The Grand Dining Hall of Vermillion Lotus University was a masterpiece of architectural excess, a place where wealth and vanity reached their zenith. Gilded columns rose to impossible heights, supporting an intricately painted ceiling depicting some grandiose tale of noble triumphs and celestial blessings. Crystal chandeliers, each the size of a small carriage, bathed the room in a warm, golden glow. The scent of exotic spices mingled with the faint perfume of lotus blossoms that graced every corner.

At the head of one of the endless banquet tables, surrounded by a retinue of admirers, sat Liang Zhenhai, the picture of regal elegance. His golden hair, falling just past his shoulders in soft waves, caught the light as if it were spun from sunlight itself. He held a pair of ivory chopsticks in one pale hand, tipped with gold filigree that gleamed as he delicately plucked a single candied lotus petal from his plate. To Zhenhai, utensils were not merely tools; they were extensions of his own sophistication, and nothing—absolutely nothing—would make him stoop to touching food with his hands.

But this morning, even the finest delicacies seemed incapable of distracting him. His sharp violet eyes were locked onto a sight so grotesque, so utterly offensive, that it had completely robbed him of his appetite.

“What... is *that?*” Zhenhai murmured, his voice laced with disbelief as he tilted his head ever so slightly.

One of his friends, an equally polished but less sharp-witted noble named Rong Yu, followed Zhenhai’s gaze toward the far end of the hall. At the farthest, most unfashionable corner of the hall, where the shadows lingered just a little longer, sat the commoner student, hunched over a chaotic mess of papers. He was scribbling furiously with a battered pen, oblivious to the glances being thrown his way. On the table beside him sat a loaf of bread so dry and misshapen it looked like it had been unearthed from an archeological dig.

Rong Yu squinted. "It’s... *bread*, right?"

Another of Zhenhai’s companions leaned closer, their bejeweled rings clinking softly against the table. “Why does it look like that?”

Zhenhai narrowed his eyes, his sharp gaze locking onto the offending object. His hand twitched against the table as though even being in the same room as such a thing was an insult. “That’s not bread,” he declared with a kind of cold certainty. “That’s a relic from a bygone era. A fossil.”

“It looks like it’s been through a war,” Rong Yu muttered, earning a ripple of laughter from the group.

But Zhenhai wasn’t laughing. His violet eyes narrowed, his jaw tightening as he watched the commoner tear a chunk off the loaf and pop it into his mouth with all the enthusiasm of someone dining on ambrosia. The crumb shower that followed only deepened Zhenhai’s horror.

“Someone must put an end to this,” Zhenhai said, his voice ringing with the kind of righteous authority that could summon armies—or, at the very least, a fresh bread roll.

“Are you really going to *talk* to him?” Rong Yu whispered, his tone a mix of amusement and apprehension.

Zhenhai turned to his companion with a look so sharp it could cut glass. "Of course. What kind of steward of refinement would I be if I let such barbarism go unchecked?"

With all the poise of a general going to war, Zhenhai rose from his seat, his robes flowing around him like liquid gold. The ivory chopsticks were still clutched in his hand, a subtle reminder that even in outrage, he would not compromise on elegance. He strode across the hall, each step deliberate and commanding, drawing the attention of nearly everyone in the room.

When he reached the commoner, who was mid-bite, Zhenhai cleared his throat with theatrical precision. The commoner didn’t look up.

"Excuse me," Zhenhai said, his tone as crisp as winter air.

A few heads turned, but the commoner didn’t so much as flinch. He was too busy scribbling furiously on his papers, his other hand absently tearing another chunk from the offending loaf.

“*You there.* Commoner.”

But the commoner hummed absently, scribbling something onto his paper.

“Commoner,” Zhenhai repeated, louder this time.

Still, nothing.

Zhenhai’s eye twitched. He tapped one chopstick against the edge of the table, the soft ting ting ting breaking the silence around them.

Zhenhai’s lips pressed into a thin line, his patience nearing its end. “I am *speaking* to you!”