"Sorry for stepping into that conversation," I said quietly.
"That actually helped," Clyde replied. "Though… I let my temper get the better of me. That wasn't the deal I should've made. We'll deal with that later. Right now, I need to pick a second bodyguard."
At that moment, an amplified voice rang through the hall, cutting across the noise and pulling everyone's attention.
"Welcome to the most anticipated event of the year, ladies and gentlemen."
A woman stood at the center of the room.
Familiar.
"Marta?" I asked.
"Yes. She's one of the hosts this year," Clyde nodded. "One of the few decent things about this place."
"The exhibition matches will last a full week, and you will witness a truly spectacular show. This evening, we begin with the opening ceremony, where each academy's candidate will demonstrate their abilities. For now, I suggest securing support from academy instructors and the administration's reserve guards, so your candidates can focus on their matches without worrying about your safety."
As soon as Marta finished speaking, the instructors entered the hall.
My chest tightened—and then lifted when I spotted Andrew among them. Iveson was there too. Along with several other familiar faces.
"Why isn't Taisha here?" I asked.
"You didn't know? Taisha has almost no power."
"What do you mean? She's one of the strongest in the academy," I frowned.
"She is—but only in skill. Her actual output is barely there. A defect," he said bluntly. "She shouldn't have been made an instructor at all, but Gordinstrit forced it through. She can't take part in anything beyond teaching. And even then—only those who choose her."
"Or the ones she chooses," I corrected.
"She's proud. She never let it define her."
"So she can't fight monsters?"
"No. But she can train people to kill them better than anyone."
"Are you going to choose the bodyguard yourself?" I asked, still watching Andrew.
"If you're hoping I'll pick Storik, stop wasting your time. You won't get a chance to chat anyway," he said coldly.
"That's not what I meant."
"They won't be assigned one by one. They'll guard the aristocrats as a group."
"I thought you said there'd be a selection…"
"I did. The heads of aristocratic families are filtering them right now."
"Filtering?"
"Yes. One of their favorite ways to show a special has fallen out of favor. After that, their chances of becoming a personal bodyguard—or getting a decent post in the administration—drop to nothing."
"That's insane," I said. "If they're strong, why throw them away?"
"Because a disobedient special is a dangerous one," Clyde said with a quiet exhale. "You really are naïve."
I fell silent.
In the center of the hall, dozens of specials stood surrounded by the elite.
Like goods laid out for sale.
No—worse.
I saw the looks.
Cold. Empty. Dismissive.
I heard the comments.
Sharp. Cutting. Meant to wound.
And one by one, strong—exceptional—fighters were cast aside.
Written off.
Condemned.
So this was how it worked.
And I—someone the others thought lucky—stood on the other side, watching lives get broken because someone important didn't like them.
I stood there like everyone else.
Silent.
Because I didn't want that attention turning on me.
Because I didn't want to fall any lower.
Because I didn't want to fail Clyde.
I couldn't do anything.
And it made me sick.
Something twisted inside me—hot, ugly—but on the outside I didn't move.
I just stood there—
like a well-trained dog at his master's side.
Iveson was among those dismissed.
I barely had time to react before Clyde's grip clamped down on my arm, stopping me.
He was right.
Right now, I was no one.
Anything I said would only make it worse.
So I stood there—
and watched a proud man walk away.
"Don't worry," Clyde said later, once it was over and we were heading back to our room. "Iveson will be fine. He's still an instructor at our academy."
"He should be leading a unit," I said quietly. "He belongs at the top—not stuck teaching."
"At the academy, he can train people like you. In the administration, he'd just be taking orders from people like them," Clyde said, gesturing vaguely behind us.
I understood.
"I respect the director even more now."
"She deserves it. If not for the long-standing agreement that the administration can't interfere with the academy, people like Iveson, Chen… or your precious Storik would've been crushed a long time ago."
I said nothing.
Because now I saw it.
Clearly.
Ugly.
For the first time, I regretted becoming a special.
Not because I was afraid for myself—
but because as an aristocrat's son, I might have been able to do something.
"I wish I'd stayed an aristocrat," I muttered.
"Scared for your future?" Clyde smirked.
"Scared of losing the chance to change anything."
"If you hadn't joined the specials, you wouldn't even know what you're trying to protect."
He was right.
Only by stepping into this world had I understood what it meant to be trapped in it.
"I'll listen to you," I said.
"Sorry?" Clyde raised an eyebrow as I closed the door behind us.
"I said I'll listen. If it helps me take part in your reckless plan to tear this system apart."
"You said you'd obey. Already backing out?" he smirked.
"I misspoke," I grimaced. "I'll listen to what you say. You were right—we need to stop fighting each other and start working together."
"Fighting each other?" he let out a quiet laugh. "I never said I disliked you."
"You know exactly what I meant," I waved him off, dropping into a chair. "Fine. I'll drop it and learn to put up with your terrible personality."
"You're impossible. Go change. The opening trials start in an hour."
"God, I thought that whole circus already was a trial," I muttered, dragging myself to my small room.
I changed into a dark gray training uniform with the academy crest—
and my name stitched across it.
Alan Holivan.