Chapter 11 – The Price of Pride

"That's all for today," announced the mustached instructor with a hoarse voice. "What you saw this morning will be the only fucking lesson you'll get from us. From now on, if you want to survive, you'll have to train until your muscles beg for mercy."

He walked slowly in front of us, hands behind his back, like an executioner giving his final sermon.

"The Eight Steps aren't a luxury, they're a necessity. You mess up once, and your skull will be just another decoration on the battlefield. So sweat, bleed, but master them. Because I won't repeat anything."

Everyone's eyes were fixed on the ground.

"Now get out of here. Go eat something before you pass out. But listen carefully: the cafeteria is shared with the nobles. Don't get into trouble… or do, and find out what your skin is worth."

Most scattered without a word, dragging their feet toward the mess hall.

When we arrived, we were met with a tense scene: over a hundred commoners stood at the entrance, murmuring among themselves. They didn't dare cross the threshold.

"What the hell's wrong with them?" Dixon asked, frowning.

"Looks like they're scared to go in," I replied without stopping. "Like we're invading enemy territory."

The cafeteria was colossal—high ceilings, carved stone columns, long polished wooden tables, and a massive open kitchen at the back. It could easily feed five thousand people, yet it was almost empty.

Without thinking, I grabbed a tray and walked toward the food line. Behind me, Dixon followed with a nervous smile, and then Cedric, a quiet but strong guy with an intense gaze.

"How are your arms holding up after training?" Cedric asked as the cook served thick stew into his tray.

"Feels like someone fucked my muscles with a spear," Dixon grunted. "But it was worth it."

"No doubt about that," I nodded. "There's something about those Eight Steps… something that changes everything."

With our trays full, we looked for a table near one of the windows. From there, we could see the central courtyard—and more importantly, we were far from the nobles, who had gathered at the center of the room as if it belonged to them by divine right.

But the peace didn't last long.

One of the nobles—tall, blonde hair in a braid, spotless uniform—stood up from his table and walked toward the plebs still standing at the entrance. Without a word, he took a tray from one of our own—a skinny guy with a weathered face named Thom—and dumped its contents right on his face.

Hot stew dripped down his cheeks as his jaw trembled with rage.

Thom stood up, burning with fury.

"Son of a bitch!" he roared, raising his fist to strike.

The air tightened like a bow ready to release.

Thom charged like an angry bull, but with no technique. Just pure pride and desperation.

The noble barely turned his head. He dodged the punch with effortless grace, like he was dancing, not fighting.

Then, without hesitation, he lifted his leg and delivered a sharp kick to Thom's chest.

"—Hrrghh!" was the only sound Thom could make before flying backward like a sack of bones.

The blow echoed through the cafeteria like the crack of a snapped branch. His body slammed into one of the stone columns, leaving a trail of food and blood.

Thom collapsed to the floor sideways, coughing violently. Every breath was a whimper. At least two ribs were broken.

"Is that all the commoners have?" the noble asked with a scornful grin, wiping his boot with a napkin.

His companions laughed, a wave of mockery crashing down.

Several of them stood, slowly approaching like a pack of wolves.

"Well, well, someone forgot their place," said another noble, this one with fiery red hair and a scar on his chin.

They surrounded us in seconds. Some still held full trays, and with shameless arrogance, began pelting us with scraps of food—hard bread, chunks of meat, cold mash. One hit me square in the chest, leaving a greasy stain on my tunic.

"Hey, mutt, catch this!" one shouted, hurling a sausage at Dixon's face.

"Don't they have spoons in the stables, beasts? Or do you eat straight from the floor?"

Cedric got hit with a hot soup bowl on the shoulder, the liquid trickling slowly down his back. He clenched his teeth. Didn't say a word. None of us did.

Because we knew that if one moved, the rest would end up like Thom… or worse.

One of the younger nobles, maybe just a year older than me, stepped right up to my face. His gray eyes were cold as steel.

"And you? Are you the leader of this rat pack?" he asked, spitting at my feet.

I didn't answer.

My gaze pierced him—cold, calculated. Angel was already analyzing faces, stances, distances. But I did nothing. Not yet.

He clicked his tongue, disappointed.

"No? Shame. I would've liked to smash the leader's face."

"You could try," Dixon muttered, his voice low, brimming with restrained fury.

"What did you say, scum?"

The noble turned, but just then, a tray flew from somewhere and crashed against a nearby table, making the stone structure tremble. Tension spiked instantly.

Dixon couldn't hold it in anymore.

With a roar filled with rage, helplessness, and wounded pride, he stood up and lunged at the noble who had mocked him. The rest of us—nine in total—followed, as if his fury had become a spark igniting the whole table.

The recruits attacked with whatever they had—fists, trays, even empty bottles. Shouts filled the cafeteria. The crash of bodies, overturned tables, shattered dishes. It was a brief and brutal chaos.

But the gap between us and them was too wide.

One of the nobles grabbed Cedric by the collar and slammed him to the ground with a clean throw, knocking him out instantly. Another shattered a tray over Harlan's back, dropping him to his knees. Dixon managed to land a punch on the redhead's face, making his nose bleed, but paid the price—a kick to the jaw sent him to the ground, spitting blood and broken teeth.

One by one, my comrades fell.

The nobles were stronger, faster. Trained from childhood by personal tutors, they carried combat experience in their very bones, while we only had rage.

And rage wasn't enough.

One noble slammed a friend of mine against the wall and crushed his head with a knee. The crunch that followed turned my stomach.

In under two minutes, it was over.

Silence.

A heavy, violent silence—like the calm after a bloody storm.

My companions lay on the ground—unconscious, groaning, or simply broken. The air reeked of blood, sweat, and spilled soup. The pride of the commoners had been crushed under fine leather boots.

And I was still sitting.

Fork still in hand. Empty tray before me. My gaze steady, like just another spectator… but I wasn't.

My eyes swept over the fallen bodies. Dixon was breathing heavily. Cedric didn't move. Thom was still where he'd been thrown, barely coughing.

I stood up.

Slowly. No rush. The chair creaked beneath my weight. Every movement calculated, like a machine warming up.

I pulled a crumpled napkin from my pocket and slowly wiped the corner of my mouth. The gesture was almost trivial, but in the silence that dominated the room, it sounded like a thunderclap.

One noble stared at me.

"You're not going to do anything?" he asked with a mocking grin—but I noticed the slight tremor in his voice.

I didn't answer.

I simply looked up.

And in my eyes, there was no neutrality left. Only a growing abyss.

I stepped forward.

The sound of my boots echoed like a war drum.

All the nobles were watching me now. Some smiled. Others frowned. And a few… took a step back.

The atmosphere shifted.

It was as if something invisible began to tighten in the air. As if a beast were about to awaken.

My voice was low, but it reached every corner of the cafeteria:

"I hope you're ready for what comes next."