Rivaren University

The moment Musa saw the bronze-skinned young man, the first thing that came to his mind was his sudden disappearance yesterday.

Musa kept moving toward him. The closer he got, the wider the young man's smile became.

"I hope you haven't forgotten me," the bronze-skinned young man said with a smile as soon as Musa approached him.

"I only met you yesterday. How could I forget you?" Musa replied before adding, slightly annoyed, "Or rather, you met me. I never even got your name."

The young man's eyes widened slightly in surprise, his expression saying, "Damn, I forgot to tell him."

"Sorry, I didn't introduce myself. My name is Ron. Ron Neill," the bronze-skinned young man chuckled lightly before stating his name and extending his hand for a handshake.

Musa didn't embarrass him and shook his hand before saying, "Nice to meet you, Ron. But can I know why you're watching me now?"

To Musa, it was suspicious that someone would suddenly approach him, disappear, and then the next day be waiting for him in the middle of the road as if predicting his arrival.

'Sharp,' Ron thought to himself before saying, "Sorry, but I wasn't exactly watching you."

'Exactly? So there was some kind of watching involved,' Musa didn't voice his thoughts.

Noticing Musa's irritation and wariness, Ron smiled and said, "Maybe fate is just trying to bring us together."

'Fortune-teller nonsense,' Musa thought before saying aloud, "You really are one of Donovan's followers."

Ron wasn't offended by Musa's bluntness, nor by his clear disdain and hatred for fortune-tellers. He simply maintained his smile and looked briefly into Musa's uncovered eye before shifting his gaze to the covered one.

"Didn't you want a reading about something? A dream?"

'Tsk, how does he know?' Musa thought before hiding his surprise and saying, "That's right. But I don't recall telling you it was a dream."

Musa had a well-trained sense of self-control. After all, strange things happened to him daily without fail.

"So, do you still doubt the abilities of fortune-tellers? Or rather, real fortune-tellers?" Ron asked, still smiling.

'Real fortune-tellers? He knows about my dream… Could he be one of those with strange abilities we were warned about? No, I can't trust him so easily,' Musa's mind started connecting possible reasons behind Ron's knowledge of his dream.

After a brief silence, Musa spoke, showing some skepticism. "And is there any fortune-teller who would call themselves a fraud?"

He then stepped aside to leave, continuing on his way and trying to appear uninterested.

Ron's voice stopped him. "22 Swan Street. Seven o'clock in the evening. Every Sunday and Thursday."

Musa paused, turning his head slightly. "And what's that supposed to be?"

Ron kept his smile, which was starting to seem very irritating to Musa, before saying, "If you're interested—"

"I'm not," Musa interrupted him.

Ron's smile didn't fade as he simply said, "I'm very sorry. But if you do become interested, you can come to the place at the time I told you and see for yourself."

Musa turned away again, continuing his path with a 'Tsk.' He had wanted to see even the slightest change in Ron's strange expression, but the whole thing was just becoming more suspicious to him.

—....

The road to Rivaren University was indeed long, and it would take a lot of time if Musa simply walked there. So, he decided to take a public carriage to the university.

Musa boarded the double-decker public carriage, handed 15 fils to the fare collector, and chose an empty seat by the window at the back of the first floor.

Inside the carriage, it wasn't completely full—only about half the seats were occupied. Each passenger was preoccupied with something: some were organizing their work papers, others were reading books or novels for entertainment, while some simply sat with empty expressions, as if they had no life in them.

Musa saw these kinds of people every day—not just in public carriages but also in the streets, in the university, and in every corner of the kingdom. These were the ones who had no purpose in life, those we call the "depressed."

There were many reasons for depression—losing a loved one, breaking up with someone dear—but the overwhelming spread of depression in this world was due to poverty and shattered dreams.

So many dreams had been trampled on by those living at the top—the greedy ones who monopolized power.

Achieving even the simplest dream in this country was incredibly costly—not just financially, but also in terms of one's body, freedom, and beliefs.

The people in power had turned the youth into sheep—mere livestock tethered by their necks, exploited for their benefit, only to be slaughtered and devoured once they were no longer needed.

Those who dreamed of working at a major company found themselves nothing more than shackled servants under a tyrannical employer. Those who aspired to be writers ended up writing whatever was dictated to them, unable to express their own words, the ideas that roamed their minds and ignited their hearts.

But that wasn't even the worst part of the power monopoly. In the current era of the Kingdom of Britain, the only jobs available for the poor and lower-middle class—if they weren't lucky—were in factories, primarily chemical factories, textile mills, glassworks, and steam factories. At first, these jobs might seem like great opportunities, but their consequences were deadly.

Neither the government nor the factory owners ever provided safety measures against radiation exposure, leading to numerous deaths every month. Those who died weren't even acknowledged—they were simply replaced. And all this for a meager wage of no more than 20 fils per week.

To escape this fate, many young people tried to leave Britain, but of course, even travel fees were exorbitant.

Most women who couldn't earn a living and had no one to support them were forced to sell their bodies, working as night girls—either independently or in brothels. Some tried to seduce high-ranking officials in hopes of becoming their mistresses and escaping poverty.

None of this existed until the reign of Michael IV began ten years ago—the first corrupt king in Britain's history.

The carriage began moving along Rivaren's main road.

Through the window, Musa saw people collapsed on the ground, their state unknown—whether alive or dead. Others sat begging passersby for a single coin. This was the "Street of Misery," the poorest street in Rivaren, home only to the homeless and the jobless. It was also the street where the highest number of corpses were found daily.

Musa once heard that the government had removed ten bodies from the Street of Misery in a single day—people who had died from hunger and disease.

As the carriage continued moving, Musa saw groups of people standing in the streets, laughing—men flirting with the women around them, ladies chuckling lightly to maintain an air of nobility. The men wore elegant suits and coats, carrying canes adorned with silver or gold, while the women wore beautiful dresses in various colors, accentuating their figures, with their necks and hands adorned with countless jewels.

This was Christo District—or, as it was called, the Noble Quarter of Rivaren.

Seeing the stark contrast between the scenes in Christo District and those in the rest of the city—especially in the Street of Misery—Musa couldn't help but frown, his face darkened with bitterness.

"You either suffer in poverty just to survive, or you're born lucky like most of these people."

That was Musa's understanding of social classes in this world.

After some time, Musa signaled the driver to stop the carriage and got off in front of Rocher Bridge.

Rocher Bridge, like many others, was built over the Ritscher River, which was named after the first ruler of this land. The river wound through most of Britain, branching into various regions, and was used as a justification for the kingdom's expansion—claiming that any land the river touched rightfully belonged to them.

Musa crossed the bridge and walked for a while until Rivaren University came into view. The university stood amidst vast green fields, enclosed by high stone walls that reflected its prestige. The main entrance was a massive wrought-iron gate adorned with intricate engravings, with the university's emblem displayed above it.

The main building had a grand facade made of massive sandstone blocks, interspersed with towering marble columns. On either side of the building stood two statues of bulls, each holding a balance scale on its head, with its hooves hanging down.

Upon reaching the gate, Musa handed his identification card to the gatekeeper, who granted him entry. Once inside, he headed straight for the entrance of the main building.

The building's interior featured a vast lobby topped with a dome, ornately decorated with golden engravings and artistic paintings that symbolized knowledge and philosophy.

Musa ascended the long staircase to his right, then turned right again until he reached the Arts Department.

There, he encountered a tan-skinned man with black hair and eyes, appearing to be in his forties. He stood between 170 and 175 cm tall, with a slightly rounded belly. This was his mentor, Mr. Matt Rein—the man who had nurtured and developed Musa's talent in violin playing.

"Musa?" Mr. Matt was surprised. "What day is it? Your vacation hasn't ended yet. Or did you actually miss me?" he asked, adding a teasing remark before stepping forward to embrace his favorite student, whom he hadn't seen in weeks.

After hugging his mentor, Musa smirked playfully. "Why would I miss you, old man?"

"Have you heard the news? The King's Orchestra is looking for a violinist," Mr. Matt said, ignoring Musa's remark, fully aware of his usual sarcasm.

"Of course. That's why I'm here," Musa smiled before continuing, "I need to practice with you a bit, old man."

Mr. Matt looked at Musa with a superior expression. "See? Here you are, seeking my expertise," he said as he adjusted the collar of his shirt smugly before joking, "So show some respect, sewer rat, and stop calling me an old man. I'm only in my forties."

"Which means you're old," Musa retorted, deliberately provoking his mentor.

"Tsk. Just grab your violin, and let's begin," Mr. Matt said with feigned annoyance.

Musa stepped forward and picked up a violin from the musical equipment set. Then he glanced at Mr. Matt and said, "I was ready to start right away, yet you haven't commented on whether I have a chance of succeeding or not."

"You have a chance," Matt replied, then smiled warmly before adding, "I know my student's abilities well. Trust me, kid, you're better than most violinists in the entire kingdom. I'm confident you'll secure the position. In fact, what you don't know is that I was about to send you a telegram urging you to apply if you hadn't come on your own."

Musa's eyes gleamed at Mr. Matt's words. He had always seen him not just as a mentor, but as a father figure.

—.....

After finishing several practice pieces, the clock struck two in the afternoon.

"Excellent! Your mastery of all the compositions is incredible. Ah, if only Mukhtar Niniam could see you playing his pieces!"

Mukhtar Niniam was the most famous violinist in the world during the past century. He composed and performed his own pieces, becoming a phenomenon in violin music.

"Now you're just exaggerating, old man," Musa replied, casting a playful, skeptical glance at his mentor.

"I told you to stop calling me an old man," Matt said, raising his hand as if he had given up dealing with Musa's cheeky attitude. "Let's take a break now."

"No problem. I'll head to the library for a bit," Musa stated before setting down his violin and leaving the music department, making his way toward the library.

When he reached the library entrance, he saw her.

A fair-skinned girl with brown hair and green eyes, standing at about 167 cm tall.

She was breathtakingly beautiful.