The Academy's Doomed Side Character

Chapter 337: A kind Child

"...What?"

"She was definitely affected by the relic."

"What’s wrong?"

"No... that shouldn’t be possible. She shouldn’t be able to remember anything else. And yet—"

The woman watching from afar fell silent, a chill crawling up her spine for no clear reason.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

The relic was hero-grade. Not something that could be shaken off with vague emotions or lingering attachments. It should have completely overwritten her memories by now—her sense of self, her past, even her talent.

That was how it always worked.

So this had to be a delusion.

A temporary fluctuation.

Yet doubt crept in, unwelcome and persistent.

Was it truly possible for someone to resist a hero-grade relic with nothing but willpower?

The woman clenched her fingers.

"...Impossible," she muttered, as if saying it aloud could make it true.

---

Lena kept thinking, her mind drifting in and out of clarity.

"Is it good?"

She watched the child across from her as he poked at the food on his plate. The more she looked at him, the more familiar he felt—too familiar.

He looked like her brother.

No, not just his appearance.

The way he frowned at the carrots mixed into the Fried Rice, clearly displeased, yet still scooping them up with his spoon—it was exactly the same.

Her chest tightened.

"You can’t become a strong hero if you’re a picky eater," she said lightly. "Are you sure it’s okay?"

Her tone was gentle, teasing rather than scolding.

He was still a child. She didn’t want to force him. Back then, she had learned the hard way that indulging her brother even once would turn into an endless battle with vegetables.

She had a feeling this child would be the same.

But he wasn’t.

"...It’s okay," he said after a brief pause, wrinkling his nose. "I don’t like carrots, but... I can eat them."

And then, as if afraid she might think less of him, he added quietly, "I don’t want to waste food."

Lena froze for a split second.

Evans—.

The name surfaced again, sudden and sharp, sending a faint tremor through her chest. fɾēewebnσveℓ.com

She couldn’t remember everything.

But she remembered that.

That stubborn insistence. That quiet effort. The way he forced himself to finish what was on his plate, even when he didn’t like it.

Not because he was told to.

But because he believed he should.

It was cute how he diligently chewed and swallowed every side dish served at the restaurant, insisting it would be a waste if he didn’t finish them.

Lena watched him quietly from across the table.

The unpleasant static buzzing in her head made recalling things difficult, but not impossible if she focused. The memories surfaced slowly, like fragments pulled from deep water.

A kind child.

One who always worried her by getting caught up in dangerous situations, yet never seemed to learn to stay away from them.

She always felt sorry for him—someone who stubbornly refused help from others and tried to shoulder everything on his own.

Too independent. Too serious.

Sometimes, he felt nothing like other children his age.

And yet, at times—when his curiosity got the better of him, when he stared at the world with awkward fascination and asked questions far beyond his years—she was reminded that he was still just a child, trying to understand things he didn’t fully grasp.

That contradiction had always stayed with her.

She frowned faintly.

She was sure she had made a promise to that child.

This wouldn’t do.

Forgetting something that important meant she must have been far more exhausted than she realized. Her mind felt sluggish, as if wrapped in fog.

First things first.

She had to find this child’s parents, get some proper rest, and then—remember.

"S-sister! This Fried Rice is delicious!"

The boy, clearly flustered, hurriedly flashed a bright smile and shoveled another spoonful into his mouth, as if afraid it might disappear if he stopped.

Lena blinked, then let out a soft chuckle.

"Ah, that’s good," she said, watching him eat with visible relief.

The tension in her chest eased just a little.

Still, she couldn’t relax.

She had to find this child’s parents quickly.

As she stared down at her plate, another piece finally clicked into place, slipping past the static in her head.

A name.

Rin Evans.

Her fingers tightened slightly around her spoon.

So that was it.

The name carried weight—familiar and heavy, tugging at something deep inside her chest. She didn’t yet remember why, but she knew it mattered.

Should she ask that child for help?

The thought lingered, uncertain.

"Sister! Sister! I want more!"

She looked up.

The boy was holding his empty plate out toward her with both hands, eyes shining, cheeks puffed slightly from eating too fast.

For a moment, Lena simply stared.

Then she sighed, equal parts tired and fond.

"...All right," she said, reaching for the plate. "But slow down this time."

As she stood, that strange feeling returned—gentle, persistent.

A few minutes later, the plates were stacked neatly to one side of the table.

The boy swung his legs back and forth from his chair, hands resting on his lap now that his appetite had been satisfied. His movements were small, careful—like he was constantly measuring how much space he was allowed to take.

Lena noticed.

She always did.

"Are you full?" she asked.

He nodded immediately. "Yes."

Then, after a pause, he added, "...Thank you for the food."

The words were polite. Too polite.

Her chest tightened again.

"You don’t have to thank me for every little thing," she said, smiling softly. "I wanted to eat too."

That was a lie. She’d barely touched her own plate.

But the boy relaxed just a bit, shoulders lowering as if he’d been given permission to breathe.

They left the restaurant soon after.

The afternoon sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows across the park. The air was cooler now, the bustle of earlier hours slowly thinning out.

Lena paid, took his hand again, and stepped back outside.

The moment her fingers closed around his, something stirred.

Not pain.

Not dizziness.

Recognition.

The boy didn’t pull away. If anything, his grip tightened slightly, thumb brushing unconsciously against her knuckle.

Lena’s breath caught.

’This...’

She had held this hand before.

Many times.

The realization came without images, without context—but the certainty behind it made her heart pound.

They walked in silence for a while.

"Where do you want to look next?" she asked eventually.

He thought hard about it, brows knitting together.

"...There was a fountain," he said slowly. "It was loud. I didn’t like it much."

Lena nodded. "I know where that is."

The words slipped out too easily.

She didn’t remember going there.

But she knew.

As they approached the fountain plaza, the sound of rushing water filled the air. Children ran past, laughter echoing as droplets sprayed into the sunlight.

The boy shrank closer to her side.

Lena instinctively stepped between him and the crowd, one arm subtly shielding him.

Her body moved before her mind could catch up.

Protect.

The command echoed deep within her.

She froze mid-step.

Why had that felt so natural?

The pressure in her head returned—not sharp this time, but heavy, like a locked door being pushed from the other side.

Rin Evans.

Not just a name.

A person.

A presence.

Someone who had stood right where this child was standing now.

Her vision blurred for a fraction of a second.

She saw—

Blood on stone.

A small hand slipping from hers.

Red eyes, wide with fear, staring up at her.

"Lena."

Her name.

Her knees almost buckled.

"Sister?" the boy asked quickly, alarmed. "Are you okay?"

She sucked in a sharp breath and forced herself to stay upright.

"I’m fine," she said, too fast.

A lie.

But she couldn’t let him see that.