Class (2)

The professor of our warm-up combat class looked at us like we were gum stuck to his boot.

"A right measly bunch," he spat, pacing slowly in front of us. His boots echoed against the reinforced flooring, each step landing like a threat. "But don't worry. I'll whip you into shape—or shame—soon enough."

He stopped, eyes narrowing.

"This may be a warm-up before orientation, but don't get any ideas about this being easy. You're not here for comfort. You're here to see if you can even make it through a basic drill without crying."

His glare swept over the crowd of Class A students. Some looked confident, others tried to hide their nerves. His attention lingered just long enough on each face to unsettle them.

"Name's Grall. Professor Grall. Don't expect me to remember yours unless you do something worth remembering. Until then, you're all just noise."

Someone near the back snickered. It wasn't loud, but it was enough. Grall's head turned like a turret locking on.

"You. Step out."

Hector Blackwood—arrogant, entitled, the typical noble brat—stepped forward without hesitation. His hands were in his pockets, his eyes half-lidded in boredom. His walk oozed arrogance like oil slipping across glass.

"Name?"

"Hector Blackwood."

Grall was on him in a second, grabbing his collar with such force that Hector's posture shifted for a moment. "I didn't ask for your name to stroke your ego. When I speak, you listen. That's rule one."

Hector's smugness flickered for a second, but he still managed a half-smirk. "Yes, sir."

Grall shoved him back roughly, his face twisting into a sneer. "Back in line."

He turned to the rest of us. "We'll start with basic evaluation. No chips. Just you and your instincts. If you rely on your fancy implants for everything, you're not a fighter—you're a target."

The sparring platform lit up in the center of the room, and I could hear the faint hum of energy coursing beneath the surface. The floor was reinforced, but you could tell it would absorb the impact of any blows. It was like stepping into an arena, with the air thick with anticipation.

"One-on-one. No powers. No excuses."

Pairs were called up. The air was thick with tension as students faced off. Some had technique. Others flailed with brute strength. Grall watched with an unreadable expression, arms folded, eyes narrowing at moments only he seemed to care about. Like he was recording weaknesses more than strengths.

I kept my breathing calm, steady. I observed. Watched their footwork, balance, timing. That was something I'd learned early in my old life—people broadcast their moves when they're tense. And right now, there was plenty of tension to feed off.

Some of the nobles clearly weren't used to fighting without their chips. They were good, yes—but not seasoned. They leaned on their abilities. On family names. On past glory. Strip that all away, and you saw hesitation. Fragile pride beneath polished veneers.

More than once, I caught eyes flicking toward me.

Desmond Slick. Class A. I could feel it—the whispers behind my back, the questions, the judgment. How had I made it here? What was I doing in Class A? Where was my legacy?

The Phantom Charm chip had placed me here, no doubt about it. But why? How had I managed to score so highly in the entrance test?

It wasn't supposed to be like this. I wasn't supposed to be here.

But I was. And I had to make the most of it.

I kept my posture relaxed, hands loosely at my sides. Didn't show off. Didn't flinch when the more aggressive types slammed into each other.

I wasn't here to fight for glory, but I wasn't going to back down, either. Every single one of those students was a potential threat—especially the ones who assumed I was a nobody, unworthy of attention. I could almost feel their minds turning, wondering why I was here.

Eventually, Grall's voice rang out again.

"Desmond Slick."

My name felt strange in his mouth. But I wasn't about to flinch. I had too much at stake.

I stepped forward, keeping my gaze steady.

"Blackwood. You're up."

Hector Blackwood. Rank higher than mine. Big name. Noble brat. We'd already had a minor encounter. He didn't like me then, and I didn't expect things to improve now.

He stepped forward with theatrical exaggeration, cracking his knuckles like it was the opening act of a show he was starring in. His smug grin spread like oil across his face, slick and overconfident.

I heard someone whisper from the crowd.

"Poor bastard."

"Hector's going to eat him alive."

Maybe. Maybe not.

I stepped onto the platform and felt the faint buzz beneath my feet. The crowd murmured, eyes flicking between us, waiting for something to happen. This was more than just a sparring match. This was a statement.

Grall's gaze shifted between us, sharp and calculating.

"No chips. You have to make the person quit to win. Begin when ready."

Hector rolled his neck with a satisfying crack, stretching as if this was some light warm-up instead of a real fight. His grin widened. The arrogance was almost suffocating.

"Well, well. Desmond Slick. Let's see what you've got. Try not to embarrass yourself."

I said nothing. No witty retort. No dramatic stare. Just silence.

I studied him. Watched his stance. It was too wide, too casual, a sign that he was underestimating me. Good. I didn't need him taking me seriously yet.

I kept my movements minimal. Every muscle in my body was poised for what came next. The crowd hushed, the atmosphere crackling with tension. Even Grall seemed more alert, his sharp eyes locked on the platform.

We were still.

And then, we moved.

I stepped to the side just as Hector lunged, his fist aiming straight for my face. But I was already gone, sidestepping with effortless precision. Hector's eyes widened in surprise. He was fast, but not fast enough.

I didn't engage immediately. Not yet. I needed to feel him out. It wasn't about brute force—it was about timing. His overconfidence made him predictable. And that's exactly what I needed.

Grall's gaze flickered between us. The students in the stands whispered, watching us intently.

Hector grunted in frustration, rushing at me again, more aggressively this time. But again, he was too easy to read. His moves were quick but sloppy, driven more by rage than skill. I dodged another punch, sliding behind him and tapping his shoulder with a well-placed push.

His face twisted with irritation. "What the hell?"

But I was already back on the defensive, waiting for his next move.

He charged again, more reckless this time, his feet stomping against the mat. This time, he wasn't pulling back. He swung his fist with all the force he could muster, but it wasn't controlled. It wasn't precise.

It was a desperation swing.

And that was where I saw my opening.