The Crimson Hound

The door opened to silence. Five years sealed inside a rift nobody knew existed. No witnesses, no record, no one waiting. When the seal finally broke, the teacher walked out younger than his own file — into a continent that had moved on without him, and a classroom of reincarnated students who remember him from a life he can't speak of. They call it magic. He calls it a command menu: Pause, Exploit, Undo, Delete. The words don't exist in this world — which makes them a dead language, a rumor, or a threat, depending on which ledger is reading. The Hound wears a mask and eats gods. The throne has an appetite and a memory. The coin doesn't lie, but the books do, and someone already swept his file clean. When the Hall hears about the teacher who speaks in a dead tongue, the audit comes for his classroom first. He's the only one who can see the trees — every tree in the world working for its owner whether they see it or not. And he's the only one who knows what his students owe. The exams promise two lies: blooms shine, roots stay hidden. He's about to prove the second one was never true. No harem. No shortcuts. Power always has a hidden bill.