The next class was set to take place outside—more specifically, in the Training Yard.
A sprawling region at the heart of the Academy, the space was lined with a running track, racks of training weapons, and an assortment of gym equipment that looked more like torture devices than exercise tools.
Needless to say, this period was all about Physical Conditioning. At least, the teacher looked the part.
BONG. BONG. BONG.
"Welcome, maggots, to P.E.!" a voice thundered. "Unless told otherwise, you will never use mana in this class. If I catch you using even a micro-molecule of mana, I will beat you half to death. Do I make myself clear?!"
"Yes, sir," the students chorused, most avoiding his eyes.
The teacher, Mister Bradford, looked like one hundred and fifty kilos of pure muscle with maybe two percent body fat. Bald, of course. His arms were the size of tree trunks, veins crawling over them like vines ready to burst.
"Now, who can tell me what is the most important aspect to train for fighting?"
Thiery, the mountainous student, finally spoke for the first time.
"The most important aspect is overall strength."
Bradford's head snapped toward him, eyes narrowing.
"Wrong!" His voice cracked like a whip. "It's endurance! Strength without the stamina to back it up is nothing but dead weight."
He jabbed a finger toward the crowd.
"Number Two and Number Three know all about it."
Every head turned toward Vael and Kiera. Bradford was referencing the exam—the twelve grueling hours that had nearly broken the candidates.
"So, get to it! Seventy-five. NOW!"
For a moment, the yard fell silent. Then, like a gunshot, Bradford bellowed again:
"MOVE!"
Feet hit the dirt track all at once, the mass of students surging forward.
Seventy-five laps, even without mana, was no big deal for most students. Their bodies grew exponentially stronger and more efficient with every rank up.
And since the track was of reasonable length, the order was completed without issue.
Barely half an hour. That's all it took.
Bradford wasn't pleased. His expression soured, like the sight alone disgusted him.
"Did you come here to take a stroll?" His voice boomed across the Training Yard. "You have five minutes. Same distance. GO!"
The air turned heavy.
The class wasn't exactly exhausted, but still—they had been running nonstop for the last thirty minutes. Legs burned, lungs strained, and sweat plastered uniforms to skin.
And for those who never trained without mana, their weakness began to show.
Now, they had to do what they just did six times faster. With fatigue gnawing at them, the command was brutal.
Not good.
Especially for those admitted more for their potential than raw strength.
Like Sylas, for example.
Only mid–first stage. His body was almost as frail as an ordinary civilian's.
What could he do?
His golden eyes darted across the track, panic already showing. Veins bulged at his temples after only a handful of strides, his breath ragged, uneven. His classmates who fight give him their second thought pulled ahead with ease..
The gap widened fast.
Bradford noticed. His voice cracked like a whip.
"MOVE, BOY! If you collapse, you crawl. If you can't crawl, you drag your corpse forward. The track doesn't care for excuses!"
Sylas stumbled, nearly kissing the dirt. The hatred in his eyes flared hotter than the pain twisting his body.
'This wasn't how it was supposed to go,' he thought. 'No matter. All of you—who don't look at me, who laugh behind my back—one day, you'll se—'
CRASH!
In his frenzy, Sylas tripped and hit the ground hard. Despite the tense atmosphere, a few giggles escaped from the students.
Comedic relief, if you will.
'I'm not strong enough yet. But I know what they don't. I know the secrets of this world. And I will exploit them. Oh, I will. Everything I want will be mine.'
That last thought came with a grin stretching across his face—utterly out of place for someone eating dirt.
CRACK! ZOOM!
The professor travelled the whole length of the track in an instant, arriving right next to the boy.
Sylas suddenly felt weightless. In reality, Mister Bradford was holding him up by the back of his collar, like a kitten.
"Found something funny on the floor, boy?"
Sylas looked up. "No, sir."
"Then wipe that damn smirk off your face."
Bradford's hand shifted, clamping around Sylas's neck. This time, he didn't hold back.
"Next time you make a fool of yourself in my class, I'll kill you. CLEAR!?"
"Y—gasp—" Sylas struggled to answer, his airway crushed under the teacher's grip. His legs kicked weakly, eyes bulging.
"Good." Bradford released him, letting the boy collapse to the ground like a sack of potatoes. "Now get moving. You still owe me twenty laps."
Groaning, Sylas pushed himself up, rage boiling behind his trembling frame.
One day, he vowed, he'd skin this man alive.
Vael, watching the show from the sidelines, was more than a little pleased. He had finished his laps a while ago.
Honestly, he couldn't exactly say why—but he despised the white-haired boy. It wasn't just irritation. No, it was deeper, darker. As if the hatred came from the most bottomless corner of his soul.
"Serves him right," he muttered under his breath. "Entitled bastard."