Henry stepped away from the unconscious Kaelen and the gasping Michael, the scorched earth still smoking beneath his heels. He looked back at the remaining students, his expression shifting from that of a predator back to his usual, dangerously casual lethargy. Kaelen and Michael were take away by nurses in a stretcher.
"Come on now," he called out, his voice echoing through the silent clearing. "I'm offering you a two-to-one advantage. Let's get this over with so we can all go grab lunch. Who's going to step into the meat grinder next?"
The students huddled together, their earlier bravado replaced by a thick, suffocating dread. But then, the crowd parted as a girl with messy brown hair and a worn-out practice vest stepped forward. Unlike the others, she wasn't trembling; her eyes were bright, almost manic with excitement.
"I'll go," she said, her voice steady. She stopped a few paces from Henry and gave a short, mock bow. "I'm Claire Sinclair. It's an honor to meet you."
Henry blinked, looking at her with genuine curiosity. "Sinclair? I've been out of the loop for a couple of years, but I don't recall that family name in the registers. A new House?"
Claire let out a short, sharp chuckle. "No 'House' here, Instructor. I'm a commoner. Is that going to be a problem?"
Henry threw his head back and laughed, a loud, jagged sound. "A problem? Sweetheart, being a commoner with a Hero's spark means you've already got the whole world trying to put you out. Who am I to judge? If anything, it makes you more interesting than these porcelain dolls."
In the world of Heroes, your bloodline usually dictates your ceiling. Nobility often "adopts" powerful commoners to keep the power within their ranks. Those who refuse to take the knee? They usually end up as "accidents" in the next Aperture.
The reaction from the stands was immediate. The noble students whispered behind their hands, their eyes full of disdain. Even the other commoner students looked away, afraid that standing near Claire would mark them as targets for the Remington or Pendragon influence. Claire stood in a circle of isolation, a girl without a name in a world that ran on them.
"So, Claire," Henry asked, his smile softening into something more clinical. "Did you join this academy to prove that a commoner can wear the cape as well as a Duke?"
Claire smirked, her hand resting on a battered wooden hilt. "No. I joined to get strong enough so that no one can tell me where I belong. That's all."
"Good enough for me," Henry nodded. "Now, who's brave enough—or stupid enough—to stand beside her?"
Silence followed. No one moved. The commoners were too scared; the nobles were too proud. Then, Serena let out a long, weary sigh and stepped out of the shadow of the weapon racks.
Henry's grin widened. "Look who finally decided to join the fun. I was wondering when the star was going to get her hands dirty."
Serena walked up and stood shoulder-to-shoulder with Claire. She didn't look at Henry; her focus was entirely on the girl beside her. "I'm Serena," she said simply. "It's a pleasure to team up with you."
Claire looked Serena up and down, noticing the fine silk of her undershirt and the way she held herself. "A noble girl? Careful, Serena. You look strong, but I hope you can actually keep up with me."
Serena adjusted her gloves, her Heroes mark beginning to hum. "Don't worry about me. Just make sure you're ready when he stops playing around."
Henry took his hands out of his pockets and let his shoulders drop into a relaxed, fluid stance. The air around him seemed to darken, the grass wilting at his feet.
Henry took a slow, deliberate step back, his shadow stretching out like a jagged inkblot toward the two girls. The casual lethargy was still there, but his voice had dropped into that hollow, resonant register that made the air feel thin.
"A commoner with a grudge and a noble with a conscience," Henry said, his tone dripping with a dry, melodic irony. "Truly, the stuff of epic ballads. I'm practically trembling in my boots."
Serena shifted her weight, a faint gold shimmer beginning to pulse beneath the skin of her forearms. She offered him a sharp, knowing smirk. "Save the sarcasm for the infirmary, Henry. If you don't stop holding back, you're going to be the first instructor in academy history to be carried out on a stretcher by a couple of 'freshmen.'"
Claire didn't bother with a smirk; her expression was predatory. She began to roll her shoulders, the sound of her joints popping audible in the silence. "He's right to be scared, Serena. We're going to give him a reminder of what the front lines actually feel like. I hope those old war nightmares of yours aren't too vivid, 'Colonel'—we'd hate for this beating to trigger a flashback."
The mention of the war—of the things Henry had seen—sent a cold shiver through the rest of the students. But Henry just threw his head back and laughed. It wasn't a forced laugh; it was the genuine amusement of a man who had already seen the end of the world.
"Nightmares? Please," Henry chuckled, wiping a mock tear from his eye. "I sleep like a baby. It's the waking world that's the problem. And as for getting thrashed by a woman? Don't flatter yourselves. I lived with Morgana for two years. I've survived more life-threatening injuries just by teasing her while she was a drunk than you two could inflict in a century."
His laughter died down, replaced by a sudden, terrifying stillness.
"But by all means," he said, his eyes beginning to hum with a faint, dark static. "Try to make me remember. I'm starting to get bored anyway."
The air in the clearing grew heavy, pressurized by the sudden surge of two distinct Ichor signatures. Serena drew her blade in a single, fluid motion, the steel catching the morning sun before she dropped into a low, coiled stance. Beside her, Claire unslung a long, rough-hewn spear from her back, its tip chipped but sharp enough to kill.
"Don't blink, Instructor," Claire whispered.
She didn't run; she launched. Using the haft of her spear like a vaulting pole, Claire propelled herself into the air, her silhouette momentarily eclipsing the sun. She came down like a meteor, swinging the spear in a massive overhead arc.
Henry didn't flinch, but his eyes narrowed. From the ink-black pool of his own shadow, a monstrous greatsword—jagged, matte-black, and seemingly carved from the night itself—materialized into his grip. He swung upward to meet her, the collision sounding like a mountain cracking in half.
The shockwave sent a cloud of dust billowing outward, and Henry—the man who hadn't moved an inch all morning—actually slid backward, his boots carving deep scars into the stone-hard earth.
He never got the chance to reset.
Serena was already there, moving through the dust like a ghost. Her blade wasn't just steel anymore; it was wreathed in a thick, viscous Golden Light—the unmistakable glow of a Stage Ⅱ Alignment being pushed toward Expression.
"My turn!" Serena cried.
She lunged with a speed that left afterimages. Henry barely managed to torque his heavy greatsword around to parry, but the golden impact carried the weight of a falling star. The "clink" of metal was replaced by a resonant, bell-like boom. Henry was hoisted off his feet, sent hurtling backward toward the treeline.
The two girls didn't give him a second of breathing room. They became a rhythmic engine of destruction:
Claire provided the chaos, her spear flickering like a serpent's tongue, forcing Henry to keep his guard low and wide.
Serena provided the precision, her golden strikes aiming for the gaps in his heavy defense with surgical intent.
Henry was a blur of black steel, his greatsword humming as he parried, ducked, and weaved. For the first time, he wasn't smiling. He was working. Every time he tried to manifest an Authority halo, Claire's jagged spear-tip would whistle past his ear, breaking his focus, while Serena's radiant blade kept him pinned in a defensive cage.
Henry parried a flurry of Serena's strikes, his black blade throwing off sparks of dark Ichor. He ducked under a wide sweep from Claire, the wind of the spear-head ruffling his hair.