It had been just over an hour since ESC 106 was scheduled to "begin," which was hilarious considering the one ingredient a class needs to exist—an instructor—was still a no-show.
A full hour. Sixty minutes and counting. Still no sign of whoever was supposed to stand at the front and pretend they had control over fifty-six teenage walking disasters.
Class 1C, of course, made the most of it.
With their sudden liberty, students quickly scattered into small groups and did what any healthy, hormonal group of first-years would do on opening day at Fearcraft.
Someone was already passed out, using a textbook as a pillow as if the pages smelled of chamomile. A few students were streaming this week's top nightmares with an almost religious devotion. Two friends shared earbuds, wiggling their eyebrows in synchronized mischief.
The nap crowd took the back row, making pillows out of school bags, while the middle rows became designated chatter lanes.
And dead center, a knot of girls had launched into what sounded suspiciously like a doctoral thesis on the popular boy band: Moonknights.
"Okay, but listen," a girl with bubblegum nails said, leaning forward like she was about to confess state secrets. "They're non-craftian. Like, officially unofficially. All five members have no Imprint signatures on record. But, if you ask me, that's exactly what makes them so endearing. They keep out of faction politics, so anyone can stan them without all the bigot nonsense."
"Non-craftian, my left eyelid," her friend with lip piercings snorted. "How do you pull off choreography like that without at least a Temporal bias? Did you even watch the live cut of 'Grave Serenade' at Nightline Dome? The boys literally phased out of sight at one point! That was either a time wink or the lighting director was on beast mode."
A third girl, black lipstick and hair in two neat buns, leaned in. "You're both missing the point. Their whole brand is myth protection. Amira the Moon, is the eternal mama of everything that thrives in the dark—hello? us—and who's trying to expose her? Luxaroth, obviously. Amira's sworn enemy. Monster of light. Snitch sunlight. Narc sun."
"Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah!" Bubblegum nails slapped the desk. "Moonknights defend Amira on stage, that's the fan lore! Their music is her shield. Luxaroth tries to peel back the curtain and expose the dreamweaver economy to humans, the boys slam a bass line and BAM!, protective shield activated. I swear, I live for this kind of art."
"Also," Two buns added, dead serious, "the one with the silver half-mask is the cutest. Please do not argue with me unless you wish to be publicly incorrect."
"Excuse me?! The drummer with the black-lace veil could break my will to live and I'd give him my kidneys as loose change!" Lip piercings screeched, solemn as a vow.
"Down girl," Bubblegum nails giggled. "You said that last era about the guitarist with the ribcage tattoo."
"And my taste has always been superior!"
Their giggles spilled through the air, the debate picking up steam as other students joined in, tossing names and jokes across the rows. A few boys, forced listeners, grumbled something about "girls will be girls."
Meanwhile, others were burning time with simpler things: reading, napping, playing video games, etc.
Elsewhere, a pair had dragged a table into a brutal battlefield. They were hunched over it, elbows planted, hands locked, their shoulders taut with strain. The wood shrieked every time their muscles flexed. A tight ring of students gathered, like gulls waiting for a discarded meal.
"You can do this, fatty!" someone shouted, displaying enthusiasm that bordered on recklessness. "Show that pretty boy what's what!"
The insult earned a few incredulous stares.
The "fatty" being cheered for froze mid-match and slowly turned his head toward the offender, pinning him with a glare that could flatten a mountain. His build was borderline intimidating, bear-like even. He stood as tall as Rin, maybe taller.
Untidy black hair hung over his eyes until he looked straight, parting the mess with his gaze. A faint mustache shadowed his upper lip, and his burly arms—easily twice the size of an average student's—were dense with dark hair. Everything about him screamed raw, unpolished strength, a sharp contrast to the typical Fearcraft student's polished charm.
He didn't seem to care about the contrast.
When he spoke, his voice was deep and resonant, a baritone that seemed to vibrate through the air. "The name Kuma. Call Kuma 'fatty' again, Kuma cave loser boy's skull in."
The boy who'd cheered him on went scarlet with embarrassment, especially as snickers rippled through the crowd.
"Ouch," someone muttered.
"Serves him right," another hissed beneath their breath. "What an idiot."
The heckler quickly did the math and found humility cheaper. "Sorry," he mumbled, eyes glued to the floor.
Kuma watched him for a second longer, as if verifying his sincerity, then lowered his focus back to the table. His opponent, however, looked anything but offended.
He grinned as if this relentless match were his favorite ritual. While Kuma was brute force, this one was pure kinetic energy. He had a slighter, more agile build. His eyes narrowed happily when he laughed, his pupils thinning in a way that recalled a certain jungle cat. He reset his grip, which looked comically small against Kuma's massive hand, yet somehow entirely at home.
"Alright, big guy!" he chirped, his voice bright and melodic. "I'm enjoying the display of manliness—it's hot!—but you have to watch me, or I might just pull off a win this time!"
His smile flashed with sharp, catlike confidence; even his movements possessed a predator's ease. The way Kuma's massive hand completely dwarfed his own only seemed to heighten his competitive excitement.
"Tch," Kuma rumbled flatly, "Bhupesh lose to Kuma since Bhupesh and Kuma little cubs. When Bhupesh give up?"
Instead of backing down, Bhupesh's grin widened, his muscles flexing as he leaned in. "You know that's never going to happen, old friend. Now, flex those muscles for me!"
Snorts of amusement rose from the crowd as the two arms trembled, the table groaning under the immense pressure.
Meanwhile, at the front of the bustling room, Aluminum Bergō paced impatiently. Every few steps, he stopped to check his watch, puffing out air through his cheeks.
An hour and ten minutes had crawled by, and still no sign of a professor. At the prestigious Fearcraft Academy, no less! How unprofessional could someone get?
And as if that wasn't bad enough—he glanced down at the class register he'd collected from Miss Nayomi and pinched his nose bridge—three students were still missing.
Fifty-six names on the list. Fifty-three faces in front of him. After counting twenty times, he still came up short by three.
He didn't know everyone by face yet, so he couldn't pinpoint who the slackers were. But that wasn't the point. Skipping class on the first day—even if the class hadn't technically started—was beyond unacceptable!
Aluminum inhaled slowly, trying to rein in his irritation. Straightening his earring, he finally turned to address the noise.
"My dear classmates," he projected, his voice clear and formal, instantly cutting through the chatter. As several students reluctantly acknowledged him, Aluminum permitted himself a small, satisfied nod. "I am Aluminum Bergō, and I have designated myself your representative. I trust we are all eager for the next lecture, but I must ask everyone to maintain composure—"
"We? Who in the hell is 'we'?" someone called loudly from the middle rows, earning a few sharp laughs.
"Don't lump me with you," another added. "I'm perfectly fine with the professor playing hooky."
"Yeah, speak for yourself, nerd," a third voice chimed in, already half-asleep on their desk.
Aluminum's temple twitched, though his polite smile never wavered. Inside, he was seething.
'Underachieving buffoons,' his mind spat, the thought laced with contempt. 'How did this low-grade rabble gain entry? They are a blight on this academy.'
Then the answer hit him, making him want to tear out his own perfectly coiffed hair. There'd been no proper entrance exam this year. Admissions had worked entirely off lineage, referral metrics, Imprint potential, and politics. No neat filtration process for the unserious. Essentially, a huge chunk of his so-called classmates were nothing but spoiled heirs and shallow talent picks.
Aluminum sighed. The first real test wasn't until four days from now. That would, thankfully, weed out the posers from the ones with actual promise. He could survive until then. That was the least he could do as the appointed class representative.
Just as he was about to politely tell the lot of them to swan-dive off a cliff, the classroom door slid open.
A palpable hush rippled through the room.
A tall boy stepped in, bandaged head to toe as if he'd just escaped a morgue. At first, some assumed it was cosplay. But as he walked further into the room, the sight of bloodstained gauze, the stiff, careful way he carried his arm, and his half-healed wounds made it brutally clear this was no costume. This was the sort of look you earned the usual way: by finding someone who desperately wanted to test you, or by testing the wrong person.
A wave of hostile whispers instantly flooded the room.
"That's him, isn't it? The delinquent who flew off the handle and jumped a classmate in the hallway."
"Ewww. He looks like he stinks."
"I heard he used his Imprint without clearance. Was he high on something? Must be typical for a lowlife like him."
"Pfft, yeah. He got his ass handed to him anyway. You should've seen his face when he realized he wasn't all that."
"Speaking of which, where is he?"
"Where's who?"
"My future wife, duh—the guy who handed his ass to him. I need to ask him something personal~"
"Girl…"
Seth kept walking, his jaw tight and his fist clenched at his side. He heard every word, every whisper dripping with mockery, and he fleetingly imagined snapping all their necks in unison. But he didn't.
When he reached the aisle that cut by Rin's desk, his steps faltered. Rin's gaze was already locked on him—flat, listless, and heavy with that quiet brand of judgment that required no words. Seth hated that look.
In those dark green eyes, he read the measured contempt of a boy who had been told his whole life that he was the standard. It wasn't simple rage, but a chilling evaluation that contained a verdict: Worthless. Inferior. Irredeemable.
Seth wanted to walk right up and punch that expression clean off his face. Instead, he forced his feet forward. He yanked his shoulders back, his jaw locking tighter, struggling not to flinch when he heard Rin's subtle scoff.
At that moment, the class's attention shifted as a new pair appeared at the entrance. Their eyes snagged particularly on the boy with the usual combination of white hair and red eyes.
It was him.
The one some students had already nicknamed the Delinquent Reaper. Others had gone with the Red-Eyed Tyrant. And a few, desperate for creativity, called him Iceghost because, allegedly, he had appeared from nowhere and extinguished Seth's fire with zero difficulty.
The entire class fell silent as falling ash while the two boys headed for their seats. Every footstep seemed to echo. Zach wore an expression of detached boredom, while behind him, Zev trudged with his head bowed, visibly shrinking under the weight of dozens of stares.
He wanted to disappear. Why was the anti-stress medicine failing? One, A, two, B. His chest hurt. Why were they staring so hard without saying anything? Three, C, Four, D—Or was it E? Had someone spread a rumor? Six, F—Were they being ostracized?
A dizzy wave hit him, and before he was even conscious of the action, Zev had huddled closer to Zach's back, desperately seeking shelter from the sea of eyes that seemed to grow teeth.
The instant they were seated, the room exploded. Whispers and cruel laughter washed over the air like a tide.
Zach tuned out instantly, dragging out his sketchpad to resume his drawing. He drew with his uninjured left hand, being conveniently ambidextrous. Zev, however, sat frozen, trying to shrink smaller and smaller beneath the renewed noise.
"Wow, he's seriously short for a dude. That has to hurt his ego."
"Shhh! You shouldn't say mean things like that! He looks like he'd cry if he hears you…"
"Wait a minute—holy shit! How didn't I notice Iceghost earlier? He's absolutely gorgeous, I swear to Amira."
"I'd calm your whoremones down if I were you. That one's not right in the head. Anyone with a functioning brain saw that during their brawl. If the place and timing were different, he might've actually killed someone."
"Unfortunately, we sisters of culture are colorblind, so red flags don't bother us. I'd still smash."
"You said it, sis."
"Listen, I know we're supposed to hate on the Ossafex, but if you think about it, that midget got what was coming for him. You can't be that small and pick a fight with someone who'd knock your lights out with a single punch. He asked for the beating, in my opinion."
"You should take your opinion and shove it up your unwashed ass."
The insult dropped like a brick, startling the entire class. All heads snapped toward the source. At the front stood Aluminum Bergō, unapologetic beneath the weight of every gaze. His posture was immaculate, his face carved from granite.
"Honestly," Aluminum began, shaking his head slowly, his silver earring reflecting the overhead light. "I'm not in the business of teaching you spoiled children manners, but try to possess the rudimentary sense not to insult people within earshot. Have some shame."
He scanned the class slowly, "As class representative, I cannot believe I'm stuck here with the likes of you. FCA lowered its standards to let any mouth-breather with an Imprint walk through the door."
That set the class off instantly.
"Oh, look at the Bergō heir," a burly Dēremon student roared, springing up from his seat. "Too good for us, are you? Guess what, class rep? Your family name might be on the CoH's new list, but it's still just a historical footnote to the rest of us! Get over yourself!"
A Midline Nereanth student smirked. "Just the usual Yvülu arrogance. They think they're all perfection with their disgusting mirrors and 'purity' rituals. The Bergōs, in particular, spent three generations buying their way into the Superior Houses. They need to look in those useless things for once and see how desperately flawed they truly are."
The implication—that the Bergōs lacked the old, earned bloodline authority—was a low, cutting blow. Aluminum's usual smooth composure cracked, a flash of pure, cold Yvülu rage darkening his eyes.
A female student with silver hair bristled at the insult directed at her lineage, not just his family.
"You scumbag—how dare you make such a racist generalization! I'm a Yvülu. Miss Nayomi is a Yvülu. There are several others in our class as well! Apologize immediately!"
And just like that, all hell broke loose.
Voices tangled, accusations flying like shrapnel. The Fatespun were accused of cheating destiny, and a Dēremon responded with threats of lineage-specific curses. A Dorsari screamed about the privilege of sleep-sand. A Nereanth in the corner made a snide remark about "surface-breathers."
Soon, every racial faction in the room had joined the verbal brawl.
"At least Dēremons don't drown in their own nightmares like you abyss-fish!"
"Say that again, ground-crawler, and I'll flood your lungs for real!"
"Chrominents keep acting like they own time! Here's a scoop: no one cares how many clocks you've scammed!"
"Oh? At least we don't store our souls in jars, Relicbound freaks!"
"I'd rather have a jar than a personality built on sleep deprivation, you caffeine junkie!"
"I hope you survive Friday, because I'm coming for you next!"
"Bring it, asshole! My imprint would devour yours alive!"
Chairs screeched. Desks rattled. Someone actually threw a pen that struck the board with a pathetic ping.
At the back, a low yawn cut clean through the uproar. Denny, previously asleep with his face buried in his arms, stirred awake. He stretched lazily, his vertebrae popping, then blinked around the room in mild confusion.
"…The hell happened while I was out?" he muttered.
His gaze drifted to his seat partner in front, a girl with neck-length blonde hair and freckled skin. He leaned forward, his chin almost brushing her shoulder.
"Hey," he drawled, his voice thick with sleep. "Why's everyone acting like this?"
Iris jumped, nearly tossing her pen. Her face flushed a painful pink. "W-What?! O-Oh, it's—it's nothing—okay, maybe not nothing! They're f-fighting over racial superiority. And, um, y-you might not like it but... someone said something about… uh…"
She faltered, realizing his warm breath was fanning directly against her ear, and practically melted in mortification. "—about Chrominents sacrificing babies or something? I-I think?"
Denny froze. The air around him warped faintly, glitching at the edges of the light. His tone darkened.
"…What?"
Across the classroom, a smug voice sneered loud enough for half the room to hear:
"I'll die on this hill: Chrominents definitely sold their kids to the Otherkin to keep their time powers alive. That strain never should've survived naturally. There's no way they didn't trade flesh for seconds. Then again, it won't be the first time a bloodline has sold itself off to a shadow sect of the Otherkin elite."
The moment the words landed, the temperature in the room plummeted.
Denny's chair screeched back. His voice thundered, low and vibrating through the air like static: "Which bastard said that?! Say it again. I dare you!"
His outline flickered, distorting the air around him like broken film. The class erupted further; some laughed nervously, while others eagerly egged him on.
"Oh look, the clock boy's mad! I'm so scared!"
"Careful, he might rewind your life choices."
"Haha, shut up before he actually does it~"
The tension peaked. Spittle, insults, and unfiltered rage flew across the room. It was an orchestra of pure, juvenile madness. Centuries of ingrained prejudice packed into one hour of unsupervised nonsense.
And then—
Time stopped. Literally. Voices cut off mid-syllable. A half-thrown notebook froze, suspended in midair. Ink drops hovered like petrified rain. Every student stood trapped in a greyscale moment, only their eyes retaining the ability to flicker. It felt like an eternity had gone by, but in reality, it had been a mere fraction of a second.
A pulse of energy rippled through the front of the room.
Someone appeared.
Tall. Dark. Brooding. His presence bent the light itself. He adjusted his cuff, his eyes fixed on the watch around his wrist. His voice was smooth, unbothered, like someone who'd been late so often, it had become a brand.
"Apologies for my tardiness," he said, deadpan. "Time… has never been on my side for some reason."
Professor Dimitri Fade, ESC 106 instructor, had finally shown up.
The clock ticked again.
Color rushed back.
And the class—fifty-six students, rabid zoo animals a moment ago—now sat frozen in perfect, stunned silence.