"He who fights with monsters should be careful lest he thereby become a monster himself."
— Friedrich Nietzsche
As the first light of dawn rose above the academy walls, the dormitories awoke to the tolls of the iron bell—merciless strikes echoing through the corridors, as if telling everyone who lived here:
"You no longer belong to the outside world."
Dan stepped out of his dorm with calm strides, passing by dozens of students still wrestling with sleep.
But the quiet didn't last long; the hallways soon flooded with noise: loud laughter, heavy footsteps, and conversations dripping with arrogance.
The cafeteria was a storm of sound—
clattering dishes, hurried footsteps, overlapping chatter among groups of students, and the faint aroma of hot food drifting gently above the tables.
And despite all this chaos… there was one corner, quiet and isolated, that no one dared approach.
There, I sat alone, staring at a tray of food I had barely touched.
I was trying to read the students' expressions, listening closely in hopes of picking up something useful.
While I was drowned in thought, two light steps stopped at the edge of my table.
I raised my head slightly and saw two girls standing shyly.
The first had light brown hair falling softly over her shoulders, bright brown eyes, pale skin, and pink lips.
The second had darker skin, neatly styled black hair, and deep green eyes reflecting a mixture of boldness and hesitation.
The first girl spoke in a gentle tone:
"Umm… may we sit with you? Almost all the tables are full."
I gestured for them to sit without saying a word.
They sat with a hint of nervousness before the first girl spoke again, wearing a warm smile:
"My name is Irina Lancelotin… from Class B. My family works in the field of art and production—you might have seen some of their work."
Then she pointed at her friend:
"And this is Lester Citron… her family owns a well-known cruise ship company."
Lester waved shyly.
"Nice to meet you."
I replied quietly:
"I'm Dan Reith, from Class W. A pleasure to meet you both."
The two exchanged a brief glance before Lester said:
"We were just talking about Mr. Jeff… honestly, we're terrified of him."
Irina nodded quickly:
"Especially after what happened in the assembly hall… A whole week because of a piece of gum!"
I told them in a low, steady voice:
"Maybe he is frightening, but cruelty and fear… sometimes they're the only way to establish order in a place like this."
They both stared at me in surprise before Irina said:
"That's true… what you're saying makes sense."
Lester added:
"Most students complain about him… but you talk as if you understand this place better than we do."
I answered:
"It's not understanding… but if you want to succeed here, you must accept the rules as they are."
After a brief silence, Irina said:
"I heard that the upcoming challenges will start soon. They say they're held every half month."
Lester continued:
"And they say they're terrifying… and that points can disappear suddenly."
Then she raised her eyebrows:
"My sister's friend told me that a student lost more than sixty points in the very first challenge, six years ago."
With my hands clasped on the table, I said:
"The challenges are the kingdom's way of choosing its king. We haven't held elections or selected a leader randomly for more than ninety years."
Irina said nervously:
"That's why I'm scared of everything… even being late by a minute."
Lester laughed:
"I'm even scared to throw a tissue in the wrong place… after the gum incident."
A faint, genuine smile crossed my face.
Suddenly… the atmosphere trembled, as if a silent wave had swept through the entire cafeteria.
The doors burst open, and a single student entered—his steps slow, yet heavy and unwavering.
Leister whispered:
"That's… Michael Ollis."
Irina added anxiously:
"The son of the Western Governor… and the leader of Class A."
He was tall, with cold gray eyes, stone-like features, and short black hair.
He stopped before a table, cast a single glance at the students sitting there… and they stood up immediately.
I smiled as I looked at him, a thought echoing in my mind—
as if he were saying: In this world, the weak survive only as memories in the mouths of the strong.
Everything here is like a monkey jungle… where survival belongs to the one with fangs first, not to the one who tries to adapt.
Then he suddenly turned, his eyes locking directly onto mine…
and I looked back at him, still smiling.
He began approaching.
One step… then another… until he was only a meter away from my table.
He spoke in a low voice that pierced through the silence:
"You… you're from Class W, right? The same class as Lila De Stefano."
I answered without hesitation:
"Yes."
His gray eyes narrowed:
"I heard you almost caused trouble with her at the gate."
Leister gasped:
"What? You did what with Lila De Stefano!?"
I raised my hand to silence her.
Michael leaned in slightly toward me:
"In this academy… status is the law. And Class W students… are beneath our feet."
Then he slowly extended his hand… and flipped my tray over.
Food scattered across the table.
Irina whispered fearfully:
"Dan… are you okay?"
I stood up calmly and wiped my shirt with a few napkins that had been on the table, then said in a quiet voice:
"Spilling food isn't violence… but going too far makes a person forget himself."
A long silence followed.
Before Michael could respond, quick, sharp, confident footsteps approached.
Everyone turned.
Lila De Stefano was standing behind him—her shoulders squared, and her brown eyes, tinged with burning red, gleamed like the edge of a blade.
She spoke in a quiet voice… yet it sounded like a sharp knife:
"Michael… have you resorted to flipping food trays now? That's low, even for you."
He turned toward her slowly, a mocking smile curling on his lips:
"Oh… here comes the pampered Princess of the South."
She stepped forward, her heels echoing through the silence:
"If you're looking for trouble… you're standing in the wrong place."
Michael let out a short laugh:
"Defending a student from Class W? Have you lost your mind?
Or maybe it's because he's your fellow class of failures—
Oh sorry, I meant Class W."
Lila lifted her chin:
"I'm defending justice. The same justice that doesn't allow you to act as if you own the cafeteria."
He shot her a sharp glare:
"Justice? You're the last person who should be talking about justice."
She replied coldly:
"And yet… you will back off."
Michael stepped closer, their voices filling the room.
Michael: "You think your family name is enough to stop me?"
Lila: "And you think the title 'Son of the Western Governor' makes everyone bow?
You're not king yet, Michael."
Michael narrowed his eyes:
"But I will be."
Lila smirked:
"If this is your method… your level is far too low to dream of that."
A few students gasped.
Michael's face froze, then he leaned in to whisper:
"You won't escape the consequences of this."
Lila whispered back:
"Try me."
He stared at her for several seconds before turning sharply and leaving the cafeteria without another word.
Once he left, everyone released a breath they didn't realize they were holding.
Lila looked at me with that familiar expression—strict, yet not devoid of meaning.
She said quietly:
"You… attract trouble in a surprisingly impressive way."
I replied:
"And you… appear at the perfect moment in a suspiciously convenient way."
She raised an eyebrow, then turned away:
"Don't misunderstand. I just… don't like disorder.
It's not like I wanted to help you or anything."
She walked away with her servant, Marlene, without waiting for my response.
I stood still for a moment, then drew a deep breath.
I returned to my table, the light reflecting off the metal surface in front of me.
Irina exhaled in relief:
"Oh my god… that was terrifying."
Leister asked: "Dan… are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I answered.
They stared at me for a moment before Irina smiled:
"Can we have your contact information?"
I gave each of them my phone number, and we exchanged social accounts.
They left while waving shyly.
After Irina and Leister walked away, I remained seated without moving… staring at the empty table.
My eyes weren't seeing the wood… they were seeing something else.
Michael Ollis… a shell of arrogance hiding another fear—
fear of losing control.
Someone like him never moves without calculation.
That makes him dangerous… but predictable.
I lowered my head slightly, as if hearing my thoughts organize themselves inside me.
And the two girls…
Their faces passed through my mind one after the other.
Irina Lancelotin and Leister Citrone.
I closed my eyes for a moment.
Two very different people… but both important.
The first is a doorway to connections…
and the second, a heart that can become strength.
Together… they could become two cornerstones of a future team.
A small smile formed on my lips—so faint that no one would have noticed.
I lifted my head, stood up slowly, and left the cafeteria, my calm footsteps dissolving into the noise of the academy.
I walked out of the cafeteria with my hands in my pockets, lost in thought—
until the sound of hurried footsteps rushed up behind me.
A breathless young man shouted, "Hurry! We need to get to the screening hall… If we're late, Isaac will make us take the place of that idiot!"
The other replied while running beside him,
"That bastard… he always needs someone to dump his anger on!"
I paused for a moment, absorbing their words.
Isaac? Punishment? "Idiot"? The fear in their voices ignited my curiosity—
and perhaps this was a scene I could make use of later.
I began following them quietly, observing their steps, their way of speaking, every small movement, calculating every possibility.
They headed toward the corridor leading to the documentary screening hall—a deserted place at this hour, dimly lit, its shadows wrapping around the area like a natural trap.
They entered the hall, and I slipped in behind them, silent, concealed within the darkness.
The hall was dark except for a large black screen, but in the corner, I saw three students wearing dark jackets, attaching small black devices to the surveillance cameras.
One of them whispered:
"Now the cameras are almost disabled, and your watch as well… nothing will show except an empty room. You can do whatever you want, isaac."
I scanned the area, and my eyes landed on isaac—a huge athletic student with blond hair and pitch-black eyes, smiling coldly.
Then the two students I had followed grabbed a thin boy by his arms.
He had messy black hair, blue eyes, and looked helpless—terrified.
They kicked him in the stomach, chest, and face, and their words were harsher than the blows themselves.
The boy tried to scream, tried to resist, but the force was overwhelming, and his cry was swallowed in his throat.
I stood there watching everything, controlling my heartbeat, assessing the situation, waiting for the right moment.
I remembered how I myself used to be before Touma trained me— and how every old fear had turned into strength.
I took out my phone, quietly pressing the recording button.
Everything was captured: every movement, every glance, every sound.
Right before my eyes, the two students each held one of the thin boy's arms.
His body writhed; his blue eyes were filled with pure terror.
And in the middle of them stood Isaac— his emblem: anger and authority.
He kicked the boy in the chest and stomach, insulting him with vile names, mocking his origin, degrading his worth.
I couldn't intervene immediately.
But when I noticed a black bag lying on the ground, my idea evolved instantly.
I picked up the bag, made two small holes in it for vision, and wore it.
Then stepped forward, appearing before them like an unexpected shadow.
"Stop."
Isaac and his companions burst into laughter, mocking:
"Who's this idiot? Did you come to get beaten too, trash-bag boy? It's your turn!"
The two who were holding the blue-eyed boy dropped him—he lay unconscious on the floor—
then turned toward me and charged with full aggression.
They rushed at me simultaneously—
one aiming a punch at my head, the other a strong kick to my stomach.
But I moved smoothly, dodging the first strike with a twist and blocking the second with my arm, throwing them slightly off balance.
They attacked together again—blows coming fast—but I was faster.
Sometimes dodging, sometimes blocking, sometimes pushing one into the other.
My steps were steady, my breathing calm, my eyes tracking every movement with icy precision.
I countered swiftly— a punch to the first one's chest, a kick to the other's leg, then a strong strike to the shoulder, sending him crashing down again.
There was no escape for them; every motion of mine was calculated to disable them completely.
I stood over them, my breathing steady, my voice calm yet deadly:
"Now… the warm-up is over. It's my turn."
I rushed in again, moving between them like a shadow—every strike precise, every kick landing exactly where it should, without hesitation— until both collapsed helplessly on the floor, unable even to meet my eyes.
Without wasting a second, I turned toward the corner where the three students who had placed the black devices on the cameras stood.
Their hands trembled slightly when they saw me approach, but they tried to act innocent.
One of them said, "Please, we have nothing to do with this! We're forced to obey him—otherwise he'll wipe the floor with us!"
I approached with calm steps, as if emotionless— though every cell in my body was ready.
"No involvement?"
My voice was low, cold, lethal.
"You're the ones who set up the devices… ..and you gave him the opportunity to beat this boy."
They trembled and backed away.
None dared respond, and their eyes said everything:
Pure fear.
I stepped closer and shoved one of them lightly with my shoulder; he crashed into the wall.
I struck them one by one, giving them no chance to move, then turned toward the hallway—
where he appeared.
Isaac.
I stood before him.
His body was tense, his pitch-black eyes burning with rage and vengeance.
A deep calm washed over me…
Everything around me felt slow, even the sound of his footsteps echoing like a distant drum.
He assumed a karate stance, his right hand extended, his front foot forward, every muscle ready to explode.
I would've run away… if I were still the same person I was two years ago.
But that weak version of me died long ago.
I've become much stronger. I fought hundreds of bullies, trained my body until pain became nothing more than a whisper that stirred nothing in me.
But more importantly… I faced the unbeatable monster—my trainer, Touma.
The man who broke me, then rebuilt me, who turned every strike I took into a doorway toward a stronger version of myself.
Now…
Running is no longer an option.
Fear is no longer part of me.
I smiled quietly—no fear, no hesitation.
His first strike shot toward me with unbelievable speed, but I moved aside, deflected the second with a precise elbow block, then turned, delivering a side blow to his shoulder that pushed him back a step.
But he came back—fast, like an arrow—attacking me with a sequence of high kicks and focused punches, each strike nearly shaking the ground beneath us. I felt the air ripple around us… as if the entire hall were applauding this dance of combat.
He rushed toward me, but I sidestepped, pivoted on one leg, slammed a strong downward punch onto his shoulder, then spun and delivered a side kick to his abdomen, forcing him backward.
He screamed, a sound of pain mixed with fury, but he didn't stop. He advanced, striking and defending, every movement seeming like a test of my strength and patience.
I smiled inwardly… I could read all his anger, every emotion. I used it—every mistake, every hesitation, every burst of rage turned into a blow he inflicted on himself.
I caught his balance at a single perfect moment, shoved him against the wall, then struck him with a rapid sequence: a punch to the face, a kick to the chest, a spin, and another kick that knocked him to the ground.
He got up, his face filled with rage, but he couldn't stop attacking. I dropped to the ground with him, in a close-range struggle, my knee on his chest, his hand trying to block me, but I quickly struck his elbow, rotated his shoulder joint, and threw off his balance…
He screamed, his voice filling the hall: "You won't get away from me!"
He ran at me with a high kick, but I dodged, pivoted on one leg, punched him hard across the face, spun quickly, and landed a side kick to his chest that made him stagger back in pain.
He attacked again with greater violence—kicking, slapping, shouting: "You'll regret this!"
I struck his leg with a kick, knocking him off balance, then leaped on him, punched his chest, spun, and kicked his shoulder. He screamed again, his eyes blazing with anger and shock as he shouted: "Damn you… I'll kill you!"
I jumped back, breathing steadily, my eyes tracking every muscle in his body, every incoming movement.
I finally kicked his chest, sending him flying back. His hands hit the ground as he tried to rise, but I closed in quickly, kicking him in the head… he collapsed, disoriented, blood on his forehead, his black eyes reflecting both rage and defeat.
I stood over him, calm heart, energized body, while he knew he had lost—knew that everything had been calculated, that every move was a trap leading to this explosion… all to send one message: I do not lose.
Isaac lay on the ground, blood smearing his face, his swollen black eyes staring at me, every inch of his body pulsing with pain and rage. His breath was ragged, and his voice finally erupted between pain and fury:
"You… know nothing about my life…" His voice trembled.
He took a deep breath, then started speaking, each word like a blade:
"My mother… she was a lady… lived her life with dignity… but she… didn't understand betrayal. My father… betrayed her… with a cheap maid… a maid who got pregnant… and gave birth to my brother… Olsen… my illegitimate brother…"
He closed his eyes for a moment before opening them again, filled with bitterness:
"And when my mother found out about her pregnancy… she was overwhelmed… fell ill… and died… She left me alone… shattered… while that bastard… the brother… inherited everything…"
His blood-smeared face turned slightly, his eyes burning with anger and grief:
"Then… my father married the maid… the same maid… who never forgot her hatred toward me… She began plotting against me… setting me up… and begged my father to cut me off from the inheritance… and give everything to Olsen… instead of me…"
He exhaled deeply, as if every word was an internal explosion:
"Everything… my whole life… all my struggles… erased in a moment… and all that remained was pain… anger… and loneliness… alone…"
He looked at me, his eyes full of blame and rage:
"Now you understand… why I fight… why I dominate… why I try to be stronger than everyone… while my heart screams… and everything around me crushes me…"
My silence was long… every word he spoke felt like heated iron… but I could see what could be forged from this pain—how I could use this conflict, this weakness, this rage… in a cold, calculated, almost demonic way.
I stared at Isaac for long seconds… his blood, the trembling in his voice, the grief lingering in his eyes… all of it revealing more than he ever intended to show.
I stepped closer, knelt beside him, studying his face torn between anger and tragedy.
I spoke in a low, steady, cold voice:
"Isaac… it seems you carried far more than a child should ever have to bear…
A mother who dies, a father who betrays, a maid who climbs over the rubble… and a fortune pulled from beneath your feet."
I lifted my eyes toward Olsen, lying in the corner of the hall, then looked back at his brother:
"But let me tell you a truth… Pain does not justify turning yourself into an executioner. And your past… does not give you the right to crush others."
My lips curved into a faint smile—soft, but carrying a hint of cruelty disguised as calm:
"You say you fight because your heart is broken… But the truth? You fight because you're afraid. Afraid of being as weak as you were the day your mother collapsed… So you build a monster around yourself… just so no one sees you tremble."
Silence lingered for a few seconds… he glared at me intensely, breathing between each broken word.
I lowered my head slightly, as if sharing a moment of understanding with him… but the voice that came out of me was colder:
"Isaak… you are not a villain. You are the child of a tragedy… But that changes nothing."
Then I leaned closer, whispering in a voice only he and I could hear:
"The difference between you and me? You allowed your past to destroy you… But I… I know how to use the past, how to use pain… and turn it into power."
I lifted my head toward him, staring straight into his eyes—a sharp, calm, unsettling gaze:
"And sometimes… I aim to destroy the people who stand in my way."
His face froze.
One blink was enough for him to realize I hadn't come here to comfort him… but to understand him. To read him. And to make use of him.
I stood up slowly… wiping the blood that had splattered onto my hand:
"Get up, Isaac… because what awaits you later will be far harsher than anything you've been through. The path ahead of you isn't the path of a fighter… but the path of a survivor. And anyone who wants to survive here must abandon the last grain of mercy inside them. Stand now… before the pain reaches your legs first."
Even though my face was still hidden behind the black hood, I felt a thrill as I watched Isaac. Even a strong hero like him couldn't hide his trembling, nor the way his words stumbled. In his eyes, I saw pure fear—whether it was respect or terror, I couldn't tell. It was clear he was prepared to become my servant, to bow before my strength without resistance. Every movement of his was proof of my absolute dominance, and every glance was a silent admission that I… am the master here.
I turned my back, my eyes never leaving poor Olsen—he and his brother… pawns that would fall whenever I desired.
My cold smile hung over their necks like a suspended blade—silent, yet deadly. I moved to leave, my footsteps echoing through the hall like a threat no one could mistake: here, everything bends to my will… and any breath that differs from mine will burn.