Cry from hell

The sun rose on the day of the festival.

Birds chirped.

Banners fluttered.

Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed because a booth exploded.

In other words, it was a perfect morning at Noctis Ardentis Academy.

Class C gathered around me in our designated area. They wore their new uniforms—standard-issue academy tunics with a red sash that signified they were "official event participants."

They looked proud.

Or at least, they did until I opened my mouth.

"Alright, you collection of walking regrets," I said, hands behind my back like a commander about to lead his troops into a meat grinder. "Today is the day you shame yourselves on an international level."

Leo whimpered.

Good. He understood.

I started pacing in front of them like an angry drill sergeant whose coffee was two days late.