They recognize him. More than that, they remember what they did; the bruises, the blood, the tears, the public humiliation, and of course the urine. Yet here he is, looking like nothing ever happened.
Maya's eyes widen. Lily shifts her gaze between her and Irvine, brows knitting in confusion. The other students who had seen the video do the same, eyes bouncing between Irvine and the two bullies, silently questioning if what they saw was real, or just faked.
The weight of the moment hangs in the air like a dropped sword, point down. And Atniel? He looks tensed, and alert. To him, the classroom resembles a sanctum of strange lights and desks, more like a sorcerer's command chamber than any place meant for learning.
Like a medieval knight walks into a spaceship, he surveys the rows, finds Irvine's seat halfway back near the wall, and then walks to it without a word.
He lowers himself into the chair with hesitant stiffness, eyeing the desk like it might transform into a trap.
"By God… how does anyone pray at this contraption?"
It's a compact, utilitarian setup, military-grade by design. The chair and table are fused into a single unit of brushed steel and matte composite, bolted to the floor for discipline and focus. A small terminal screen is embedded in the top-right corner of the desk.
"Is this what passes for a desk now? Looks more like a siege weapon."
As he is still adjusting to the unfamiliar setup, the whispers around him begin to rise again. It's quiet, cautious, no one dares speak too loudly. But everyone silently agrees with one thing. There's something off about him.
Once instructor Virelle takes a seat, everyone settles back. The classroom hums with idle chatter and scraping chairs as students file in.
But Atniel, wearing Irvine's skin, sits in stiff silence, his eyes fixed not on the front, but on a boy at the center row, sitting right behind Mathias Burke.
Myriil Gremenor, youngest prince of the mountain elf tribe, renowned as the most charismatic student at Ezlenmir Academy. His posture is perfect, measured, composed. His aura is faint, but heavy, too heavy for someone his age.
"You don't belong here," Atniel mutters. "You're not a child playing soldier. You're a predator wearing school colors."
At the front, a sharp voice cuts through the room like a whip.
"Donovan!"
Atniel doesn't blink, still watching Myriil.
The voice rises, annoyed. "Hey, Donovan!"
Still no response from Atniel. Several students snicker.
Then the third call, now snapping with impatience.
"IRVINE DONOVAN!"
A whiteboard marker cuts through the air, hurled like a dart. It whistles toward Atniel's face.
But, in a fluid casual motion, Atniel catches it between two fingers. He then stands, the marker still held delicately like a weapon he's not yet chosen to draw. His gaze shifts to the front, ready to throw it back.
But he halts. Because there she stands, Instructor Virelle Thassik, completely annoyed and irritated.
She storms toward him in controlled fury.
"Are you deaf, delinquent, or just dense?"
Virelle snatches the marker from his hand with a sharp yank.
"Missing my class wasn't enough, now you pretend your name isn't yours?"
Atniel realizes his slip, still not used to responding to Irvine's name. In the past, he'd once been a student too. And when a teacher lectures, you listen.
"My apologies," he says calmly. "I was… distracted."
Instructor Virelle exhales through her nose and turns around, pointing to the board.
"Let's test if you're awake now, 'Donovan.' Why don't you stand up and explain how a skill gem works?"
Atniel furrows his brow, slightly confused. "Skill… gem?"
Some students giggle.
Mathias bursts into laughter. "No way, he doesn't know what a skill gem is?"
Instructor Virelle's brows twitch. "This is what happens when you ditch my class too often. It's the skill gems we use for magic."
Atniel, still keeping his composure, clears his throat. "I don't know your modern tool. But if you're asking how real sorcery works…"
A few students exchange skeptical looks.
"I spent my life cultivating stable spirit energy," Atniel begins, calm and certain. "It's purer, clean, achievable only after years of discipline and meditation."
Virelle's eyes narrow slightly.
"I can use it to control thermal equilibrium within my body," he continues. "Release heat. Absorb it. Or adjust polarities between fingers to create… sparks."
Atniel lifts his hand, intending a display, a bold arc of lightning to silence their doubts. He presses two fingertips together.
Zzt.
A weak flicker skips between them, brief, dull, barely more than static. The silence stretches. But then a scoff, and a girl in the front slaps her desk.
"What is he, a monk?"
Laughter bursts through the room.
"Dude, that's not magic. That's static electricity!"
"Careful, he might power a doorknob with middle finger!"
Instructor Virelle doesn't laugh. She just stands there, eyes fixed on the boy in silence. What he said; about spirit energy, manipulating heat and lightning without mana or chant, sounds ridiculous, utterly foreign to modern sorcery. But she doesn't dismiss it.
She's heard of it before, not in any lesson plan or academy curriculum, but in fragments buried deep within forbidden texts and aging scrolls. It is ancient theories, practiced so old, most scholars call them myths.
"How in the world did you learn that?" she asks.
Atniel slightly raises an eyebrow. "I had a master, of course."
She also raises an eyebrow. Then, with a deliberate calm, she walks to her desk, pulls out a single, nine-facet gem, orange-red, socketed into a brass ring at the base.
"This is a skill gem. Grade E fire spark. Military-issue."
She pricks her thumb with a knife and smears blood on the surface.
"Before you ask, yes, the blood is necessary," she says, turning to face the class. "It's like a fingerprint. The gem responds only to its registered wielder.
"Now the verbal key."
Nueyr, Ceva Jegambuqam.
Zafikag recijis jejuasamlal, ci asar alaqag xamf recamf lelzaqa.
She repeats it once more, slower this time, encouraging the class to write it down. Several students begin copying it into their notebooks. One girl repeats it under her breath, trying to mimic the cadence.
But Atniel furrows his brow. It's the same chant he heard last night. No one in the room understands the meaning of the incantation. But to him, the words feel familiar like echoes of an ancient tongue once spoken in a darker time.
"Nueyr, God of Chaos..." he murmurs, his gaze sharpening. "What kind of god is she calling on?"
Instructor Virelle proceeds with the demonstration. The gem flares. And soon…
Fwoos!!!
A ball of flame hovers above her palm.
"Two seconds. One chant. Repeated. Scalable through the control of mana usage. That's modern sorcery."
The class claps. But Atniel does not.
"Blood magic?" he mutters.
Instructor Virelle interrupts his thought, snapping open a suitcase filled with matching gems.
"You'll each receive one fire spark today, the cheapest grade. Nine soul charges per gem. Each soul charge lasts for two hours. Once drained, it's junk. Use it wisely."
Then she gestures to the door. "Rakel, come in."
A man enters; gaunt, bald, and cloaked in a long black coat with a crimson insignia stitched across the chest. He carries a box of ceremonial knives in one hand and a branded ledger in the other.
"Rakel here is licensed by the academy," Virelle explains. "He'll oversee the binding process."
She begins calling names. One by one, students approach, hands trembling with excitement. Rakel guides them through the procedure; slicing the thumb with the thin ritual blade, let a drop of blood touch the gem.
As each student completes the ritual, a soft glow pulses across one facet, signaling the binding accepted.
When it's finally Irvine Donovan's turn, the room stills again.
Rakel looks up. "Your hand, please."
Atniel doesn't move. He simply stares at the man, his expression unreadable.
Rakel frowns. "Are you afraid?"
The class giggles. A few students whisper mockeries.
"Figures he'd flinch."
"Probably thinks it'll bleed his soul away."
Virelle isn't amused. She marches up to him, grabs his arm, and slams it down on the desk.
"Stop wasting everyone's time. Hold still."
Atniel opens his mouth. But before he can speak, Rakel's ritual blade slashes deep across his forearm.
The cut is no mere nick. Blood flows freely, and the laughter dies. Rakel, without a flicker of sympathy, presses the bloodied blade against the surface of the gem.
The gem glows brightly, too bright. And then…
Krk!
A sharp crack splits the silence. A hairline fracture slices across the gem's surface. The stone dims and goes dark, before shattering in Rakel's hand.
He freezes, staring at the fragments. "Impossible…"
The classroom falls silent. All eyes turn to Atniel, whose bleeding arm still drips onto the desk. Instructor Virelle looks rattled.
Rakel, the man who never blinked while slicing open a dozen students, now stares as if he's touched something profane.
Atniel blinks at the broken gem, and then lifts his hand, inspecting the wound. It's slowly closing, but unseen by everyone else because of the blood.
Then he gazes at Rakel and smirks.
"Seems like the gem doesn't accept me."