The next day.
Fencing class.
Ethan didn't skip this one.
Not because he cared about physical education—he could bench-press the entire school if he felt like it—but because fencing was actually interesting. Elegant.
Precise. And, in this particular academy, far more theatrical than in traditional schools.
The students were all lined up in the room, dressed in crisp white fencing gear, masks tucked under their arms, silver épées gleaming.
Ethan, on the other hand, stood off to the side in his usual all-black uniform. Completely unbothered. He watched as two students clashed blades in front of him—metal striking metal, footwork sloppy, form worse.
Humans… or outcasts… either way, not impressive.
The clatter of footsteps behind him made him glance over.
Enid and Wednesday walked across the room—side by side, perfectly mismatched as always.
Enid was in full fencing gear, bouncing with excitement, practically glowing through the mesh of her mask.
Wednesday wore her fencing uniform like she planned to duel death itself—poised, composed, and already judging everyone present.
Enid spotted Ethan immediately and jogged over.
"Oh my god, Ethan! You actually came to fencing class! I thought you were gonna ditch again—like yesterday."
He shrugged, casual as ever. "This class isn't boring. There's potential for violence. My kind of extracurricular."
Wednesday's gaze swept over him like a clinical examination. "Then why aren't you wearing your fencing uniform?" she asked.
Her tone was so flat it could've been delivered by a corpse. Possibly one she'd made herself. It didn't sound like curiosity—more like interrogation.
Ethan smirked. "I have a very good answer for that. Tell me—would you still use training wheels on a bicycle if you already know how to ride?"
Enid blinked. Tilted her head. Golden-retriever confusion activated. "Okay, but… what does that have to do with you not wearing the uniform? Like—at all?"
Wednesday didn't blink. But the faintest shift in her expression suggested she actually understood the implication.
"You believe yourself above regulation," she said. "How predictable."
"No," Ethan replied casually, "I believe I don't need a uniform for kids' play like this."
His eyes flicked toward the dueling students—moving in what felt like slow motion to him. Nothing they did required equipment to block.
Enid gasped, tail-wag energy collapsing into alarm. "Ethan! That was… kinda cocky."
Wednesday's face didn't move, but her tone sharpened like a blade being honed.
"Overconfidence is a precursor to avoidable injuries."
He turned to her, grinning. "Is that concern?"
"It's statistical analysis," Wednesday corrected instantly. "If you insist on ignoring safety protocol, I'd prefer to witness the moment your arrogance meets gravity."
Enid whisper-yelled, "She means she doesn't want you to get hurt."
"I absolutely do," Wednesday said.
As their conversation continued, it became impossible for anyone in the hall to ignore it. Ethan wasn't exactly whispering, and Enid's frantic attempts to quiet him only made her voice carry farther.
Little by little, the background noise of clashing foils and shuffling footwork faded as the rest of the class turned their attention toward the trio.
Students stopped mid-step, mid-strike, and mid-argument. Masks were lifted just enough for eyes to peek through the mesh. Several students exchanged uncertain glances, unsure whether they were witnessing unbelievable arrogance or a brewing disaster.
Among everyone staring at Ethan, the fencing instructor looked the angriest by far.
His expression had tightened into something between disbelief and insult, the kind of look a teacher gives when years of training and discipline are casually dismissed as pointless.
And honestly, who wouldn't be irritated? A student walks into your class, ignores the uniform, openly mocks the skill level of everyone present, and—intentionally or not—implies your teaching is worthless.
Anyone in his position would feel their patience evaporate.
"So," the instructor asked, staring directly at Ethan, "you think you're better than everyone in this room?"
Enid gasped quietly, her hands fluttering like she wanted to physically grab the words out of the air before they caused damage. She opened her mouth to protest—to insist Ethan didn't mean it that way—but she didn't get the chance.
Because Ethan chose that exact moment to pour gasoline onto the already blazing fire.
"No," he corrected, voice calm and maddeningly unbothered. "I don't think I'm better. I am better. No arrogance—just the plain truth."
Enid stared at him with wide eyes, silently screaming why would you say that out loud.
Even Wednesday, who rarely reacted to anything short of mortal peril, looked faintly impressed—mostly because she had never seen someone dig their own grave with such efficiency.
The temperature in the room seemed to drop. A few students muttered under their breath, while others exchanged looks that promised violence.
The instructor's eyes sharpened with the kind of interest teachers get right before they decide to let a cocky student learn the hard way.
"Oh?" he said, a dangerous edge slipping into his tone. "Then you wouldn't mind proving it by facing our best fencer."
He turned and raised his hand with a smooth, practiced gesture.
"Bianca Barclay."
Bianca stepped forward, removing her helmet with the controlled confidence of someone used to being the center of attention.
Enid leaned toward Ethan and whisper-yelled, "Maybe don't do this? Like—at least try not to make death your first school memory?"
But Ethan didn't look frightened. Not even irritated. He looked… conflicted, almost disappointed, like he was being asked to perform a chore.
Unfortunately, the room interpreted that hesitation in the worst possible way.
"He's scared already."
"Told you he was all talk."
"Knew he wouldn't back it up."
Smirks spread across masked faces. Students folded their arms, ready to enjoy the show. Bianca twirled her foil with a lazy flourish and raised an eyebrow.
"What's wrong? Nervous?"
Ethan exhaled, slow and bored.
"No. I'm thinking."
The instructor's patience thinned. "Thinking about what?"
"About how pointless this is," Ethan replied. His gaze shifted toward Bianca, steady and dismissive. "She's too weak."
The reaction was instant.
Gasps echoed through the hall. A few students swore under their breath. Even Wednesday blinked—once—which for her amounted to shouting.
Ethan continued, perfectly calm. "She wouldn't last a second against me. If you want someone who could at least touch me, you'd need—" he tapped his chin lightly, as if calculating—"maybe ten people."
Bianca's jaw tightened as she stepped forward, eyes sparking with challenge.
"You've got a big mouth."
"And you've got a short reach," Ethan replied without missing a beat.
The instructor pointed toward the center piste, expression hardening into something that looked halfway between irritation and anticipation.
"If you're so confident,… prove it."