"Senior," a voice rang out from within the circle. "If it's about the rules, we already received the official rulebook from the Academy."
It was James—direct, polite, but clearly skeptical.
The Third Year turned his gaze toward him with an amused glint in his eye, the kind one might reserve for a child asking why the sky is blue.
"Haha! Sharp mind, Junior," he said with a grin. "But you see… those rules belong to the Academy. The ones I'm talking about—these rules—belong to the Dormitory."
His smile widened, but the cold undertone in his voice left little room for misunderstanding. "They were made by those who walked these halls before you. By your Seniors. And here… they matter just as much, if not more."
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
The First Years' expressions darkened—nobody spoke, but the silence said everything.
They weren't foolish. It was clear now: this wasn't some quirky welcome ritual. It was an assertion of power.
Coercion, neatly wrapped in tradition.
