CHAPTER 61: THE SAINT AND THE FAKER

"DANTE, THE RANK E FRAUD — THE GENESIS MORNING’S BANNED INVESTIGATION"

That was the headline.

All caps. Underlined. Plastered on every digital board, projected on the floating holo-screens at the dorm entrances, stuck to every notice wall.

The paper — released in a specialedition — was already in everyone’s hands.

Students were reading it out loud in the hallways, sharing it in group chats, commenting on the school forum where the "DanteGate" thread had already passed 12,000 reactions.

— "He’s registered as Rank E. The records are clear."

— "It’s a setup. He just got lucky."

— "Soloing a three-star mutant? Not believable. Even a Rank A would think twice."

The article was long — written like a manifesto.

It laid out, with so-called evidence, that Dante hadn’t retaken the rank evaluation test since his initial assignment.

It listed inconsistencies : his medical records, the lack of official witnesses during the mutant incident...

And finally, the chilling conclusion :

"Did Dante lie to become a hero ?The Genesis Morning goes live tomorrow at 3:00 PM with an exclusive interview with Youpi — and perhaps the real hero of the story."

The entire school was in a frenzy.

Even the teachers avoided the topic.

The prefects, clearly, had been told to stay out of it.

The students ? All fire and fury. Rumors. Laughter. Rage. Theories.

---

In his room, Dante stared at the ceiling.

He’d seen the article the moment he woke up.

Not read — seen.

He recognized the hypocritical style of people who didn’t seek truth, only noise.

He still said nothing. Not even to Ginny, who was pacing the room, her boots thudding loudly on the floor.

— "It’s a witch hunt, Jin! And you’re just lying there like you’re at a damn spa! Did you read what they wrote?! That Youpi guy’s the one who got his ass kicked! We should’ve let him die!"

Dante slowly turned his head toward her. His eyes were hollow, but calm.

— "Nice to hear he’s doing well. Been a while since we caught up."

Ginny froze, frowning.

— "You’re really not gonna do anything? Not even say something?!"

He gave a faint smile.

— "You don’t put out a fire by blowing on it in anger."

Ginny shot him a look that could kill.

— "You sound like a burned-out prophet sometimes. Makes me wanna murder you myself."

---

Meanwhile, Johanna had just discovered the article at one of the big display terminals in the East Wing.

Her hands were shaking.

She didn’t understand.

She had seen what Dante did — with her own eyes.

How he’d destroyed that monster without asking for applause.

She stood there, frozen. Then slammed her fist into the screen, as if she could erase it with force.

No.

What she’d read wasn’t a lie — it was sabotage.

A trial with no judge. A lynching in ink.

She spun on her heel and stormed off.

Someone had to act.

Someone had to speak the truth.

He shouldn’t have to fight alone this time.

---

Night fell earlier than usual.

Not because of the sky — it was perfectly clear — but because the halls had gone silent.

Voices, laughter, footsteps... all of it muted since the announcement of The Genesis Morning live.

Tomorrow. 3:00 PM.

Tomorrow, everything would blow up. Or get worse.

In his room, Dante sat on the floor, back against the wall, arms crossed.

He listened — to the wood creaking, the wind against the window, and Ginny grumbling upside down on the bed, legs crossed, head hanging off the edge.

— "Seriously... they really expect us to watch that stupid live? And Youpi? That’s not even a real name."

Dante didn’t reply.

She turned her head toward him — upside down.

— "You hungry? I stashed a chocolate bar under the mattress. But don’t eat all the hazelnut again like last time."

He looked up at her, slightly amused despite himself.

— "...You ever think about going on a diet?"

— "Excuse me?"

Suddenly, the window shattered.

Ginny jumped, heart skipping a beat.

— "WHAT THE—?!"

The crash of glass. A rush of cold air swept into the room.

The window had exploded — shards littered the floor.

And in the middle of the mess... a red apple.

Ginny dashed over, snatched it up.

— "Who the hell throws fruit through a window?! It’s not even bio, I swear—... Wait."

There was a paper, rolled up and tied to the stem.

Ginny narrowed her eyes and handed it to Dante.

— "It’s for you. You’ve got some real creepy fans."

Dante took the apple calmly.

He unrolled the note. Just a few words, written in neat, elegant handwriting:

— "WestGarden. 8:00 PM. Comealone."

The West Garden — one of the oldest parts of the academy.

Secluded, surrounded by old storage buildings, barely visited.

Moss-covered statues still stood there, relics from another era.

No name. No signature.

But he didn’t need one, he already knew who it was.

He turned the apple over in his hand, studied it for a moment — then, without a word, took a bite.

Ginny stared at him, mouth open.

— "You seriously just ate a random apple that flew through your damn window?! Have you read nothing about survival?!"

He chewed slowly.

— "It’s sweet."

— "...You’re hopeless."

Dante stood, pulling on his jacket.

— "I’m going out."

— "Alone? Now? That’s not exactly—"

— "I’ll be back."

He closed the door behind him.

---

It was 8:30 PM.

Thirty minutes late.

Dante finally stepped into the quiet paths of the West Garden, his footsteps muffled on the gravel.

He saw her as he turned past a hedge.

A lone figure, back turned, dressed in golden uniform.

The embroidered insignia on the shoulder left no doubt — a student from Solheim, one of the academy’s most prestigious Houses.

She turned.

And there, under the moonlight — Johanna.

Dante felt a strange pulse in his chest.

It was... unexpected.

Him — this old soul eaten alive by centuries, by death and war — feeling something so simple. So fragile : aflutter.

— "...Sorry I’m late," he murmured, a lopsided smile tugging at his lips. "Had a small argument... with a window."

Johanna, still poised, barely looked away.

— "I was about to leave."

She said that... but she hadn’t moved. Not once.

— "Lucky I came, then. They say leaving a beautiful woman alone in a garden is probably punishable by death."

A pause. Then a small, genuine breath of amusement.

She crossed her arms.

— "Before anything else, Dante... I hope you realize how tasteless that joke was."

He nodded, humbly.

— "I know. It was... stupid. And hurtful. So I’m sorry. Even if it’s late."

Johanna lowered her gaze briefly before responding :

— "It’s part of my vow as a Saint... to forgive. Patience, tolerance, grace. I swore to uphold them."

— "But that’s not why you asked me to come tonight."

He looked her in the eye — her soft lips begging to be kissed, her angelic face glowing with light from within.

So much grace, it unsettled him — as he fought to stay composed.

— "You need help, Dante. Even if you’re doing everything to deny it."

He opened his mouth as if to argue... then stopped.

— "I don’t know," he whispered. "I don’t feel like I’m drowning."

— "And that’s the problem," she replied. "It creeps up on you. Maybe you don’t care what people think... but in this place, at this level, it doesn’t work like that. People destroy you with smiles and pens. And you let them. You think silence is strength. But that’s a mistake."

He clenched his jaw — not in anger. In discomfort.

She took a step closer.

Close enough now to feel his heartbeat racing.

— "Someone wants to see you fall, Dante. And they’re using the most underhanded tools to make it happen. You think you’re above all that. But this school ? It’s a battlefield. You can’t win it alone."

A long silence passed between them.

Then finally, Dante exhaled, almost reluctantly :

— "So... what do we do ?"

Johanna raised her chin.

— "I’m going to file a complaint with the council. Against the head of the journalism club. This is already abuse of power. Maybe it won’t go anywhere, but it’ll send a message."

— "And the live interview tomorrow?"

She looked away slightly.

— "...I won’t be able to stop it."

Dante raised his hand, cracking his knuckles slowly, with a faint grin.

— "In that case, I’ll handle it. My way."

He looked down.

A gravel stone.

He picked it up — no reason. Then, with sharp precision, threw it into a thick bush between two ferns.

Thud.

Then a groan.

Someone had just fallen.

They exchanged a look — then cautiously moved closer together.

Behind the bushes : a student. Lying flat, camera in hand.

His uniform was red, two buttons on the sleeve, no insignia.

Johanna crossed her arms, expression icy.

— "Owls are awfully big in this part of the school."

She snatched the camera from him and flipped through the last shots.

Photos of her and Dante. Some taken from the side. Others... ambiguous enough to spark rumors.

— "They would’ve titled it ’TheSaintandtheFaker’sForbiddenRomance,’ right?" She said with a bitter laugh.

Dante crouched in front of the boy, who was scrambling backward in fear.

— "S-Sorry... I was just following orders! I swear, I don’t pick the targets..."

— "Who?" Dante asked calmly.

— "It’s... Goethe Faust! The club president. He runs the whole thing. He picks the titles, the stories... It’s him. And... he’s also the head of HouseDravon."

Johanna’s blood ran cold.

— "Dravon... Of course. It had to be them."

She looked at Dante.

— "Now you have a name. And I ? I’ve got one more reason to fight."