COVENANT BASE — BRIEFING ROOM — 6:00 AM
The room smelled of old paper and anxiety.
David sat between Jonathan and Praise, still tired from the paintball excursion, still recovering from Ague's sickness. Joy stood by the window, arms crossed, her driver's suit replaced by a white suit over a long-sleeved black dress shirt. She looked different. Ready.
Jaron stood at the front, a tablet in his hand, his face unreadable.
"Didaskophobia," he said. "The Headmaster. Fear of teachers. Fear of being judged. Fear of failing."
"A Phobia that's afraid of school?" Jonathan asked.
"A Phobia that is school."
Jaron swiped the tablet. Images appeared on the wall—security footage, grainy and dark. A school corridor. Empty. Then a figure walking through it, tall and gaunt, wearing a worn academic gown. Spectacles. A wooden pointer in one hand. A stack of papers in the other.
"It's been active for three days. The school is quarantined. No one in. No one out."
"Casualties?" Praise asked.
"None. Yet. But the students inside are trapped. They're taking exams. Failing. The Headmaster won't let them leave until they pass."
"Pass what?" David asked.
"We don't know."
Jaron looked at each of them.
"Joy is going with you. She'll handle the barrier and provide support. The three of you go in, exorcise the Phobia, and get the students out."
Joy nodded. No smile. Just focus.
David looked at her. "You've held guns before."
"I've held a lot of things."
"You've got to be more careful with words." David chuckled
7:15 AM
The School building was silent.
Not the silence of emptiness—the silence of listening. Every hallway, every classroom, every desk was waiting. The air was thick with the smell of chalk dust and fear.
Praise fired a bolt into the ceiling. Afterglow bloomed—a small golden sphere floating above them, casting warm light across the corridor.
"Alright," she said. "I can see the classrooms. Laboratories. A library. And something else. At the end of the east wing. Large. Open."
"The gymnasium?" Jonathan asked.
"No. A classroom. But bigger than any classroom should be."
Joy knelt and began tracing symbols on the floor—white light, steady and precise. "Concealment barrier will hold for as long as I'm inside. If I leave, it drops."
"Then don't leave," Jonathan said.
"You know you couldn't stay out to be safe sha." David added
"I wasn't planning on it." Joy replied
They moved.
The hallway stretched.
Lockers lined the walls, their doors slightly open, revealing nothing inside. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows. The only sound was their footsteps—too loud, too exposed.
"Page 82."
Web-shooters manifested on David's wrists. Green. Ready.
"You're nervous," Joy said.
"I'm cautious."
"You're nervous."
"I'm not afraid of a teacher."
The voice came from everywhere.
"Then you haven't been paying attention."
The Headmaster stepped out of a classroom door.
It was tall. Gaunt. Its academic gown hung loose on its thin frame, dragging slightly on the floor. Its spectacles caught the fluorescent light, hiding its eyes. A wooden pointer was in one hand. A stack of papers in the other. Its face was set in permanent disappointment.
"Sit down," it said. "You have a lot to learn."
"Shattering Impact—"
Jonathan's fist—cobalt-blue, massive—swung toward the Headmaster's chest.
The Headmaster raised its pointer.
"Detention."
Jonathan froze. Not paralyzed. Compliant. His arm was still raised. His fist was still glowing. He just couldn't move.
"What—"
"You spoke without raising your hand. That's a mark against you."
The Headmaster's pointer touched Jonathan's arm. A red slash appeared on his skin—not a cut, a mark. Shame. Failure.
"That doesn't hurt," Jonathan said.
"It's not supposed to. It's supposed to remind you."
The Headmaster turned to David.
"You. At what point does a collection of people become a civilization?"
David raised his web-shooters.
"Wrong answer."
The Headmaster's pointer raised.
"Omo—"
Too late.
"Detention."
David froze. His web-shooters were aimed. His finger was on the trigger. He couldn't move.
Praise fired.
Two bolts—unerring accuracy—curved toward the Headmaster's head. They didn't miss. They couldn't miss.
The Headmaster raised its stack of papers.
"Red Ink."
The bolts stopped in mid-air. Red slashes appeared on their golden surfaces. They fell to the floor, harmless.
"You fired without permission. That's cheating."
The Headmaster looked at Joy. She hadn't moved. She hadn't spoken. She was standing exactly where she had been, watching, waiting.
"You. What is the square root of 144?"
"Twelve."
The Headmaster paused. Its spectacles glinted.
"Correct. You may be excused."
"I'm not leaving without them."
The Headmaster tilted its head.
"Then you'll have to pass the exam."
The world shifted.
They were sitting at desks. Wooden. Old. Carved with initials and forgotten promises. The Headmaster stood at the front, its pointer tapping a blackboard that stretched forever.
Joy was beside David. Jonathan was in front of him. Praise was to his left.
"Where are we?" Jonathan asked.
"The Classroom," the Headmaster said. "My Crusade. My rules. You will learn. You will be tested. You will fail. And you will learn again."
David tried to move. Couldn't.
"Page—"
"No pages. No weapons. No Gifts. Just you and your mind."
The Headmaster placed a paper on each desk.
"The exam begins now."
David looked at his paper.
Question 1: Why did CJ die?
His hand moved on its own. The pencil wrote.
Because I wasn't fast enough.
Red ink circled the answer. Not wrong. Marked.
Question 2: Why did Jane leave?
Because I couldn't tell her the truth.
Red ink.
Question 3: Why are you still sick?
Because I deserve it.
The Headmaster walked past his desk.
"You're not trying."
"I'm answering."
"You're lying. To yourself. To me. To the paper."
The Headmaster's pointer touched David's shoulder. A red slash appeared on his skin.
"Answer again. Truthfully."
David stared at the paper.
Because I haven't forgiven myself.
The ink didn't turn red.
It turned green.
Across the room, Joy was writing with calm precision. Her paper was covered in answers. No red ink.
Jonathan was struggling. His fists were clenched. His paper was blank.
"I don't know the answers," he said.
"Then you will learn them."
"I can't learn from a Phobia… Never."
"Then you will fail."
Praise wrote slowly. Her answers were short. Honest. The Headmaster nodded once.
"Good. You may move to the next question."
David looked at his paper.
Question 4: What are you afraid of?
He wrote without thinking.
Being alone.
The ink stayed green.
Question 5: What are you fighting for?
The people who are still here.
Green.
The Headmaster collected the papers.
"You've passed. Barely."
The classroom dissolved.
They were back in the hallway. The Headmaster stood before them, its spectacles cracked, its gown torn.
"You've learned. The lesson is over."
"Not yet," David said.
He raised his web-shooters. Not to attack. To bind. Green webbing wrapped around the Headmaster's arms, its torso, its pointer.
"Page 97."
Seven clones manifested—green-ink copies of himself, surrounding the Headmaster, blocking its exits.
"You can't—"
"Page 42."
The elephant appeared at the end of the hallway. Water erupted from its trunk, flooding the corridor, soaking the Headmaster's gown, washing away its papers.
"This isn't learning—"
"Now."
The clones pushed the head master directly to David.
David went in after it.
"Spiral."
Green light. Spinning. Compressed. He pressed it against the Headmaster's chest.
"You failed," the Headmaster said.
"No. I graduated."
The Spiral detonated.
The Headmaster dissolved. Not into smoke. Into confetti. Tiny scraps of paper, each one marked with a red check. Golden. Positive.
The hallway returned to normal.
David walked towards a wall. Praise dismissed her crossbow. Jonathan unclenched his fists. Joy stood at the end of the corridor, her barrier still glowing, her expression unreadable.
"The students?" she asked.
Praise closed her eyes. Afterglow. She saw them—huddled in classrooms, confused but alive, their red marks fading.
"They're fine. They're waking up."
"Then we're done."
They all left the school.
David sat in the back seat, his head against the window. Joy drove. Praise sat in the front. Jonathan was beside him, still staring at his arm.
"The red marks are gone," he said.
"You passed," David said.
"I didn't answer any questions."
"You stayed. You didn't run. That's passing."
Jonathan was quiet.
Joy glanced at David in the rearview mirror.
"You did good in there."
"I had help."
"You always will."
30 MINUTES LATER
They filed into the briefing room. Jaron was waiting. He looked at each of them, then nodded.
"Good work. Rest. Debrief tomorrow."
Joy left first. Jonathan followed. Praise lingered by the door.
"David."
"Yeah?"
"You're not alone."
She left.
David stood in the empty room, the smell of chalk dust still in his nose, the taste of green ink still on his tongue.
He touched his shoulder. The red mark was gone.
But he could still feel it.