"Simple. Challenge whoever you want. Beat them, take their rank. Lose? Points slashed off your evaluations so deep you'll still feel it next semester. Oh, and you can't refuse. That's my class."
That was the entire premise of today's lesson—in Macho Derrick's own words.
"Pathetic! My grandmother's left bicep hits harder than that! Next challenger!"
He roared with laughter, a booming chortle echoing off the walls, as the most recent cadets—humiliated by Ceres—scrambled off the arena, whimpering.
"Anyone else with less than a liver and half the kidneys want to try her again?"
Silence. Heavy, suffocating silence. Not even half a whisper from the first-years dared to rise against Derrick's mockery.
The class was being held in one of the massive extracurricular halls of the First-Year facility—a cavernous chamber with a broad arena at its center, surrounded by tiered, theater-like seating.
