Chapter 108
EXPECTATIONS
Through a tall, tinted window set deep within the upper floors of a pristine black-and-red building, several instructors stood side by side, their eyes trained silently on the distant gates. From their vantage point, they observed the slow but steady stream of first-year students as they passed through the threshold of Hope Academy for the very first time. The students moved in scattered clusters—some with wide eyes, others with confident strides—but to the instructors, the individual expressions mattered less than the overall atmosphere. This was a scene they had witnessed countless times, yet each year, it never failed to stir something inside them.
Their gazes were calm, focused, each one lost in their own thoughts. These were not novice educators but seasoned instructors—veterans in the art of teaching, evaluating, and shaping the so-called brightest minds of a generation.
They had encountered every variant of the so-called "genius": the ones who shined like fire at the beginning and fizzled out before midterm; the ones who were dull and slow but steadily ascended beyond expectations; and the rare ones—so rare—that lived up to every bit of the legend surrounding their names.
They had seen students soar past even their own capabilities—young prodigies who grasped their complicated concepts faster than they could be taught—and they had also seen even more students fall.
Some collapsed under pressure. Others simply discovered they were not as special as they had always believed.
That was the great tragedy of so many so-called prodigies: the sudden, irreversible realization that they were not exceptional. Not different... Just ordinary.
And for a genius… to be ordinary was worse than death.
It wasn't just failure. It was the cruel unmaking of everything they had ever been told about themselves. It was the slow death of pride, the constant echo of doubt, the internal decay of self-worth.
Why weren't they better?
Why were others overtaking them?
What did it mean if they couldn't stand out?
The instructors had seen that story play out too many times.
In the fierce kitchen of competition, where every student fancied themselves the master chef, no one wanted to present the worst dish. But dishes were still burnt. Recipes were still ruined. And not everyone could take the heat.
Still, despite everything they had seen—despite the mental collapses, the broken egos and failed potentials—there was always a kind of quiet hope. A subtle anticipation that came with each new batch of students.
This year was no different.
They had read the files and reviewed the results. There were promising names on the lists this year. Students who carried strange and intriguing histories.
Expectation lingered in the room like the scent of coffee after a long meeting. Each instructor, though they'd never say it aloud, hoped that among the fresh faces were students who would devour every lesson, absorb every nuance like sponges dipped in oil. Not just talented—but the teachable were the best type of students to teach.
Those who wanted to learn.
One instructor—lean, grey-haired, glasses hanging off the tip of his nose—spoke first, breaking the contemplative silence.
"Forty-three more students than last year," he muttered, arms folded behind his back. "A good improvement in numbers. Let's hope that improvement isn't just in quantity."
There were soft nods all around.
Another instructor—a younger man with a slight smirk—leaned back against the glass. "Hey, did anyone else hear about that one student who got accepted without even taking the entrance trials?"
That got a few raised eyebrows.
"Yeah," someone else chimed in, "I heard they were brought in under... special circumstances."
"Special?" one asked flatly. "What kind of special?"
"I heard it was money," a woman replied, sounding slightly amused.
"No, I heard they're related to one of the principals," someone added.
A voice chimed in from the back, "Nah, they're just so talented they didn't even need to take the test. That's the version I got."
Another instructor snorted. "I was told they're a talentless bum."
"Anyone know their name?"
"I think their name was ... Imagine Grimace or something like that?"
There was a short, painful silence. Then—
"Are you stupid?"
"What? That's what I heard!"
"Somebody get this guy out of here."
Laughter filled the room briefly as one of them theatrically shoved the speaker out the door.
But before long, the laughter faded, replaced by silence once more as they returned their attention to the scene outside the window.
Down below, the new students were now boarding small transport vehicles—compact, doorless mini-cars that bore a strong resemblance to stretched-out golf carts. Each was big enough to comfortably seat six students, they were available for the students to use, all they had to do is make sure they parked it in the designated parking spaces.
But they were currently manned by designated academy staff whose job was to help orient the new arrivals and ferry them across the vast campus.
The instructors watched as students were gently ushered into the vehicles, bags in hand, voices chattering, laughter here, nerves there. Every now and then, a student would glance up in awe at the buildings towering above or the lush paths winding throughout the small city-like academy.
Hope Academy was enormous. Not just in size, but in structure. A self-contained ecosystem, a miniature city filled with dorms, study halls, libraries, cafeterias, courtyards, recreational centers, and dozens of facilities designed to house, train, and develop the greatest talents of the era. The little carts were necessary. Without them, many students would find themselves lost or exhausted before they even reached their first class.
One instructor sipped from a mug and spoke softly, "Well, whoever that mysterious student is… it doesn't matter. What matters is that we do our job. That we guide the next generation properly."
The others nodded in agreement. "Agreed," came the quiet chorus.
.....
In one of those mini-cars, IAM Grimm sat in silence.
The wind brushed lightly past him as the open-air vehicle moved through the wide, paved path. There were no doors on the cart—just a clean white frame, a soft electric hum from the engine, and a comfortable bench that he shared with five strangers.
He sat still, eyes calmly observing the passing buildings as the cart rolled gently along the smooth path. Their assigned dormitories would be the first stop. After that, the day was theirs to settle in, unpack, explore, or simply rest. Orientation would begin tomorrow— they would have to wear their uniforms and hear the expectations of them made clear.
But for now, IAM had only one thing on his mind.
His dorm mates.
He didn't know who they would be, what kind of people they'd turn out to be. For better or worse, they would be living in the same space, sharing the same air, using the same bathroom. He would see their faces in the morning and hear them snore at night.
The thought alone was mildly uncomfortable.
He could only hope they were decent The kind of people who knew how to clean up after themselves and didn't leave their stuff everywhere. And above all—
Please, IAM thought grimly, let them not be the kind of people who don't flush after taking a shit.