School.

Wind whistled through the canyon, carrying with it the distant crackle of mana as it clashed against stone. Sunlight streaked through the cliffs in golden shafts, illuminating the platform where Raymed stood, arms crossed, brows furrowed, heart pounding.

This wasn't a training arena within Vanguard's polished halls. This was called 'Redrift', a broken land on the academy's outskirts, accessed only through a specialized portal. It was a raw landscape, used only for high-risk, destructive training. And today, it was his classroom.

His instructor waited just ahead, a tall, poised, crimson-haired elf.

Kiliar Il Lupache.

The very name struck intrigue and intimidation in equal measure. Among elves, her mastery over destruction magic was almost mythic. Among humans, her open sympathy for humanity was rare.

Kiliar stood with the wind tugging on her red robe. She wore no visible armor but wore silver bracers that shimmered faintly. "You're early," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the empty air.

Raymed nodded as he approached. "To be honest. I couldn't sleep. I've been thinking about this training ever since the assignment."

"Good," Kiliar replied. "You have the spirit to learn. It shows greatly that you value your time."

She gestured to a flat stone slab nearby. "Now, demonstrate."

Raymed took position, drawing mana from his core. His hands sparked to life, threads of red magical energy wrapping around his fingers, pulsing erratically.

He summoned a destructive orb—large, volatile, dripping heat.

The very air hissed as he chucked it toward a nearby rock formation.

A violent explosion followed.

The boulder shattered, obliterated into jagged shards and smoke. But the blast was uneven, scorching the terrain in a wild radius. Magical energy had splattered without direction—destructive, yes, but uncontrolled.

Kiliar gave a slow, unimpressed blink.

"A hammer swung at random will still break something. That doesn't make it an artist's strike."

Raymed exhaled, brushing soot off his sleeve. "Yeah, I understand that my control is not that good."

"You did hit the target, but also everything around it," she replied coolly. "Though destruction magic requires less control. It isn't necessarily chaos for chaos's sake. You're better than that, aren't you?"

The jab stung, but not unfairly.

She stepped forward, conjuring her own orb—a small, clear sphere barely larger than a marble. It shimmered faintly, refracting the air like rippling heat. Then, without a word, she flicked it with her finger.

The orb soared forward, silent, unassuming, and struck a solid cliff face.

For a heartbeat, nothing.

Then the rock simply… caved inward, collapsing with a deep concussive thud. Not exploded. Imploded.

Raymed gaped. "That looked like it used less mana than a sneeze."

"It did," she said calmly. "Every spell is not about how much mana you use. It's about how and when you release it. Precision beats power."

Somehow, what Kiliar is saying sounds a lot like what Thalamik used to say.

"But did you know, it's actually easier to control destruction magic than any other magic?"

"Really? Do tell!" He replied.

Kiliar flicked a rune-inscribed chalkstone toward him. It hovered in the air before cracking with a pulse of red light.

"This is your cheat code," she said, stepping forward.

Raymed blinked. "A rock?"

"No. The idea. You've got power, kid. Too much. You're a dam with no valves. So the best way to do it is to split it."

She raised two fingers. "Fifty. Fifty."

Raymed tilted his head. "Huh?"

"Use half your mana for the core of the spell—the base destructive energy. The other half? Use it to regulate it. Shape it. Think of it as two separate channels. One casts, one guides."

Raymed's eyes widened a little. "Is that even a thing?"

Kiliar smirked. "It's a bit of an impromptu trick. Heck, I never tried it for myself since I never have a problem controlling my mana. But I presumed it would work just fine for you. I call it Split Flow."

"Split Flow..."

"With that method, even someone with garba—poor control can still pull off precision destruction spells. Sure, you won't get the full x4 multiplier that comes with pure finesse... but a consistent x2? That's better than blowing up your surroundings."

Using mana to spell and using mana itself to control the mana.

Raymed stared at the carved-out square, swallowing hard. "I mean... that's... genius. But also, like, super theoretical. Are you sure it would work?"

"I don't know.. Do you trust me as the best there is when it comes to destruction magic?" She smiled. She stepped beside him now, calmer. "You're overflowing with mana, Raymed. That's rare. Most people struggle to even conjure a single offensive spell in a day. You? You leak energy when you breathe. Your issue isn't power. It's focus. So Split Flow is just what you need to make it work."

Raymed looked down at his hands, then slowly raised them. For the first time, he envisioned his mana as two rivers—equal but distinct.

"One to cast," he whispered. "One to control."

He inhaled sharply, gathered mana from his core, and focused. This time, instead of allowing the full surge to form a volatile blast, he imagined the spell like a sphere within his chest, splitting neatly in half. Half bled into his right arm—the spell. The other half coiled around it, a spiraling sheath of intention.

When he launched the spell, it roared forward—not wild, not erratic—but straight, tight, and stable. It struck the boulder across the plateau and imploded it like a crumbling pillar of ash.

He stared, stunned.

Kiliar exhaled through her nose, impressed but composed. "As expected, success on the first try."

Raymed grinned. "You are an amazing teacher, Miss Kiliar...I should try to become like you."

Kiliar smiled. Her crimson hair shimmered under the sun as she looked at him. "No. Don't become like me."

That caught him off guard. "What?"

"You're not me," she said simply. "I spent decades just learning to wield magic because my mana reserve is limited. I trained relentlessly to catch up, and eventually I became one of the best—but that's no reason anyone else with different paths couldn't surpass me."

She stepped closer, her voice softer now. "You? You absorb ambient mana without meaning to. You regenerate while others rest. You cast without delay. You are The Chronic Eater—a phenomenon even our scholars can't fully define. That makes you more special than I am."

Raymed looked down, his hand curling slightly. "It's not always a blessing."

"No power is," Kiliar said. "But I want you to surpass me, Raymed. Not because I need a successor, but because this world needs someone who can destroy only what must be destroyed—and leave what's precious intact."

Her sincerity hit deeper than any explosion.

Raymed smiled faintly. "Then... I'll give it everything. Please teach me to surpass you, Miss Kiliar."

"Then, let's begin with other techniques."

Hour by hour, Kiliar sharpened him—not by lecturing, but by example. She showed how to adjust the trajectory of a spell by shifting the center of mana flow. How to use angles and air resistance to veil a blast until the final moment. How to embed spells into thrown stones, into redirected bursts, into feints.

At one point, she even summoned an illusion of a Demonfolk enemy—a towering wraith-like creature with six arms and a permanent mana storm around its head.

"Target the core," she instructed. "One point. Now."

Raymed hurled a dense orb, far denser than before. It bypassed the storm, cutting through it like a knife.

The impact? A singular rupture at the center of the illusion's chest. The spell didn't even leave scorch marks—it simply disintegrated the target with precision.

Kiliar exhaled. "Well done."

Raymed dropped to one knee, panting lightly. Sweat rolled down his face, but his eyes were bright. "I think... I'm starting to get it."

"More than starting," Kiliar said, reaching down to offer him a hand.

He took it, pulling himself up. "Thanks for trusting me with this."

Kiliar paused.

Then she said, "I believe in merit. Not bloodlines. Not rank. You've earned this training, Raymed."

A silence passed between them, calm and charged.

Then she added, "And you've made more progress in a single day than most of my students do in a month."

Raymed gave a tired grin. "Guess being a mana battery has its perks."

Kiliar chuckled softly—an honest, melodic sound that surprised even her.

"I'm going to enjoy watching you grow," she said. "Just don't forget—every spell carries responsibility. You wield a force that can reshape battlefields. One wrong detonation could collapse a city block."

"I understand," he replied. "I'll get stronger... and wiser."

They turned back toward the training site. The sun had begun to dip, casting long shadows across the rocky plain. Mana currents glowed faintly along the canyon walls, as if the land itself acknowledged the progress made.

Kiliar waved her hand, and a portal shimmered into existence—a return gate to Vanguard's southern tower.

"Same time tomorrow?" Raymed asked.

Kiliar looked at him, and her smile was one of quiet confidence. "Of course. I want to see if you can pull off the triple-condensed burst."

Raymed groaned. "You're enjoying this, aren't you?"

"Very much."

He laughed, and together they stepped through the portal.

***

Carmilla stood alone at the threshold of the Saint-Class training hall, heart fluttering against her ribs like a songbird too long caged. This sanctuary was unlike anything else at Vanguard Academy.

Columns of alabaster arched toward a ceiling gilded with sigils of light. Stained-glass windows radiated color into the sacred space, depicting the Saints who worked under their leader, Grand Saint Veuz.

Carmilla swallowed.

The air was thick with mana, but not the battle-tainted kind she'd grown accustomed to. This was mana steeped in calmness. It hummed softly, resonating like a lullaby across lifetimes. Her steps were tentative, almost reverent, as if not to disturb the sanctity of the space.

At the far end stood a woman in white, her long blonde hair braided into a single rope, the ends laced with charm bells that did not ring. She stood tall, statuesque, with features both delicate and ageless, as if time itself dared not touch her.

Illias. The Saint-Disciple.

The direct disciple of Grand Saint Veuz.

" I-I'm sorry if I'm early," Carmilla said, bowing deeply.

Illias turned, her expression warm. "You're exactly on time, Carmilla." Her voice was calm and melodic, as if she were used to speaking across chasms of sorrow.

Carmilla straightened. "It's an honor… truly. I still can't believe someone like you will train someone like me."

"You shouldn't say 'someone like me,'" Illias replied gently. "And you certainly shouldn't say 'someone like you.' There's only you. Carmilla, the human girl who has made a lot of difference by accompanying the military force of humans. The girl who healed countless battlefield survivors in the border town of Bogo. You do not give yourself enough credit."

Carmilla flushed. "I was just… doing what I could."

"And yet," Illias said, approaching her, "what you could do is what most trained Saint-Class adepts only dream of achieving."

They walked past the silent pews toward a raised dais encircled by floating runes. At its center was a single, low altar inscribed with circles and curves—faint outlines of the Core Seal, the legendary glyph ornament that Grand Saint Veuz once used to pacify an entire battlefield and robbed them of their powers so both sides would try to talk to each other rather than fight

"Sealing Magic," Illias began, tracing one of the runes with her finger, "is not only about restriction. It's about intention. You must understand the truth of what you are binding. Don't hate it. Don't fear it. But see it. And choose to stop it."

Carmilla nodded slowly. "Like protecting others from the root, not just the threat."

"Exactly," Illias said, a pleased smile on her face. "You see why Veuz was so revered. She didn't conquer with might. She calmed storms, stilled demons, and restored any wild mana to rest. Her seals were mercy… not judgment."

The mention of Grand Saint Veuz always left a strange warmth in Carmilla's chest. She remembered reading stories of Veuz and how she mourned for enemies who lost their way. How she once wept for a demonfolk army sealed beneath her own hand.

Now here Carmilla stood, being told she might—just might-be the one to inherit that legacy.

"I'm ready," Carmilla whispered.

"Then kneel," Illias said.

She obeyed, taking her place across from the altar. Candles on the edges flickered to life of their own accord, illuminating the chamber in soft gold.

Illias knelt beside her. "Now, let me see your mana flow."

Carmilla closed her eyes and reached inward. Unlike her destructive classmates, her magic did not roar or crackle. It bloomed—like morning dew on grass, soft and nourishing. The hum of her mana pulsed in a tranquil rhythm, attuned to life.

"Good," Illias murmured you may stand back now. "For today I wanted to show you something that would be of help to you especially in casting sealing magic."

Illias flicked a finger, and the glyph spun faster, unraveling into two streaks of light—one golden, the other pale blue.

"A healer's touch brings comfort, and healing magic is the fastest magic to cast," Illias said, holding the strands between her fingers like threads. "But healing magic is pure mana. Undiluted. Unstable in its most radiant state. If you mold it just right—before it takes shape—you can redirect that energy into something... less kind."

The strands suddenly collapsed into a sigil, then a flash, and a phantom chain slammed into the stone floor, rattling before disappearing.

Carmilla gasped softly. "You transitioned a healing spell... into a sealing magic spell?"

Illias nodded. "Spell Transition. A sacred technique. Difficult, yes—but not impossible for one who already understands the heart of mana."

She stepped closer and knelt beside Carmilla, drawing a small circle of light with her fingertip. "Here's how it works. All spells have a 'priming stage'—the moment when your intent shapes your mana. Most people fire the spell the moment it solidifies. But if you pause, even for a breath..."

Carmilla watched as the light pulsed.

"You can change your intent. And the mana, still moldable, will obey."

She flicked the spell again, and it shifted shape—first a gentle golden aura, then curling inwards to form an intricate blue-white glyph.

"Healing becomes Sealing. Light becomes Bind."

Carmilla's eyes widened. "So the trick... is in the hesitation?"

"A deliberate hesitation. A moment of final silence to fill a new intention or to continue the intention," Illias said, smiling. "Like breathing between notes in a hymn. Too short, and the spell fires as-is. Too long, and the mana disperses. But if timed well... the spell transitions, mid-flight."

Carmilla slowly nodded, absorbing every word.

"Will I be able to do it?" she asked, her tone softer now. Not out of doubt—but reverence.

Illias gently took her hands. "You already have the intuition. What you need now is rhythm." She said before taking her distance again. "I assume you know the spell Divine Circle?" Illias's voice echoed softly across the sacred hall. "Start with that."

Carmilla exhaled, letting her hands rise. Mana swirled gently from her fingertips like morning mist, settling into the space before her. With each measured breath, lines of light traced themselves into the air—delicate, concentric rings forming like ripples across water.

The Divine Circle bloomed into shape, not with force, but with grace. It pulsed—gentle, warm, steady—as if mimicking the rhythm of a heart.

"It's a healing spell," Illias said calmly, watching her. "One that binds your mana to the target. A personalized enchantment—it heals based on your own reserves. It finds what's vital... and preserves it."

Carmilla nodded slightly, her concentration held steady.

"Now breathe," Illias continued. "Shape the inner web... and prepare for the transition."

The transition.

Carmilla's brows furrowed slightly, but she obeyed. She guided her mana inward, weaving filaments inside the glowing ring. Threads of light curved inward, folding over themselves like silk ribbons. The glow flickered—unstable for a breath—then caught.

"Don't cast," Illias warned. "Hold it at the cusp."

Carmilla grit her teeth, feeling the dense pressure of mana hover between intention and release. Her mind shifted—healing into restraint. Grace into silence. The light coiled tighter, reshaping.

The golden hue turned cool blue.

The runes rearranged.

A new glyph bloomed into the air, high above the altar.

Illias's voice dropped into a whisper. "Do you know what this is?"

Carmilla opened her eyes slowly, blinking. "I… I was only trying to create the base form of Lesser Seal."

Illias stepped closer, her gaze serene but impressed. "You shaped the spell 'Overtop Bind'. That's an intermediate Saint-Class seal. And you formed it—on your first transition."

The glyph hovered above them like a suspended sigil of twilight, spinning softly in Carmilla's light. It cast no shadow, only a subtle, calming presence—as if the chapel itself recognized her effort.

Carmilla stared, breath shallow, eyes wide. Something in her chest swelled—not pride, but something deeper. Recognition.

"I didn't force it," she said quietly. "I didn't even think. I just… knew how it should feel." Carmilla lowered her hands, the glyph gently fading.

For the first time in a long time, she didn't feel like the girl who had once second-guessed every spell, who wondered if her kindness would ever be enough.

"If the Grand Saint was here, she would have smiled at this."

Carmilla's chest filled with something between pride and longing. She began to wonder what is the mindset of The Grand Saint is like. "Would she really like this? By this I mean the way I am progressing and… Is this how she thinks?"

"I am sure she will be happy to know there's someone like you out there. For your other question, Veuz always said this: 'Seal for mercy. Seal to forgive. Everything deserves a moment of peace before the end." Illias's voice faltered slightly, the ghost of memory flashing behind her eyes. "In truth, she never said it to anyone but her disciples. So a select few know how she is thinking."

Carmilla touched the glyph lightly, and it shimmered, then began to unravel.

She followed the threads, guiding the mana back into herself, careful not to leave any remnants behind. When it was done, the air returned to stillness.

"I can't believe that someone like her existed. She sounded so kind," Carmilla said.

"She was more than the kind we humans are familiar with," Illias whispered. "I could say that she was hope itself manifested. Without her, United Front wouldn't have succeed in garnering peace between the races."

After that, they spent hours afterward working on glyph reinforcement—layering defensive seals, interlinking light-based barriers, weaving threads of mana that could anchor a battlefield's very flow.

Each time Carmilla doubted, Illias reminded her: "You're not here to be perfect. You're here to support and protect."

Each time she faltered, she recovered stronger.

By the fifth spell, her casting of sealing magic was almost instantaneous. Illias watched it all with quiet pride.

As the sun began to dip, casting beams of red and amber through the stained glass, Carmilla sank to her knees again, panting lightly. Sweat dotted her brow. Her hands trembled—not from weakness, but from the weight of everything she'd learned.

"I can't believe I made it this far," she said.

"Then believe it now," Illias replied, kneeling beside her. "You've only just begun, but today you've taken your first true step toward becoming a Saint not in title, but in spirit."

Carmilla looked at her instructor, then up at the window depicting Grand Saint Veuz.

"I want to meet her someday," she said softly.

Illias smiled. "You will someday."

***

Thalamik was not having a good morning.

He was the Fiend Kaiser of undead legions. He once stared down a Demon Envoy, and even endured Elves who looked at him differently. But this-this right here—might have been the worst of them all.

"Ugh...Elves," he muttered, rubbing his temple as he stepped into the Enhancement Magic classroom. "Diko, what the hell were you thinking?"

The room was practically glowing with elven refinement. Light filtered through ivy-laced windows, catching against polished marble tiles and sparring dummies carved with elegant runes. The scent of herbal incense—probably elven-made—hung in the air like smugness.

And it wasn't just elves. Demi-humans filled the room too—wolf-kin, catfolk, scaled ones, and bunny folk.

Thalamik slunk toward the back row, hoping to avoid attention. He dropped into a seat and exhaled sharply. For exactly three seconds, it was quiet.

Then—

"Hi there!"

He blinked. To his left, a white elf with platinum yellowish hair and eyes like the moon leaned toward him, her voice polite but painfully enthusiastic.

"My name's Trish Il Lupache," she said with a small smile. "You're… human, right? Are you a noble? I don't recognize you."

Thalamik stared at her for a moment. "I am Thalamik. For the question, yes and no."

"Oh. Sorry." She quickly tucked a lock of hair behind her ear, visibly nervous. "It's just that… your mana signature looks weird. But kind of cool? I mean that in a good way."

Before Thalamik could sigh and turn away, another voice popped in from his right.

"Hi! I'm Lulu Velulu! Wow, I didn't know humans could look that serious all the time!"

A demi-human bunny girl practically bounced in her seat. Her pink rabbit ears twitched excitedly, and her oversized ribbon bobbed every time she moved.

Thalamik groaned. Seriously?

Lulu leaned in with stars in her eyes. "Ohhh!!! You're that Fiend Kaiser fella, aren't you? You really summon fiends? Like skeleton knights and flaming ghosts?"

"No," Thalamik muttered. "I summon cheerful pixies and talking flowers. Want one?"

Lulu gasped, and the stars in her eyes became bigger. "Really?!"

"No."

Trish giggled behind a hand. "You're too funny."

Help me, god. I'm surrounded. Thalamik thought.

Then came the stomping.

Instructor Gralhund entered like a walking avalanche—short and stocky dwarf. He carried a hammer and a stack of rune-etched papers in one hand. His braided beard swung with every step.

"Sit up, ears forward!" he barked. "You're here to learn Enhancement, not flirt with your seatmates!"

Trish turned red. Lulu blinked. Thalamik didn't care and was still wearing a scowl.

The lesson began with the basics of channeling mana into limbs for physical augmentation. The dwarf demonstrated by punching a reinforced pillar hard enough to crack the stone.

"Focus your flow!" he bellowed. "You want your fist to hit like it's made of steel, not tofu!"

The students practiced in groups of three.

And of course—Thalamik's group? Yes, he was forced to be in the same group with Trish and Lulu.

He gritted his teeth as Trish asked question after question in the middle of the lessons., "Do you reinforce your joints first or your muscles?" "Is mana for your fiends harder to channel?" "Do your gloves have special materials?"

Calm down, Thalamik, keep it together....

Bear with it....

Remember not to make trouble again....

Lulu wasn't better. "Do fiends give you pep talks? Can I name one? What's the softest one you've summoned?"

Be patient, bear with it...

"Oh, I got one! Can you make an undead your lover? I've heard like that's possible!" Trish said.

"Where do you read that, Miss Trish?" Lulu asked.

"Some human literature called manga."

Ah.. I can't anymore...

I can't hold myself anymore...

After that fifth question, Thalamik turned to them both. "hEY dO EiTHeR oF yOu EvEr sHUt uP?" Thalamik's face was now not that of someone who is patient. His face had turned into an angry face that rivalled the demonfolk.

Yet his new friends' response was...

They looked at each other.

"…Nope!" Lulu beamed.

"Not really," Trish admitted with a shy grin.

Thalamik rubbed his face. "I'm in hell."

Still, despite their endless chatter, the training progressed. When it came time to demonstrate their enhancements in live combat drills, Thalamik delivered a devastating strike to a golem dummy that made even Gralhund pause.

"…That's some focused flow, human," the dwarf grunted. "Who taught you that?"

"Self Learn. Also, through painstaking time at the Military Academy. So basically Pain." Thalamik replied dryly.

Trish clapped politely. "Wow, that was cool! I mean, depressing and brutal. But cool nonetheless! Oh, I know! You humans used the word 'edgy' to describe this, right? Yeah, this is so edgy!"

What is this accursed elf talking about?

Lulu scribbled notes. "He punches with grief-powered mana. Fascinating!"

Thalamik narrowed his eyes. "I will summon two skeletons to carry you both away."

The girls giggled unbothered by his threats.

By the end of class, Instructor Gralhund handed out feedback papers. "Your performance dictates your advancement. Don't waste this opportunity." In the end Thalamik didn't learn much, basically everything here he already know most of it.

As the students walked out, Trish nudged and elbowed Thalamik's arm.

"There's a cafe near the east garden of Vanguard," she said. "They serve mana-sweetened tea. Want to join us?"

Lulu nodded rapidly. "And they have carrot parfaits!"

Thalamik stared at them.

"…No."

"Aww," they said in unison.

"Oh well, we'll see each other anyway tomorrow! Looking forward to it, Thalamik." Trish said with a warm smile.

"Yeah, today was fun! Looking forward to next time!" Lulu said.

"Yeah, Yeah, whatever..." He walked away… but this time, slower.

Somewhere between the dumb questions, the unrelenting curiosity, and the unexpected praise, something had shifted.

Maybe, just maybe… he didn't hate this class entirely.

If only his hate towards the elves wasn't there. Perhaps he, too, can be friends with Trish and Lulu. But Thalamik still can't see that kind of future and how things are going.

As he walked down the hallway, it was quiet. Too quiet.

Thalamik strolled down the eastern wing of Vanguard Academy, hands in his pockets, eyes scanning across the tall glass windows that overlooked the mana-tinted gardens. He enjoyed this part of the day—the lull between Enhancement class and mandatory meditation hour. No Trish. No Lulu. No elf nobles were trying to decode his scowl.

Just silence.

Then the air shifted.

He stopped.

Ahead, just around the corridor bend… heavy footsteps. Lots of them. Rhythmic. Coordinated.

Thalamik narrowed his eyes.

And as he turned the corner—

Fifteen wolf demi-humans stood blocking the hallway.

Each of them towered with rippling muscle, tails twitching, uniforms slightly tattered. He recognized them instantly—the same fifteen he had personally pummeled during the courtyard brawl a few days prior.

"…Really?" Thalamik said, sighing as he rolled his shoulder. "Round two already?"

Before Thalamik would easily summon his fiends, but Diko warned him not to do the same thing again. So this time, he must personally beat them all alone. A bother, but something he could still do rather easily.

He smirked and stepped forward, cracking his knuckles. "Fine. Let's get it over with—"

SWWWIIISH!

All fifteen wolf demi-humans suddenly slid forward on their knees.

"Huh?"

THUMP!

They performed a synchronized dogeza, foreheads pressed firmly to the floor, tails pointed straight up like surrendered flags.

"…Huh?"

The hallway echoed with silence.

The one in front—tall, square-jawed, with a mop of ash-gray hair—raised his head ever so slightly.

"Master Thalamik!"

"NOPE," Thalamik immediately responded, pointing at him. "Don't you call me that."

"My name is Besitulars Gurathon!" the wolf declared, ignoring Thalamik's words and voice, which was rich with dramatic bravado. "We come not for revenge… but REDEMPTION!"

The rest chorused behind him like an amateur choir. "REDEMPTION!!"

Thalamik blinked. "Am I being pranked?"

"We have wronged you, oh great Fiend Kaiser!" Besitulars said, tail thumping the floor in what could only be described as nervous worship. "It was I who made the grave mistake of touching your shoulder without consent."

Thalamik's eyebrow twitched. "That's… incredibly specific."

"And for that mistake," Besitulars bowed lower, "I paid the price. You kicked my spleen into a different timezone. My pack has seen your might. Your fury. Your flawless mana-enhanced uppercuts and fiend soldiers."

He turned to the others.

"Brothers!" he shouted.

"YES, ALPHA!!" they howled.

Besitulars looked up at Thalamik with wet, glimmering eyes. "We now serve you! We swear loyalty with the sincerity of our knee scrapes and flattened egos."

"I... WHAT?" Thalamik said, frozen in sheer disbelief.

"From this day forward," Besitulars continued, now full-on tail-wagging, "we are your pack. Your gang. Your loyal unit. Say the word, and we shall march to battle—or to the cafeteria to bring you snacks!"

"You want to be… my gang?"

Thalamik, at this point, is questioning what the f** is happening to his life.

"YES!" the fifteen shouted.

He began to wonder if this was normal for demi-humans.

I mean, they did use the code of conduct of the strong get everything.

But Thalamik still didn't understand.

"Is this because I beat you?"

"YESSSSSSSSSSS!" Besitulars said.

Thalamik looked left. Then right. No witnesses.

"…Is this normal here?" he muttered.

Besitulars clenched a fist to his chest. "As per the wolf demi-human honor code, we submit to those who knock us into the fourth dimension and give us character development."

Character Development? What is this, a novel? Dammit. Thalamik thought.

"Well, if anything, this is NOT character development," Thalamik barked.

"It is for us!" one in the back cried. "I became a better man after you slammed me through that pillar in the courtyard!"

"I see spirits now," another added solemnly.

Thalamik pinched the bridge of his nose. 

What the f* is wrong with this beastkin? "Hey, I don't like loud voices though..." He said.

"WE CAN BE QUIET!" Besitulars offered eagerly.

"LOUDLY QUIET!" someone added, totally missing the point.

A passing elf turned the corner, saw the scene, and walked right back the other way.

Thalamik looked down at the kneeling wall of dogeza and sighed.

"…Fine. But don't follow me everywhere."

"OF COURSE!"

"And stop calling me master."

"Yes, Boss!"

"NO!"

"Gang Leader!"

"NO!"

"Big Bro!"

"Hmmm…Better."

As Thalamik walked past them, they parted reverently like a red sea of shame and admiration. Lulu Velulu happened to peek from a nearby corridor.

"Hey! Thalamik, are those your fans?" she asked, blinking.

"They're NOT—" he snapped, then paused. "…I have no idea what they are."

Trish appeared behind her. "Isn't that… Besitulars Gurathon? Isn't he, like, a prince or something?"

"Whut? Is he really...?"

"…Oh! I see how it is!" Lulu clapped her hands. "Congrats on your new cult!"

Thalamik spun on his heel. "IT'S NOT A CULT."

Besitulars raised a hand. "Technically, we are structured more like a militia with devotional leanings—"

"STOP TALKING!!!!"

As Thalamik begins to walk, his eyes flicker with mana for a split second before continuing on his way. And now the hallway once again echoed with silence.

***

A figure wearing a white robe and hood emerged from thin air, as if she were there but concealed herself from the public eye.

"Thalamik The Fiend Kaiser. Perhaps it was you that I sensed to be non-human."

SWOOSH!

A blade swept at the figure with a white robe.

A skeleton knight clad in black armor.

The woman barely escaped the attack as her hood was now damaged.

"It seems I have underestimated him." The woman with blonde hair said. "I shall finish this quickly." The woman whipped out her blade as yellow-like magical energy filled it. 

"Shining Strike of Victory, Ezel!" Golden flash appeared as the Skeleton Knight kneeled slowly crumbling. The woman took one look to see the empty corridor as she began to put her hood back and disappeared into thin air.