After observing her surrender, I lowered my voice and asked:
"In your opinion, how many from our class will survive the rituals?"
Noticing my intention to change the subject, she replied:
"I don't know, but I'm certain it won't be the majority."
As we spoke, someone entered the room quietly.
He was a man with thick, meticulously groomed hair and a beard that framed his face without being overly dense. What struck me most was the uniformity of colour—his hair and beard were a strikingly attractive shade of gold.
He was tall, with a muscular build that wasn't exaggerated like Rastel's.
A handsome, charismatic man, he moved with elegance. He didn't sit; instead, he stopped in the centre of the room.
Silence fell over the class.
Internally, I hoped he wouldn't be like Bam. That would be a dark omen for me, and it would only deepen my pessimism regarding this supernatural world.
After scanning every student, he spoke in a refined, authoritative tone that carried a unique sense of prestige:
"First, finish whatever you are doing. I will be waiting outside. I want you to exit without any noise, and without any rush."
He left as soon as he finished speaking, standing calmly in the hallway.
His behaviour surprised me, and for a moment, it lightened my grim outlook.
I stood up immediately, following his orders without haste. I stepped out of the classroom and took my place behind him.
Once the entire class had emptied, he looked at us and asked precisely:
"Are you all out?"
After we nodded, he began to walk.
"Follow me."
He led us up the stairs to the second floor. Upon arrival, we entered a large hall.
A sign on the door read: **(Training Hall)**.
As we stepped inside, we saw an array of real, diverse weapons—many of which I had never seen before.
There was also a large table covered in dozens of glass vials, nearly a hundred in total.
The teacher turned to us and said:
"You men, stay here. I will return once I have escorted the women to their hall."
He left us. We traded confused glances, but no one spoke.
Minutes later, the teacher returned.
"Now that the girls are gone," he said, "strip down to your underwear."
I did as instructed, as did everyone else.
Once we were ready, he ordered us to arm ourselves, each choosing a weapon that suited him.
I scanned the racks and eventually settled on a long spear for my right hand and a shield for my left.
With weapons in hand, I turned my gaze toward those who would likely be my opponents.
There were seventeen of us boys. I didn't recognise any of them from my entrance exam hall; the exams were held in multiple rooms across different days.
Our class consisted of thirty-two students: fifteen girls and seventeen boys.
I didn't even know their names, so I didn't feel much about the prospect of fighting them. I didn't think it would be that serious, especially since the sign only said "Training."
We lined up before the teacher.
He evaluated us for a full minute before speaking:
"First, let me introduce myself. I am the instructor responsible for your training and for building your pain tolerance. My name is Michael, and I will be training you for two weeks. You must give it your absolute all."
He continued:
"You may be wondering why there are real weapons when we call this 'training.' You have every right to wonder. But here, we develop pain endurance. We want you to be capable of fighting even while injured."
He added a chilling warning:
"Do not worry about the injuries; we will heal you within minutes. However... no one is to aim for the eyes. If you do, I will blind the offender myself."
I studied the faces of my classmates. Most weren't filled with terror yet, but one person was watching me with extreme caution.
Wolfgang. He looked like he wanted no part of me. He was the only one there who knew exactly how well I could fight.
The instructor divided us into pairs for the duels.
The first two stepped forward: one was short, the other slightly taller.
The shorter one had a terrifying, ugly face, with a large, hideous scar running down his forehead. His black hair was braided, and he glared at his opponent with a murderous gaze.
The other was Maxwell Volt, with his brown hair and average build, wielding twin swords.
The shyness in Maxwell's eyes was slowly beginning to vanish.
The instructor started the count, and the fight began.
It was a bloodbath in every sense of the word—but only from one side.
Maxwell was utterly crushed. The braided fighter, using a heavy axe and a shield, began shattering his bones.
Maxwell screamed and sobbed in agony, pleading for us to stop his opponent, but it was useless.
After sustaining severe wounds, the instructor stopped the match once Maxwell lost consciousness.
He took a vial from the table. First, he set Maxwell's bones using available splints and bandages.
Once the bones were stabilised, he uncorked the potion and poured it over Maxwell's wounds.
The vial was large, enough for at least two people.
Before our stunned eyes, Maxwell's body began to repair itself as if time were reversing.
The bleeding stopped, the wounds closed, and within seconds, he was exactly as he had been before the fight.
When the instructor woke him, Maxwell's first instinct was to scream and look around in panic, but the instructor cut him off:
"Stand up and get back in line."
Dazed, Maxwell obeyed and returned to the formation.
The second duel followed. It was between two boys I didn't know, and it was even bloodier than the first.
One had his hand severed; the other's intestines spilt from his stomach.
The instructor rushed to heal them, and the duels continued.
The floor of the hall began to grow slick with blood, despite being covered in sand.
The air grew heavy with a metallic stench that became unbearable.
Finally, it was my turn.
I stepped forward into the ring.
My opponent was short compared to me, wielding a sword and shield.
He had a large head and a thin, wiry frame.
*I see,* I thought. *The type that relies on evasion and speed.*
I looked at the instructor, certain he had matched us on purpose. With my bulk, speed should have been my weakness.
The count began. The fight started.
My opponent began to weave and distance himself, cutting angles intelligently.
He was an expert; he kept moving toward the narrow corners of the hall to limit the reach of my spear.
.
After a few minutes of his evasion, I finished reading him.
As he prepared to retreat once more, I lunged with shocking speed—and drove my spear straight into his gut.