Surviving the Magic Academy With Just Intelligence Stats

"What did you just say?" King Alexander leaned forward on his throne, his knuckles whitening as he gripped the ornate armrests. The afternoon light streaming through the stained-glass windows cast prismatic patterns across his incredulous face.

Sir Roland, still kneeling on the polished marble floor, cleared his throat nervously. "Your Majesty, I witnessed it with my own eyes. The princess—" he hesitated, searching for diplomatic phrasing, "—displayed unusual behavior when meeting the Rothschild heir."

The knight’s report painted a startling picture: Princess Athena, the kingdom’s fiercest warrior who had challenged dukes to combat without batting an eye, had been reduced to stammering incoherence within moments of meeting Ambrose Rothschild.

A curious thought blossomed in the king’s mind. Could his daughter, beneath her hardened warrior exterior, harbor a secret fondness for pretty boys? The mental image of Athena cooing over delicate features and elegant mannerisms seemed so incongruous with her established character that he nearly chuckled aloud.

Could it be that underneath all that pride she still likes cute things?

No, that couldn’t possibly be the case. The king dismissed these speculations as quickly as they had formed. The princess who had declared that she would never marry a "weakling" suddenly melting before the notoriously frail Rothschild heir? Preposterous.

Then what else could it be? he wondered, his brow furrowing in concentration. It must be that Ambrose kid.

Whatever the cause, a slow, calculating smile spread across Alexander’s face. This unexpected development presented a political opportunity too perfect to ignore. The Rothschild house had long been the royal family’s greatest concern—their wealth and influence rivaling, perhaps even surpassing, that of the crown itself. A marital alliance between the houses would not only stabilize their relationship but also send a powerful message to the other noble families who had been growing increasingly bold in their ambitions.

His smile deepened as he considered the implications. True, Victoria and Friedrich Rothschild were notoriously difficult to deal with—particularly Victoria, whose reputation as "The Mad Star" was well-earned. But if their children formed a genuine attachment, what could the parents do? Once the young hearts were joined, the political benefits would naturally follow.

"Recall the shadow guards," the king commanded abruptly, addressing the livery-clad servant stationed by his right hand.

The servant bowed deeply. "At once, Your Majesty." With measured steps, he backed away from the throne before turning to carry out the order.

Alexander settled back, satisfied with his decision. The capital was perfectly safe, after all—the royal guard patrolled every street and square with vigilant efficiency. There was no real need for shadow guards to follow the young couple. Moreover, if Athena sensed their presence, she might grow self-conscious and reserved, which would defeat his purpose entirely. Better to give her freedom to act on these unprecedented feelings without the weight of constant observation.

His mind wandered to increasingly elaborate fantasies of the future. In his imagination, he could already see his fierce daughter softened by love, presenting him with grandchildren—strong, intelligent heirs who carried both Rothschild and royal blood. Five of them, at least, if his dreams were to be realized.

A giggle escaped his lips before he could suppress it, followed by another, until he was nearly shaking with barely contained mirth.

From his position on the floor, Sir Roland watched with growing alarm as the king devolved into what appeared to be a fit of madness, giggling to himself like a schoolboy sharing a private joke. The knight kept his gaze respectfully lowered, not daring to comment on his monarch’s bizarre behavior.

Was the king too shocked by the news that he went mad? But It’s understandable, Roland rationalized as he maintained his formal posture. This news is simply too shocking. The memory of Princess Athena’s flustered expression and stammering voice replayed in his mind. He, too, was struggling to reconcile that image with the commanding, intimidating royal daughter he had served for years.

…

In the corner of the lavish reception chamber, Princess Athena sat perfectly still, her warrior’s posture maintaining a facade of royal dignity. Her face remained an expressionless mask, betraying none of the emotional tempest raging within. To any casual observer, she might have appeared merely contemplative, perhaps strategizing as she always did before battle.

But inside her mind, she was screaming.

What was that? The question echoed relentlessly through her thoughts. The memory of her stammering, blushing response to the Rothschild heir replayed in excruciating detail, each recalled moment sending fresh waves of mortification through her. She, Princess Athena—feared throughout the kingdom for her swordsmanship and unflinching resolve—reduced to a stammering mess by a simple handshake.

I’d rather face a hundred demons than endure another moment of this... this... whatever this is! she thought, her internal voice tinged with desperation.

Yet beneath the embarrassment lay something else—a sensation entirely foreign to her experience. Her heartbeat quickened whenever her thoughts drifted to Ambrose, a strange fluttering disrupting her usual iron control. It was as unsettling as it was inexplicable.

Unable to resist, she stole a furtive glance toward where Ambrose sat conversing with his companions. His delicate profile, illuminated by the afternoon light, triggered another acceleration in her pulse. Quickly averting her gaze, she silently cursed the betrayal of her own body.

Get a grip, Athena. You’ve stared down wyverns without flinching. This boy is just... just...

Her thoughts scattered as she risked another glance. And then another. Each time, the strange sensation intensified, her warrior’s composure crumbling further.

During one such stolen look, her eyes unexpectedly met Ambrose’s. Rather than looking away, he smiled directly at her—a gentle expression that somehow pierced through her defenses more effectively than any blade. Heat rushed to her face with such intensity that she wondered if her skin might actually ignite. She jerked her gaze away, staring fixedly at the pattern in the marble floor as though it contained vital battlefield intelligence.

What are you doing? She berated herself. You are the person who will inherit the War Goddess title! How could you be afraid of looking someone in the eyes? The thought of Celestia Lancaster, her lifelong idol, witnessing such weakness made her cringe inwardly. Yet despite her self-admonishment, she couldn’t summon the courage to meet his gaze again.

As she wrestled with this internal conflict, a shadow fell across her downturned face. She tensed instinctively, years of combat training instantly alerting her to the presence. Slowly, she raised her eyes.

Ambrose stood before her, closer than she expected. She looked up slightly to meet his eyes.

"Is everything alright?" he asked, his voice unexpectedly gentle. There was genuine concern in his tone, devoid of the condescension she typically heard from nobles.

The direct question and the intensity of his gaze sent another wave of unfamiliar sensations cascading through her. Somewhere in her mind, the warrior princess insisted she should maintain eye contact—backing down from a simple conversation would dishonor everything she stood for. Yet her gaze slid away of its own accord, seeking refuge in the safer territory of the middle distance.

She managed a slight head shake and forced words past the strange tightness in her throat. "No-nothing is wrong," she stammered, immediately wincing at her own faltering voice.

What’s wrong with him? she wondered desperately. She had already responded, yet she could still feel his gaze on her, patient and undemanding. A wild thought suddenly occurred to her—could he be interested in...? But before she could complete the thought, he spoke again.

"We’re leaving, aren’t you coming?" Ambrose asked simply.

"Huh?" The question pulled her back to reality with jarring force. Like a lightning bolt striking her consciousness, she suddenly remembered her assigned duty—she was supposed to be guarding them, not sitting in corners having an existential crisis.

Recalling her purpose restored some measure of her usual discipline. She shot to her feet, assuming an almost military posture of attention. "Ah, yes! Let’s go," she declared, her voice overly formal and several notches too loud for the setting.

Ambrose’s soft chuckle in response sent another traitorous blush spreading across her cheeks. He turned away, walking toward his companions who waited by the entrance. Even his walk was elegant—lacking the swagger of nobility but possessing a thoughtful grace all its own.

As Ambrose rejoined his group, he pondered the princess’s responses. Is the skill really that effective? Even against someone of her caliber? Though her personality type perfectly matched the conditions for maximum effect from his Vulnerable Charm skill, he hadn’t anticipated such a dramatic transformation. The fierce warrior had become almost a different person entirely in his presence.

Could a natural-ranked skill truly hold such power? he wondered, fascinated by the scene unfolding before him.

Princess Athena followed several paces behind, her warrior’s stride faltering as her attention fixed on Ambrose’s slender frame. She found herself drawn to details she would normally never notice—the delicate hands she had touched earlier, the elegant line of his back, the exposed vulnerability of his neck where fine hair curled slightly at the nape.

Something shifted in her expression—the confusion and embarrassment giving way to something more primal. Her eyes narrowed, pupils dilating slightly as her breathing quickened. "I really, really, really want it," she murmured, almost inaudibly, stretching her arm toward Ambrose’s unprotected back, fingers reaching with intent.

Before she could make contact, her wrist was suddenly caught in a vice-like grip. The pressure was precise—neither gentle nor unnecessarily brutal, but conveying unmistakable warning.

"What do you think you’re doing?"

The cold question came from Sun Hualing, who had materialized beside her with startling speed. The maid’s eyes locked onto Athena’s with an intensity that would have given pause to seasoned warriors. It wasn’t the deference a servant might show a princess, nor the caution a commoner might display toward royalty. It was the predator-to-predator recognition of territorial boundaries—and a clear message that those boundaries had been tested.

The death glare Hualing leveled at the princess carried an unmistakable promise: provide a satisfactory explanation, or blood would be shed—royal or not.