EX-Rank Villain: Rise Beyond Fate-Chapter 58 - 21 – Brewing Undercurrents

The academy was beginning to settle, but peace was always a fragile lie.

Nalanda was never meant to be peaceful — it was a nest of ambition wrapped in marble walls. Now, that ambition had begun to stir.

Not in the open. Not yet.

But it showed in the way groups started forming.

Whispers in the hallways. Invitations tucked behind casual smiles. Favor-trading between dorms. Every genius who’d made an impression during the drills was being marked. Watched. Recruited.

---

Ignis had drawn his crowd — mostly sword-focused students, hot-blooded and proud.

His return to form had earned him praise. And with praise came followers.

To them, he was the next big name. The flame that would rise and burn through all rankings.

"You saw his third movement during the mock duel? That wasn’t just talent. That was bloodline work."

"He’s not just a sword genius—he’s a future ranker."

"Don’t sleep on Ignis."

The heat around him swelled, and he handled it with practiced ease.

---

Then there was Lucien.

No followers. No explanations.

Just quiet power that left a trail of silence after every spar.

And that unsettled people.

You couldn’t predict what didn’t talk.

---

"They say he learns mid-battle," one student whispered behind the library stacks.

"Yeah, and? Most traits do that."

"Not like his. He doesn’t just learn. He improves mid-fight. It’s like... he’s built for war."

"So what, you want to recruit him or avoid him?"

"Both."

---

Among the older students, trouble began to simmer.

Second-years and third-years who had grown comfortable in their unofficial positions now saw the new batch as ticking time bombs.

"Too much power this year," a third-year muttered during a closed meeting in the South Courtyard. "That Arkanveil brat—he’s too calm."

"Calm is fine."

"Not when calm comes with broken mana records and two clean takedowns in every session."

They exchanged looks.

"What if he doesn’t join anyone?"

"Then we make sure he’s isolated."

---

They tried.

One afternoon, two upper-rank students approached Lucien in the training hall while he was cooling down.

One had an expensive sword. The other wore layered black robes, crest of a minor noble family gleaming on his chest.

"Lucien Arkanveil," the robed one began. "There’s talk you’ve been invited to several circles, but haven’t responded."

Lucien didn’t look up from the stone he was sharpening.

"So we’re offering clarity," the swordsman said. "Join our faction. You’ll get access to restricted scrolls, sparring sessions with top duelists, and backing."

Lucien finally glanced at them.

His eyes were unreadable. Calm, but cold. The kind of cold that made people forget their lines.

The noble student straightened. "Of course, we’re not demanding anything. We just think it’s—"

Lucien cut him off.

"Yhi patak ka ch#d denge," he said, voice flat. "Chal nikal, m#dharch#d."

Both students blinked.

There was a long pause.

"...What?"

Lucien stared at them with the same deadpan expression.

They didn’t understand a word.

But they understood the tone.

An insult. A refusal. Sharp enough to cut pride.

The swordsman’s grip tightened. "You’re going to regret that."

Lucien didn’t respond. He simply sheathed the stone and walked off, towel slung over his shoulder.

---

Later that day, the story spread.

No one could repeat the exact phrase — it was in a language nobody recognized — but the energy behind it became legendary.

"He said something, and they just froze."

"Sounded like a curse."

"I heard it made a third-year nearly drop his mana blade."

The phrase became a meme within the dorms, half of them guessing what it meant, the other half just whispering it for fun.

But beneath the amusement, something else had settled.

Lucien Arkanveil had refused—openly—and mocked them.

The factions didn’t take kindly to that.

---

A shadow began to move.

Not someone known. Not yet.

But someone who understood how to exploit patterns.

A note slipped under a dorm room. A message planted during a meal. A casual suggestion offered during group training.

Slowly, certain students began getting nudged toward Lucien.

A comment here. A whisper there.

"He thinks he’s above us."

"Acts like a prince, doesn’t talk to anyone."

"I bet he can’t hold his own without surprise."

They tried provoking him in subtle ways. Interrupting his solo sessions. Leaving equipment in his lane. Trying to crowd him during drills.

He never reacted.

Never flinched.

That only made it worse.

---

One afternoon, a cocky boy named Velin from a well-off merchant family stepped in front of Lucien as he was exiting the simulation hall.

"You’re really quiet, Arkanveil. Makes people think you’re either scared or stuck-up."

Lucien didn’t even stop walking. He just brushed past him without a glance.

Velin’s hand moved toward his collar, but stopped halfway — something about Lucien’s presence in that moment felt... sharp. Not magical. Just final.

Like a blade without a sheath.

---

Meanwhile, in the upper levels of Nalanda, someone was observing.

A student in gray robes, face always hidden under an illusion, watched the tension escalate with calm detachment.

He was the one pulling the strings.

And Lucien... was not falling into place.

---

In the women’s dorm, Liana had her own problems.

A few girls had started whispering behind her back. Calling her "mana freak" and "dimensional brat."

But no one confronted her directly. Because the last time someone tried, they ended up hanging from a dorm roof — safely, but humiliatingly — due to accidental spatial flick.

Liana didn’t care much. She was used to distance.

But even she noticed how the academy had started feeling heavier. More eyes. More noise.

And Lucien?

He moved like none of it mattered.