The bell after homeroom did not give us time to settle into familiarity.
If anything, it felt like the academy's way of reminding us that orientation had been mercy—and now came expectation.
Our first class of the day was Social Conduct.
The room itself was different from the others I'd seen so far. Taller windows, polished floors, desks arranged with deliberate spacing. No clutter. No warmth. Everything was… correct.
When the instructor entered, conversation died instantly.
She was a high elf, tall and immaculately composed, her pale gold hair pinned into a severe twist at the nape of her neck. Her uniform was tailored to perfection, not a crease out of place, and her expression carried the weight of someone who had never once been ignored.
She set her ledger down.
"You may address me as Lady Winthrow."
Her voice was calm. Not loud. Not sharp.
It didn't need to be.
"I am Margaret Winthrow, and this course exists to ensure you do not embarrass yourselves, this academy, or your respective kingdoms."
A few students stiffened. One audibly swallowed.
Lady Winthrow paced slowly between the rows as she continued. "Manners are not decorations. They are tools. Tools that prevent conflict, signal intent, and establish boundaries without bloodshed."
Her eyes flicked briefly toward a beast-kin student near the aisle. Then to a noble-born human across the room.
"Those of you who believe you already know proper conduct will find this class… corrective. Those of you who believe it unnecessary will find it essential."
I straightened in my seat.
This wasn't about politeness.
This was survival—just quieter.
She outlined the curriculum: greetings across cultures, dining etiquette, hierarchy recognition, conversational timing, controlled body language, and appropriate emotional response.
Appropriate emotional response.
I wrote that one down twice.
"And one final rule," Lady Winthrow said, returning to the front of the room. "What is taught here remains here. Students come from different places, with different levels of exposure. Mockery will not be tolerated."
Her gaze passed over me—not lingering, but not dismissive either.
Outside the classroom, during dismissal, I watched as she paused to gently correct a student's posture, her tone softer, almost warm.
Kindness, carefully hidden behind structure.
I understood that.
Our next class was Combat Fundamentals.
The academy gymnasium was already loud when we arrived—metal clanging, boots scraping, voices echoing. We were instructed to change into our issued gym shoes before entering the training floor, a staff member watching to ensure compliance.
Uniform rules were not suggestions here.
A man leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, looking like he had been dragged out of a nap he hadn't wanted to end.
He was a vampire, dark-skinned, broad-shouldered, with short-cropped hair and eyes that tracked movement without any visible effort. He yawned once.
"This class starts when I say it starts," he said flatly.
The noise vanished.
He pushed off the wall and strode forward, boots heavy against the floor.
"Name's Van. Former upper gold-ranked adventurer. Retired because people started slowing me down."
A few students exchanged uneasy looks.
"I don't care where you're from. I don't care what you think you're good at. And I especially don't care if you think you're special."
He stopped in front of us.
"Combat doesn't reward potential. It rewards discipline."
Van demonstrated without warning—one of the practice dummies shattered under a single, direct strike. No flourish. No wasted motion.
Frontal. Decisive. Brutal.
"You'll train basics until you hate them," he continued. "Then you'll train them more. If you cut corners, I will notice. If you hold back, I will notice."
He smiled then—slow and unpleasant.
"And if you think I'm lazy, you'll find out why I'm not."
Something in my chest tightened.
Not fear.
Recognition.
This was the kind of strength that didn't need to prove itself.
As we lined up for drills, I adjusted my stance instinctively, recalling dungeon training, repetition layered on repetition.
Van's eyes flicked to me for half a second.
Nothing else.
That was worse than praise.
"I am going to start by testing you right here and now. I need to know your baseline so that I can tell when you're growing," Van continued.
"One by one, all twenty-eight of you will fight me head-on. You will attack with the intent to kill—not like you brats can kill anything as you are right now."
He chuckled, like he'd just told a joke only he found funny.
I swallowed.
He had just said don't hold back. And the fact that his gaze locked directly onto me—even for a fraction of a second—made my stomach tighten. That had to mean something, right? There was no way he wasn't already gauging us. Strength, posture, intent… something.
If we were all fighting him, wouldn't he get tired?
Maybe I could get lucky. Maybe we'd run out of time.
…I doubted it.
Outside of Van for Combat Fundamentals and Lady Winthrow for Social Conduct, Victoria handled the rest of our classes. Glancing toward the door, I could've sworn I saw her leaning casually against the window, watching.
Of course she was.
He had planned this. He'd already asked her to cut into her class time—after we'd just met her, no less. Damn it.
Around me, reactions varied. Some students went pale at his words, their confidence evaporating on the spot. Others looked almost eager, wearing that irritating, arrogant expression that screamed this'll be easy.
I hovered somewhere in between.
I was confident enough to hold my own—but wouldn't going all out work against me? Drawing attention felt dangerous.Still… I didn't want to find out what would happen if I didn't go all out either.
So I decided then: I'd do my best. Whatever that meant against him.
One by one, students were called from the roster.
And let's be real—everyone was getting their ass handed to them.
Van didn't seem to be holding back much at all. He moved through each fight with brutal efficiency, ending matches quickly and decisively. Even the cocky ones—especially the cocky ones—were getting flattened.
By the time half the class had gone, the remaining arrogance had drained straight out of the room.
Soon enough, it was my turn.
I stepped forward, rolling my shoulders once, steadying my breath. All I could do was hope for the best—which, realistically, meant not getting too badly pummeled.
"Don't hold back, Sylvara," Van said, his voice suddenly sharper."Come at me like you're going to kill me. Because I'm going to be barely holding back."
He grinned. "I can tell by your eyes—you weren't planning to fight at full power."
My eyes widened.
I hadn't realized someone could read that much just by looking at you.…I'd need to watch people more closely.
I didn't even have time to think of a first move.
Van came at me fast.
Not fast like quick—fast like inevitable. His fist cut through the air, and I barely managed to twist my body aside in time. The pressure alone from the punch sent my hair whipping back.
If that had connected, something would've broken. No question.
That was enough to snap me into motion.
I moved on instinct after that—dodging, pivoting, ducking. I could barely find openings, and when I did, I was lucky to land one or two hits before being forced back on the defensive again.
He was a machine.
Van didn't just punch or kick—he used his entire body as a weapon. Every movement flowed into the next, each strike positioned to corner, trap, or overwhelm. It wasn't flashy. It was efficient.
I tried to circle him. Bad idea.
A kick came in low and fast. Instead of dodging the way I'd planned, he caught my leg mid-motion. The next thing I knew, the world flipped.
He slammed me into the ground hard enough to rattle my teeth.
I rolled on instinct, barely avoiding the spot where his fist smashed into the floor a heartbeat later. Cracks spiderwebbed across the stone where my head had been.
I didn't get time to process that.
I pushed myself up, lungs burning, and kept moving. Every second I stayed still felt like a death sentence. I struck when I could—short, precise hits meant to disrupt rather than overpower—but none of it slowed him for long.
Still, I didn't go down.
Minutes blurred together. My muscles screamed. My breathing turned ragged. Somewhere along the line, the room grew quiet—no cheers, no chatter. Just the sound of combat.
When it ended, it ended hard.
Van's kick landed square in my torso, driving the air from my lungs. I flew backward and slammed into the opposite wall, pain exploding through my back as I slid down to the floor.
I stayed there, gasping, vision swimming.
Van looked… impressed.
He finished off the remaining students after that. A handful lasted as long as I had. A few lasted longer. Most barely made it two minutes.
I was just glad I hadn't stood out for the wrong reasons.
"By our next class, I'll have individual training regimens prepared for you," Van said once the last student fell."These will be done during class. And if you're serious about getting stronger, I can curate a personal regimen for you to follow outside of class."
He smirked. "But most of you are pansies, so I doubt it'll come to that."
I, however, was very interested in that personal regimen.Would he oversee it… or would we really be on our own?
"You're dismissed. Get changed in the locker rooms and go home. It's closing time—and I don't think Victoria's here anymore."
I glanced up at the clock mounted high on the wall.
4:00 p.m.
Cool.
My body hurt everywhere.
…and I wanted more.