"Who can tell me what brand of gun this is?" Master-Bender Splendor-Bullor's voice cut through the room like a well-aimed bullet. He held up a sleek, polished Colt Python revolver, letting the overhead lights catch its glint. Around him sat a group of eager Bullet-Bending students.
All hands shot up. Except one.
"Chidiosky!" the Master-Bender called, locking eyes with the lone boy whose hand remained lowered.
"But I didn't raise my hand," the fifteen-year-old boy protested hesitantly.
"Exactly!" Splendor-Bullor smirked. "Now, answer my question."
"Actually, the name is Chidi," the boy replied.
Silence rippled across the air, thickening it with sheer disbelief from everyone else in the class.
"Weirdo," a student whispered. Those who heard the student giggled in suppressive manners.
"The name of this gun is Chidi?" the stunned teacher asked, just to be sure he heard right.
"Oh no, no, no, no, Master-Bender. That's not what I meant. I mean, Chidi's my name. Not Chidiosky. Well, actually, Chidiosky is a stylish version of Chidi. So, that could also fly. But I prefer Chidi."
Still dumbfounded, the whole class stared at him as though he was some kind of a moron.
Except one person. Not the teacher. But a girl sitting behind him.
"I don't care if your name is Chidi-ography or Chidi-stry. It could be Chidi-ometry, Chidi-apology or even Chidi-ocrazy for all I care!" Master-Bender Splendor-Bullor erupted with utter disdain.
The students burst into laughter in effect. But the girl didn't laugh. She simply observed the drama with detached curiosity.
"Just answer my damn question!" the teacher lashed out at Chidi.
Chidi squirmed under the weight of the class's ridicule. "I... I don't know, Master-Bender."
"You don't know?" The teacher's brow creased into a frown. "And you call yourself a protégé? How did you even manage to survive the Crucible without a single scratch? Sheer dumb luck, I'm sure!"
The class burst into another round of laughter. Loud, mocking, and wild. Only two people didn't laugh. Chidi: because he was the target. And the quiet, striking girl with calm eyes: Lù-Qímiào. Sixteen. Asian. Beautiful. Reserved. She had been watching Chidi closely since the very day he set foot at the academy.
Upon arrival, Chidi had claimed to be a protégé just to see if that could boost his credentials and quick admission into the prestigious academy. But there were no recommendation letters. No records. Nothing to back his story.
Thus, unable to gain direct admission by certification and recommendation, he opted for the alternative Test of Fire through The Crucible: a lethal, no-mercy survival sport of admission or elimination where life and death thread on the Razor's Edge.
And he passed. Somehow. Not just alive... but untouched. How he survived The Crucible was a miracle. But the real marvel was when he came on top without a single scratch!
Lù-Qímiào had watched from the stands as more skilled candidates fell, some injured, others... never getting up. But this "nobody" walked out whole. It wasn't admiration she felt. Not yet. But interest.
She saw something the others didn't. Something raw. Untapped. Uncanny. A potential hidden beneath layers of hesitation and quiet strength.
So when the class mocked him, she didn't. Her gaze simply lingered, soft with silent empathy.
"Do you even know what a gun is?" Master-Bender Splendor-Bullor pressed on.
"Yes, Master-Bender," Chidi replied, crestfallen.
"Well then, tell me," Splendor-Bullor said.
Chidi hesitated. "Just that… where I come from, we don't call it a gun."
The room went quiet. Sensing fresh bait, the Master-Bender leaned in. "And what do you call it, genius?"
"We call it..." Chidi paused, unsure.
"Out with it, kid. I won't bite," the teacher pressured.
"We call it... Thunder-Stick." Chidi held his breath.
The classroom fell into a stunned silence: like an avalanche still sleeping. Tight. Heavy.
Then, an eruption. The Master-Bender laughed loudest. The class followed.
But two students did not laugh.
"Thunder-what?" the Master-Bender let out. "Seriously, kid? Which planet did you come from?"
More laughter, cruel and echoing.
Chidi wanted the earth to open up and swallow him. Let them laugh, he told himself. In the end, we'll see who laughs last.
Lunchtime couldn't come soon enough. Chidi was the first out of class, heading to the canteen alone, his appetite lost somewhere between humiliation and hunger.
Behind him, unnoticed, Lù-Qímiào followed: quiet as shadow. She didn't like what happened in class. It stirred something in her. Enough to walk the few blocks to the cafeteria just to see if he was alright.
Inside, the canteen buzzed with noisy students and clinking cutlery. Long metal counters dished out hot meals, with circular and square tables scattered across the floor.
Chidi placed his order. Waited. Grabbed his plate of food and headed to an empty four-seater at the back, alone as expected. Most students avoided him now, as if failure were contagious.
Subsequently, Lù-Qímiào placed her own order as well and waited. Soon she picked her plate of food and left.
"Mind if I share your table?" Lù-Qímiào's voice was calm, but the way she slid into the seat across from him without waiting for an answer said she wasn't really asking. Smooth. Intentional.
Chidi blinked, fork halfway to his mouth. He shrugged, then nodded.
When he risked a glance at her, she caught him mid-look and flashed a small smile. He panicked, eyes diving straight into his food like it suddenly held all the answers to life. That was when he noticed something inked on her arm.
"You have tattoo?" he asked, pointing clumsily at the markings.
"Yes," she replied, tilting her hand toward his face with a sly grin. "You like?"
Chidi leaned in, studying it carefully. Recognition struck him like lightning. "Wait—you're the one I bumped into when I first came here! About a month ago."
She chuckled softly. "Oh, it's true. It's you."
That smile—half innocent, half mischief—knocked the air out of his lungs. He went from brown to pale, blushing, thinking: She's beautiful.
"Um… about that day..." he began nervously.
She leaned closer, voice dripping with tease. "If you're about to apologize again, don't bother. I already accepted it back at the crime scene."
Chidi laughed awkwardly, scratching his neck. He remembered that day all too well—running late to class, turning the corner, colliding full force into her, and somehow ending up sprawled on top of her. Mortifying. But she'd just smiled, dusted herself off, and accepted his endless apologies like it was no big deal.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"You're welcome," she replied, her smile lingering just long enough to make his heartbeat trip.
Chidi swallowed hard, then—summoning every ounce of borrowed courage—ventured, "So... how do I make up for my clumsiness?"
Her eyes sparkled. "Are you flirting with me?"
He jolted like she'd shot him. "No! No, not at all. I—I wouldn't dare."
She made a pouty face. "What's wrong? Am I not beautiful enough?"
His brain fried instantly, short-circuiting in the process. "N-No! I mean, yes! I mean—of course you are beautiful!"
She leaned back, smirking. "But not as beautiful as your girlfriend?"
Now he was caught in her rhythm, tongue-tied. "I... uh... I... um..."
The words collapsed in his throat. He looked like a fish gasping on dry land, and she knew it.
"You're terrible at this," she teased, almost laughing. "Relax. I'm not going to eat you."
"Em... er..." He gave up, sinking into his seat with a defeated sigh.
This—this was Eze's territory, not his. His elder brother could charm a tree stump into smiling. But Chidi? Chidi was still trying to figure out if girls came into existence with an instruction manual. Or just natural-born geniuses in the art of wit and emotional manipulation.
Finally, he blurted, blunt but desperate: "What do you want?"
Lù-Qímiào tilted her head, unreadable. Then, softly, with a smile that was both playful and serious: "What do I want? Just one thing… Tell me the meaning of your name."