The Teacher’s game

If this had been any other teacher, Ezra might've brushed off the tension, but there was something unsettlingly familiar about this one. He bore some similarities to Master Vox, though the differences were just enough to make it unnerving.

Where Vox had shorter, dark purple hair that was always kept somewhat neat, this man's hair was longer, wilder,tied at the back .Vox had a sturdy, muscular build, his presence commanding through sheer physicality, but this man was taller and lankier, his limbs almost too long for his frame as he lazily leaned against a pole, like the entire weight of the world was too much effort to carry.

They shared the same sharp facial structure—high cheekbones, a chiseled jaw—but the similarities ended there. This man had droopy, tired eyes, giving him a perpetually disinterested look, as though he'd rather be anywhere else. His expression lacked the fiery, aggressive energy Vox carried. Instead, there was a lazy, almost mocking amusement in his gaze, like he was constantly in on a joke no one else knew.

"Has my dear brother been teaching you well?" he chuckled, his voice light and airy, as if he found the whole situation amusing.

But no one laughed with him.

The training ground fell into an eerie silence, the tension thick enough to cut through.

Even Cassian, who always had some smug remark ready, stood completely still, his expression unreadable. No one dared move a muscle.

Ezra felt the shift immediately. It wasn't the kind of fear Vox commanded with his shouting and aggressive posturing—it was quieter, more insidious. This man didn't need to raise his voice to control the room. His presence alone seemed to demand it.

"Alright, alright, no need to be so tense," he drawled, waving a hand as if dismissing the thick silence that clung to the group. "Get your swords, everyone."

He gestured lazily toward a large wooden rack at the side of the training ground. It held an array of weapons—swords, staffs, spears, and daggers—each one worn from years of use but still sharp enough to be dangerous. The students hesitated for a heartbeat, glancing at one another as if silently daring someone else to move first.

Finally, Cassian stepped forward, his usual bravado subdued but not entirely gone. He grabbed a sleek wooden sword from the rack, testing its weight with a flick of his wrist before turning back to the group with a forced smirk.

The others followed, filing toward the rack in tense silence, each selecting their weapon of choice. Ezra grabbed a simple but sturdy wooden sword, feeling its familiar weight settle in his palm. 

The teacher watched them with that same lazy grin, his hands tucked into his pockets as if this was all just entertainment for him.

"Let's see who's been paying attention," he murmured, his voice smooth and laced with something almost sinister.

His gaze lazily drifted over the crowd before landing on someone. "You, right there," he said, nodding toward the back. "Come up to the front."

Rui stood up without hesitation, her maroon hair catching the sunlight as she strode confidently toward the center of the training ground. The usual indifferent expression remained on her face, but there was a subtle tension in the set of her shoulders, like a coiled spring ready to snap.

The students' whispers hushed into stunned silence as Rui didn't wait for the teacher's signal or command. The moment her feet hit the center of the training ground, she lunged forward with precision and speed that caught everyone off guard.

Her maroon hair whipped behind her as she closed the distance in an instant, her wooden sword slicing through the air with deadly intent. There was no hesitation in her movements—just raw, controlled aggression.

But the teacher? He didn't flinch.

With an almost bored expression, he sidestepped her attack effortlessly, his hands still tucked into his pockets. Ruihan's blade missed by mere inches, but she didn't lose momentum. She pivoted sharply, twisting her body into a low sweep, aiming for his legs.

The teacher sighed, as if mildly inconvenienced, and hopped over the sweep with surprising agility for someone who moved like he had nowhere better to be.

His lazy grin returned as he finally slipped one hand from his pocket, catching Ruihan's wrist mid-strike with unnerving ease.

"Now, now," he drawled, his voice low and mocking. "Eager, aren't we?"

But Ruihan's eyes burned with defiance.

She jerked her wrist free with a sharp twist and immediately launched into another flurry of attacks, faster and more relentless this time.

As Ezra studied her attacks he felt more and more unnerved, her expression was full of hatred . Her attacks had the intent to harm and possible kill as she shocked everyone by twisting and leaping into the air and and bringing her blade down in a brutal arc aimed straight for the teacher's head.

The force behind it was enough to make several students flinch, some even gasping aloud. This wasn't just a spar—Ruihan was fighting like it was life or death.

But the teacher… he still wasn't fazed.

With a flick of his wrist, he drew a slender, curved blade from his hip—one no one had even noticed until now. In a single, fluid motion, he parried her strike mid-air with a deafening clang, the force of the collision sending a sharp shockwave through the room.

Ruihan landed lightly on her feet, but her chest was heaving now, her maroon hair sticking to her face with sweat. The hatred in her eyes burned brighter, like she was chasing something far beyond this fight.

"You're not fighting me, are you?" the teacher murmured, his voice soft but cutting through the tense silence like a blade. His grin was gone now, replaced with something more dangerous—an unsettling calm.

But then, just as quickly, the tension snapped. The teacher clapped his hands together with sudden cheer, the manic gleam returning to his eyes. "Alright, you pass," he said brightly, as if Ruihan hadn't just tried to take his head off. He turned away from her without another glance, now surveying the class with predatory amusement.

His gaze landed on someone, and his grin stretched wider. "You there—pretty boy."

All heads turned toward Silas, who stood up with his usual calm, his face unreadable, but his posture was relaxed, almost lazy, as if none of this phased him in the slightest. He strolled to the front, his wooden sword loosely gripped in one hand.

But the teacher wasn't done.

"I'll switch it up," he announced, his voice laced with mischief. "I feel like I've been going easy on my students." His grin twisted into something almost sinister as he turned to the weapon rack, fingers tapping against the handles thoughtfully.

Without warning, he grabbed a bow and tossed it at Silas.

The room went silent.

Silas caught it with one hand, not even flinching. His fingers brushed over the smooth curve of the wood, his expression still impassive.