carried himself with more arrogance. Unless he was deliberately hiding his status, which meant—

  "Better?"

  The question pulled her out of her spiraling thoughts. He was watching her with those calm green eyes, head tilted slightly, genuinely waiting for an answer.

  "Yes!" The word came out more enthusiastic than she'd intended. Ophelia cleared her throat, tried again. "Yes. Much, much better. Thank you. Truly."

  "Good. Good." He nodded once, seeming satisfied. Then, as casually as if he'd just been discussing the weather: "So. About the professor?"

  Ophelia took a breath. The potion hummed through her veins, steady and grounding. Her thoughts came faster now, clearer. The pile of complaint letters on her desk no longer felt like a mountain about to crush her. Just paper. Just work. She could handle this.

  She straightened in her chair and met the man's eyes.

  "The professor isn't here," she said. "He left for an unexpected business."

  She waited for the reaction. Braced for it, really.

  This man was clearly important. Important people doing important business with important professors didn't like hearing that their important meetings wouldn't happen. She'd seen it a dozen times before. The frown. The sharp exhale. The thinly veiled irritation disguised as polite understanding.

  But the man didn't frown.

  He didn't say anything.

  All Ophelia heard was: "Hmm."

  Just that. A low sound in the back of his throat.

  It did not sound like a satisfied hmm.

  She wasn't sure why she knew that. The man's face remained calm, almost neutral. But somehow, she could hear the mild frustration being carefully restrained, pressed down beneath layers of control. He had a very expressive hmm.

  He was also visibly trying not to look annoyed.

  The silence stretched for a moment. Then:

  "When did he leave?"

  "This morning," Ophelia provided. "At dawn. The train schedule being what it is, he would've had to leave much earlier to make it. Probably before sunrise."

  The man nodded slowly, processing this. Then he glanced around the reception area—at the desk, the chairs, the filing cabinets along the wall—and said:

  "These are his offices, yes?"

  Ophelia blinked.

  The question was so odd, so out of place, that for a second she just stared at him. Was he asking what she thought he was asking?

  "Yes?" she said, the word coming out more uncertain than she'd intended.

  The man nodded again, as if she'd confirmed something important.

  Then he said, "I apologize for the intrusion," and started walking toward the professor's door.

  There was a moment of non-reaction.

  Ophelia's brain, still adjusting to the potion's effects, didn't quite register what was happening. She saw him move. Saw him cross the small space between the chairs and the heavy wooden door. Saw his hand reach for the handle.

  And then it made a sound.

  "Wait—"

  Had it not been for the potion soothing her right now, making her calm and collected even in the face of utter insanity, she would have been screaming. Louder than she was right now, anyway. As it stood, she was already out of her chair, already running toward him, her voice rising in pitch.

  "That door can only be unlocked by the professor! By his special key! Otherwise you'll be attacked by—"

  Crack.

  She stopped mid-sentence.

  Crack? That wasn't what the door was supposed to sound like. The professor's locks always made a soft ringing ting when they disengaged, like tiny bells chiming in sequence. Not a crack. Did she hear that right?

  As if to confirm her thoughts, another crack echoed through the room.

  Then another.

  Light appeared in the seams of the doorframe. Thin lines at first, glowing faintly blue, then brighter, spreading like veins across the wood. The protective enchantments were activating. Or breaking. Ophelia couldn't tell which, and that terrified her more than anything.

  The man twisted the handle.

  The door swung open.

  Ophelia's legs wobbled.

  And then—

  The Cerberus lunged out of the doorway.

  Three heads. Each the size of a barrel. Black fur matted and bristling, lips peeled back to reveal teeth like daggers, drool dripping in thick ropes from snarling jaws. It filled the entire doorframe, massive and enraged, eyes glowing with fire. The sound it made wasn't just barking, it was rage incarnate, a cacophony of fury that shook the walls and rattled the windows.

  Ophelia slammed her eyes shut.

  This was it. This was the defense mechanism. The professor had installed it years ago to protect his life's research, all the essential notes and artifacts he'd collected over decades. In a world where people could turn invisible and phase through walls, you needed more than locks. You needed something that would tear intruders apart before they could blink.

  A Level 700 Cerberus.

  A great monster from Hel itself, bound and summoned at the first sign of intrusion.

  She clamped her hands over her ears, squeezed her eyes tighter. She didn't want to see this. Didn't want to hear it. Such a handsome man. Why did he have to go and do this? Why did he have to be stupid?

  She waited for the crunch.

  The wet, terrible sound of bones breaking. Of flesh tearing. The screams. The gurgling.

  Instead, she heard whimpering.

  High-pitched. Fearful.

  Surely the handsome man couldn't be making that sound. Dogs made that sound when they were afraid.

  Her eyes snapped open.

  No way.

  The Cerberus was cowering.

  All three heads were tucked low, ears flat against its skull. Its massive body had shrunk back, pressed against the doorframe as if trying to make itself smaller. Its tail—thick as a ship's rope—was jammed between its legs. Every part of the creature radiated fear. Its eyes, moments ago burning with fire, now darted around like a cornered animal's.

  And the man stood there.

  Back to her. Tall. Calm.

  He hadn't moved.

  Hadn't drawn a weapon, hadn't cast a spell, hadn't done anything Ophelia could see. He just stood there, one hand still on the door handle, looking at the Cerberus the way someone might look at a misbehaving dog that had chewed up the furniture.

  The monster trembled.

  All three heads whined in unison, a pitiful sound that should have been impossible coming from something that size. It pressed itself flatter against the floor, belly to the ground, every muscle taut with submission.

  Ophelia's mind went blank.

  She'd seen the Cerberus be summoned once before. A would-be thief had tried to break in last year, thinking the professor's office would be an easy target. The Cerberus had torn through the door in seconds and reduced the man to a red smear before the guards could even arrive.

  This thing didn't cower.

  It killed.

  But now it looked like it wanted to crawl through the floor and disappear.

  The man stepped forward.

  The Cerberus flinched, all three heads tucking even lower, a desperate, keening sound escaping its throats.

  He walked past it into the office and the monster didn't move.

  Ophelia stood frozen in the middle of the reception area, hands still half-raised, her mouth slightly open. Her enhanced wisdom churned through possibilities, running calculations, trying to make sense of what she'd just witnessed.

  Level 700.

  The Cerberus was Level 700.

  What did you have to be to make something like that cower without even lifting a finger?

  Fun Fact of the Day:

  I have not touched on this in the story yet, but the average adventurer peaks around level 300 to 350 in the height of their career. Most mages peak around level 500. Reaching level 1000 and above is considered extremely strong. Those who do are respected, and formidable, but not as rare as outsiders might assume.

  Also, We have reached RS #7 already. Huzzah! I hope you guys enjoyed this chapter. If you did, please consider leaving a follow, rating, or favorite. It helps the story find its way through the algorithm and reach more readers. Thank you so much for reading :)