It wailed like the Academy itself had finally snapped and decided to file a formal complaint against you.
The sound clawed through the thin walls of this class and hit every student at once.
I didn’t twitch. I just glanced at the hands ticking forward with all the enthusiasm of a bureaucrat stamping forms.
“Ah,” I said mildly. “Parole granted.”
No one moved. They stayed bolted to their folding chairs like standing might pop the fragile bubble of whatever the hell had happened in the last forty minutes.
Hana kept flexing her fingers. Mitsuo was occupied with his nose. Elia watched me quietly. Corin couldn’t tear his gaze from the pen on the floor, that cheap black traitor now sporting a ridiculous blue stripe. Silas lounged back with his arms crossed. Renard sat still.
I clapped my hands once, sharp and decisive. “Solid work today, team.”
They blinked at me in perfect synchronization.
I offered a faint smile, the kind that suggested I was grading their confusion on a curve. “You shattered Academy property, poked at your psyches, and thumbed your noses at most of the guidelines. That’s solidly above average for a first day. I’d give it a B-plus, but only because the explosion was underwhelming.”
Hana let out a tiny, anxious laugh she tried to choke down immediately. Mitsuo looked like I’d just handed him a detention slip from speaking.
“…Are we in trouble?” he questioned, voice low enough to miss.
I tilted my head, considering. “Maybe?” I let the word hang. “But not yet. Let’s call it deferred judgment.”
That didn’t reassure anyone. If anything, it painted vivid pictures of administrative hearings and forms in triplicate. Not that the Academy cared this much about one light bulb.
I picked up my clipboard and flipped through my illegible notes. “Go on, then. Scram. Enjoy your freedom while it lasts.”
They still didn’t move, exchanging glances like they were waiting for the punchline.
I gestured toward the door with exaggeration. “You’re dismissed. This is an educational institution, not a security facility. We’re very proud of that distinction. Probably.”
That finally earned a tentative chuckle from Corin. He stood first, slowly, gingerly, as if gravity might suddenly remember its grudge. The others followed, gathering their things with the awkward rustle of kids who had just survived day one.
I watched them file out, a quiet spark saying, 'Good job, me.' settled in my chest. Then I noticed Mitsuo lingering by the door, hovering like a question mark.
“…Yes?” It looked like he was waiting for me to notice him.
Mitsuo hesitated, shifting his weight. “When it moved. My blood.”
I waited.
“…Was that all me?” he asked, his voice barely scratching above a whisper.
I crossed my arms in response. “Did it feel like you?”
Mitsuo frowned, digging into the memory. “No. It felt like… it was listening. Like it responded.”
The insufferable grin on my face told him everything. “Good.”
He visibly frowned, head dropping slightly. “That word again.”
“Yes.”
“…I don’t like it,” he admitted, rubbing his arm. “Makes it sound alive. Or something.”
I just set his head straight with a finger. “You don’t have to like it. Powers aren’t here for your approval. They’re what they are. And the truth doesn’t care about comfort ratings.”
Mitsuo mulled that over. He turned and slipped out, leaving me alone in the dim room.
The broken light fixture dangled overhead like a defeated chandelier.
My coffee had gone cold since morning. I shrugged, because it tasted like regret and poor life choices anyway, gulped it down.
Third Person
The Academy hallways during lunch were pure chaos wrapped in ego.
Laughter ricocheted off marble walls. Someone tested a flight power indoors and nearly clotheslined a banner. Students moved in bright, confident packs — voices loud, gestures bigger, every step screaming I belong here.
Section F cut through it, a bit out of place
Hana walked beside Elia, their steps slowly syncing without either noticing. Hana kept flexing her fingers at her sides, the faint blue glow under her skin flickering like a bad heartbeat she couldn’t quite shut off.
“Uh… Ellie, right?” Hana kept her voice almost conspiratorial. “You really made him forget you back there?”
Elia stared straight ahead, shoulders pulled tight like she was trying to fold into herself. “I guess so.” A tiny pause. “Feels less like a power and more like a social curse. Handy for dodging small talk, though.”
Hana snorted, the sound sharp, a little quick. “That’s kinda scary. People just… forgetting your name and all?”
Elia’s mouth curved, the smallest, most tired curve Hana had seen. “Terrifying.” She held out her hand, less rigid than before. “But you already have. It's Elia.”
Hana flexed her fingers one last time and took it. The faint glow brushed warm against skin. “Touché. Nice to meet you too. I’m Hana.”
They kept walking, noise swelling around them like it was trying to swallow them whole.
Behind them, Corin and Mitsuo trudged in silence. Corin finally broke it, pushing his glasses up for the third time like they might slide off his face from sheer tension.
“…Your blood moved.”
Mitsuo winced in response, almost instinctual. “Don’t say it like that.” His voice came out quieter than he meant. “Makes me sound like a horror movie prop.”
“Sorry.” Corin scratched the back of his head, glasses slipping again. “It was cool, though. Actually cool.”
Mitsuo didn’t answer right away. He just kept walking. Cool wasn’t the word he’d use. Unnatural. Wrong. But Corin’s awkward little comment chipped at the edge of that thought anyway. “Thanks, I guess. Your pen thing was pretty nice too. Blue ink? Who knew?”
Corin’s grin widened, shy but real this time. “Yeah. Feels like cheating… but er, not.”
Trailing at the back, Silas and Renard formed the most unlikely duo in history. Silas broke the ice first, pulling out a battered deck of cards with a flourish that screamed watch this.
“Wanna see a trick? Guarantee it’ll blow your mind —or your lunch money. Whichever comes first.”
Renard glanced sideways, calm as still water. “Sure. Why not.”
Silas fanned the cards with theatrical flair. “Pick one. Don’t show me.”
Renard drew, peeked, slid it back.
Silas shuffled like his life depended on it, then flipped the ace of hearts. “This your card?”
“No.”
Silas froze mid-shuffle. “Nah, no way. Look again.”
“Ace of diamonds,” Renard said, flat and certain.
Silas’s eyes bugged. He rifled through the deck like it had personally betrayed him. The ace of diamonds had vanished completely.
For Silas, being wrong about cards was like the sun forgetting to rise.
“This deck’s cursed,” he muttered, shuffling frantically.
They pushed into the cafeteria, a sprawling chrome arena of noise and show-offs. Students laughed, argued for fun. Eyes flicked toward them. Not with fanfare. Just quick, pitying glances that landed like cold water down the back of your shirt.
They claimed a table near the edge, far enough from the spotlight to breathe.
Corin speared a limp fry, twirling it like he could fix it's sad shape. “So… we aren’t useless?”
Hana snorted, but her fingers tightened around her tray until the blue glow pulsed brighter for a second. “Speak for yourself. My mom used to check my phone every night like it was gonna explode.”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
Elia’s mouth twitched, the tiniest almost-smile. “At least people remember your name when you leave the room.”
Mitsuo didn’t look up from his tray. His thumb kept pressing that faint scar on his wrist, slow and rhythmic, like he was checking if whatever had answered earlier was still listening.
Renard didn't pay too much attention to his words, like there was something else prickling his thought.
Silas leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. “Nah. Still are. But it’s a start.”
They agreed on that part, reluctant, but real.
Across the room, someone watched.
A girl sat alone at the central table like a queen on a quiet throne. Silvery-white hair caught the light like fresh snow. Uniform pressed to perfection. Posture impeccable. The one everyone whispered about: flawless control, untouchable potential.
She stood abruptly. Heads turned. Students noticed her the way they noticed air, always there, always felt.
She stopped at their table. Silence crashed down like someone had flipped a switch.
She looked straight at Mitsuo. “Was it you?”
Mitsuo froze, fork halfway to his mouth. “Me?” Oh come on.
“Behind the fluctuation.” Her voice stayed calm, clinical, like she was reading lab tests. “You’re the only one whose EL got unstable compared to yesterday.”
Mitsuo curled inward on instinct. Eyes from every table swung his way. the judging kind. He shrank right there in the plastic chair, trying to disappear into the seat. “I don’t know what you mean. You’re probably wrong.”
Serin tilted her head, precise as gear. “No.”
A beat.
Then, in a tone deliberately dry: “I’m Serin.”
She extended her hand across the table like she was offering a weather report.
The group stared. Mitsuo hesitated, then shook it. Her grip was firm, warm, surprisingly normal.
She smiled faintly, the expression never quite reaching her eyes. “I’ll be paying attention.”
Then she turned and walked away, leaving a wake of stunned silence behind her.
Corin leaned in the second she was gone, whispering fiercely. “What the hell was that?”
Elia’s eyes widened just a fraction. “That was Serin.”
Hana, cluelessly gave two slow blinks. “Who?”
Elia shot her a look. “Section One. Top of the heap. The girl could probably level a city block without breaking a sweat. And she just delivered the most deadpan ‘I’ll be watching you’ start of the semester. Never meet your heroes-in-school.”
Renard joined in, voice flat. “And I’m pretty sure that was an attempted joke at the end.”
Silas snorted so hard he nearly inhaled his soda. “Yeah, she said it like she was reminding us about library fines. Talk about bein’ a nark.” He was laughing way too hard at his own joke.
Mitsuo laughed along too, a small, automatic chuckle, but his thumb kept pressing down, harder now, like he could push that scar where it belonged. Whispers rippled across the cafeteria. The tray in front of him suddenly looked wrong. Heavy. Unappetizing.
He wasn’t hungry anymore.
Back in the dim confines of Section F, I sat alone at my desk, paperwork sprawled before me like a battlefield I had no intention of touching. Instead I stared at the broken light fixture, pondering its demise.
A sharp knock rattled the flimsy door.
“Come in.”
Instructor Halveth entered. Tall and severe. You could feel the weight of his presence, suffocating, magnetic, charming in the way that made you wonder if your spine was still attached.
He wore a hat angled low so you could only see his eyes under a shadow.
He surveyed the room with stoic disapproval: the rickety chairs, the dead light, the stale air.
“You caused a power disruption. Day one.”
I didn’t look up from the clipboard. “Technically, a student did.”
Silence stretched.
“You encouraged it.”
I finally met his eyes. “Enthusiastically.”
Another pause. Halveth’s voice dropped lower. “…They are not safe.”
My smile didn’t reach a crow's feet. “No student here is.”
“That is not what I meant.”
“I know.”
The air grew colder.
“You weren’t assigned here because of your teaching prowess.”
“No. I wasn’t. But hey, at least the view is… non-existent.” I stared pointedly at the wall where windows should have been.
The silence this time felt heavier, like the room itself was leaning in to listen.
Halveth stepped closer. Boots clicking. “Be careful. Pushing boundaries has consequences. For them. And for you.”
Pause.
The air was choking again.
The two of us locked eyes and then—
Nothing.
Halveth left without another word, the door clicking shut as if it was relieved too.
I sat alone again, the room feeling smaller.
I smiled. Not proud. Not ominous. Just weary and sparked with curiosity. The kind that got people in trouble.
I made a small note beside Mitsuo’s name.
It read:
Does not obey gravity consistently.
I tapped the pen against the page, choosing my next words carefully.
Then added:
Does not understand why. Yet.
I leaned back into my chair.
Somewhere down the hall, the bell rang again.
I had another class to teach.
I hadn’t prepared anything.
I stood up anyway.
The next class on my docket wasn’t Section F.
I almost regretted that.
There were classes where instructors marched straight in to teach, and classes where students had to drag themselves to the room. Today was the first kind. My docket said Section III. The name rolled off the tongue like a corporate slogan. Section F had a certain honest ring to it. Section III sounded like it had already won an award.
I was in charge of Section F even if the official paperwork insisted on calling it X for some Roman-numerical nonsense that no one had explained. Instructors usually taught a designated subject when they ran a section. I used to. Then the right was taken away. Not important now.
The corridors leading to Section III felt longer today. Each step echoed off marble floors polished to a mirror sheen that reflected the high ceilings and the banners hanging above. Crimson fabric with gold-thread rose-serpent crests swayed faintly in the recycled air, the snakes coiled in perfect symmetry.
The air smelled of polished wood and faint ozone from the purifiers that kept everything pristine. Never a speck of dust. Never a hint of disorder. It made my skin itch.
Section III waited behind a door of polished oak so perfectly carved it felt like a personal rebuke. From the hallway I could already hear them: low, confident voices, the soft rustle of uniforms settling into place with military precision. No chaos. No hesitation. Just the steady hum of a machine that had never once jammed.
I paused, fingers resting on the golden handle. The metal was warm, as if the Academy itself had been waiting for me to arrive and confirm what it already knew.
I pushed the door open.
Twenty heads turned in perfect unison. Twenty pairs of eyes assessed me. Not hostile. Not curious. Just efficient. The kind of look that catalogued every detail and filed it away for later use. Postures straightened a fraction. Shoulders squared. Chins lifted by the smallest degree. It was beautiful, in its way. Like watching a clockwork orchestra tune itself before the first note.
The room was vast, almost theatrical. High ceilings arched dramatically, marble floors that caught the light like still water, walls lined with murals of alumni frozen mid-triumph. Twenty students occupied the space the way twenty perfect diamonds might occupy a velvet tray, each one gleaming, each one exactly where it belonged.
I walked to the front, footsteps echoing too loudly in the quiet order. Their files waited on the massive oak slab, thick and immaculate. I didn’t open them yet. I simply stood there, letting the silence stretch, feeling the weight of their perfect attention pressing against me like a well-fitted suit that was still too tight.
Most of Section III were second-years.
“Good afternoon,” I said.
“Good afternoon, Instructor Layhen,” they answered, voices blending into a single polished chord.
I let the echo fade. Then I picked up the top file, flipped it open just long enough to see the name and stage, and shut it again. Only one half of the first page seeping through.
FILE: ARIDEN VALE – SECTION III
Name: Ariden Vale Ability: Kinetic Reinforcement Note: Flawless execution. Zero recorded failures in controlled testing. Stage : Mastery Phase. Fragment towards—
All there was to check.
I gestured toward the open space. “Demonstration day.”
A ripple of small, genuine smiles passed through the room. The kind that came from knowing exactly what was coming. Ariden’s mouth curved with quiet confidence. A girl in the second row allowed herself a brief, satisfied nod. Someone in the back let out a soft breath of anticipation.
I leaned against the desk, arms loosely crossed. “Mr. Vale, if you would. Front and center.”
Ariden rose immediately, fluid and precise. “Yes, sir.”
I nodded. “Show me.”
Ariden stepped into the cleared space and plucked a dense training cube from a nearby compartment. Specialized alloy, built to take a few tons of pressure. He held it casually in one hand.
Then he crushed it.
Metal shrieked, folding inward like wet cardboard. When he opened his hand, the mangled lump dropped and cratered the marble with a loud crash. Splinters of stone skittered across the floor. Cracks spiderwebbed outward.
The class watched in silence. No gasps. No applause. Just quiet acknowledgment of a fact that had already been proven long ago. A few students exchanged small, knowing glances that said of course.
I studied the ruined cube, then Ariden. “Very good.” Pause. “Who taught you that little trick?”
“Instructor Halveth, sir.”
“Ah. Very well. Return to your seat.”
Ariden returned without a word.
One by one the others followed. Each demonstration was flawless in its own way. A boy blurred into afterimages, leaving silver ribbons of displaced air that lingered for exactly three seconds before fading. A girl summoned flames that danced in perfect geometric patterns, never scorching the floor. Another wove barriers that shimmered like liquid glass, absorbing a thrown training dummy without a single crack. Every movement economical. Every outcome exactly as expected. The room filled with the soft sounds of controlled power: the whisper of displaced air, the low crackle of energy, the gentle thud of impact absorbed by reinforced flooring.
I watched it all settle in like fog. The demonstrations were beautiful. Technically perfect. Like watching a symphony played by musicians who had never once missed a note and never once felt the music. I could almost see the invisible script they followed, the one written for them years ago.
Finally I sighed, the sound soft but carrying.
The class noticed. A faint tension rippled through the perfect rows. Ariden’s brow furrowed just slightly. The girl who had summoned the flames shifted in her seat, fingers tightening around her pen. Someone in the back row cleared their throat, the sound too loud in the sudden quiet.
I pushed off the desk and walked slowly into the center of the room, stepping over the debris without looking down.
“Tell me,” I said quietly, kicking aside a shard of marble, “what happens when your ability fails?”
The question hung in the air like smoke.
Ariden frowned, the first real crack in his composure. “…It doesn’t, sir.”
I nodded, but my expression didn’t change. “That wasn’t my question.”
I turned slowly, meeting each pair of eyes in turn. “You’ve all built everything around certainty. Around control. Around knowing exactly what will happen next.” I gestured at the ruined cube, at the fading lattice of light. “But what if it doesn’t? What then? Do you adapt? Improvise? Or do you simply..stop?”
The silence that followed was deeper than before. They were thinking, of course. Smart kids. But the idea felt foreign. What they had built until now hadn’t failed them. They were on the stage of perfecting output. Maybe they thought I meant failing against an enemy?
I was certain they had an idea of it though. That was fine, I don't expect enlightenment from one pep-lecture.
A few students exchanged uneasy glances. One boy in the middle row shifted uncomfortably, his perfect posture slipping for half a second. The girl with the flames bit her lip, eyes darting to the floor. Ariden’s hands clenched once, then relaxed with visible effort.
I clapped my hands once, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Again. All of you. Demonstrate.”
They obeyed. Of course they did. The demonstrations repeated —same movements, same flawless outcomes. Only now the air felt heavier. The perfection carried a faint, almost imperceptible strain. A flame flickered for a fraction longer than before. A barrier shimmered with a tiny ripple. The afterimages blurred just a touch less cleanly. They performed a bit better than before, in terms of what they already tried.
When the last student finished, I nodded.
“Thank you.”
I returned to the desk, sat down, and flipped open the attendance sheet.
“Class dismissed.”
They froze. It was early. Far too early.
Ariden spoke again, voice careful. “…Sir.”
I glanced up, pen hovering. “Yes?”
“…Was this a test?”
I considered the question, rolling it around like something fragile.
“No,” I said finally. My smile returned, sharper this time. “It was a reminder.”
I didn’t explain further.
I didn’t need to, nor was I allowed to.
They would understand soon enough. Or they wouldn’t. Who knows.
The students filed out in orderly silence, leaving behind the faint scent of ozone and the quiet crack of settling marble.
I remained seated long after the door closed. I zoned out looking at the crater in the floor, at the faint shimmer still clinging to the air, at the perfect order of the empty room.
Then I reached for my clipboard and wrote a single line beneath the day’s notes.
Section III: Flawless.
I paused, pen hovering.
Then added, in smaller script:
And nothing else.