Rylan sat down on the grass in the east courtyard with the other twenty B-Rank students and waited for Instructor Hale.
It was Day Four. The sun was out. The grass felt warm under his legs. Everyone had already crossed their legs and half-closed their eyes, ready for another morning lecture and demonstration of soul integration. Rylan could feel his tortoise soul sitting heavy and calm in the middle of his chest. It always felt like that now. He liked it. It was steady. Reliable.
But Hale was late.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Students started glancing at each other.
A girl near the front opened one eye and whispered, "Where is he? He's never late."
"Maybe he's sick," a boy said.
"Instructors don't get sick."
"Everyone gets sick."
"Not Martial Masters."
"How are you so sure, maybe its a Martial Master level Virus that got him sick."
Everybody just ignored the dumb boy.
