The entire class stared at Mrs. Eimar, a collective hum of curiosity running through the room as they wondered what mystery they were about to uncover. But as they stared at her, she stared back with a sharp, calculating smile.
"Today, we will talk about Division," Eimar announced, her voice cutting through the chatter. "For you to be ready to explore the wastelands, we must ensure you are optimized to at least survive a simple beast. In the wastelands, beasts are categorized into three ranks: S-Rank for Simple, M-Rank for Middle, and C-Rank for Complex. But the most dangerous ones aren't ranked by raw physical strength—they are ranked by their intelligence. They can wield Emo, too, but in a fundamentally different way: while we tie our powers to our localized pain, they gain power from their daily existence because their entire lives are a waking agony."
The classroom instantly split in its reaction. Some students murmured in quiet sympathy for the miserable existence the infected animals endured, while others sneered, completely apathetic and eager just to spill blood and get into the action.
"Which is why you must never attack a beast unless they strike first," Eimar warned, her eyes sweeping over the restless crowd. "They were once living peacefully before being mutated and infected by Emo. Now, regarding the Division for your deployment, you have three options: a team of four, a team of two, or a solo traveller."
At those words, Elizabeth glanced sideways at Michael, her expression softening with the expectation that they would naturally partner up. But the Michael she had spoken to in the shadows yesterday was not the same cold, detached entity sitting here today. Michael had hardened further, his internal shift swinging like a pendulum—whether for good or bad was entirely subjective.
"Even if you choose one of these three paths, we will test you," Eimar continued. "And if you fail our evaluation, we will place you into whatever division we deem suitable."
As soon as she finished, a boy stood up. He wore an oversized hood that blatantly violated the school's uniform code and casually twirled a paintbrush between his fingers.
"Excuse me, Madam, but what will the test entail?" he asked, a smug, arrogant grin plastered across his face. "Since I plan to go solo and have zero use for the dead weight of teammates holding me back, I'd like to know in advance."
His condescending tone left the class dumbfounded. No one dared talk back or show off like that right in front of Mrs. Eimar—except for Michael.
"And what makes you so special, monkey?"
Michael stood up slowly, fixing the boy with hollow eyes that mirrored the absolute depth of pitch-black darkness. "I plan to go solo, too. And just because others plan the same doesn't mean you need to stand up and parade your ego for the whole class. Whatever the test is, we'll find out when it arrives. Now, sit your Temu-brand Da Vinci ass down before I slit your throat so fast Eimar has to pack your corpse in a box and mail it back to your parents."
The classroom fell dead silent. A profound, collective shock rippled through the desks. Someone had actually spoken their mind. In Emox, people were dangerous—some undeniably stronger than others—but this fake-ass Da Vinci definitely wasn't cut out to act untouchable.
"You dare call me monkey?" Vincent scoffed, his face twisting with rage. "The last thing I remember about you, Michael, was you sucking Elizabeth's fucking toes! And since Zion actually matched you in a fight, now you're out here sucking his dick!"
Mrs. Eimar didn't interrupt. Instead, a wicked, amused glint flashed in her eyes as she wondered where this sudden escalation would lead. A bright idea sparked in her mind.
"Class," Eimar called out lazily, leaning against her desk. "I was about to lay down the rules, but under Emox policy, if both parties mutually accept a challenge, it officially counts as a duel. So... go ahead."
Vincent's ego flared. "My name is Vincent, and my ability is superior to all! From the pain of never having a single thing to call my own, I drew it all into physical existence. Behold—I am the strongest Mourner!"
The bristles of his paintbrush began to glow with a blinding blue light, emitting a volatile, dense source of energy.
Right now, Michael didn't care about a Mourner's posturing. With cold, calculated precision, Michael reached into his pocket and grabbed a pouch of black powder. People always forgot that long before Michael ever relied on supernatural abilities, he studied every possible tactical variable, tool, and environmental weakness to level the playing field. What he was looking at required a castable catalyst—an object to ignite a chain reaction.
Without a second thought, Michael hurled the bag of black powder against the back wall, ignoring the gasps and scrambles of nearby students hastily throwing up defensive barriers. Before anyone could process his intent, he flicked a lighter.
A massive, deafening explosion ripped through the room.
The shockwave launched Michael forward. Blood sprayed from his lip as he cut through the smoke, his hand already gripping a hidden dagger. Across the room, Vincent materialized a solid, razor-sharp sword straight out of the glowing bristles of his paintbrush.
Mrs. Eimar's voice rang out, cutting cleanly through the ringing in their ears:
"DUEL HAS BEGUN."