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"I had this feeling when we first arrived at base, but don't you think this place is just too large?" Balair asked as they passed through the Mess Hall doors — a black plaque above read: MESS HALL 04.

"It has to accommodate almost four hundred new cadets every year, so it makes sense," Dustin replied, stating the obvious. He walked ahead with an air of calm authority, Torren beside him. Torren seemed to ignore Balair, only sparing him the occasional quick, stabbing glare.

"Oh… ye—" Balair tried to respond, but was immediately cut off he wanted to react but just kept quiet.

"When do you think our standings on the base will be released?" Torren asked suddenly, a calm smile on his face as he turned the question to Dustin.

"Probably tomorrow, when the new information is sent out," Dustin answered, noting the subtle tension. He didn't comment on it, especially with other cadets nearby. The last thing he wanted was to stir inter-squad problems, even though he already had a hunch what this was really about.

The House of Wraithe had a long-standing disdain for common blood. They didn't even keep servants in their estates, living by the motto:

"By noble strength House Wraithe stands — not by strength of common men."

They were fanatical in their loyalty to Lucifer, to their 'pure blood,' and saw common men as little more than animals — no better than the demons they slaughtered by the thousands. They didn't enslave them, not out of mercy, but out of contempt.

And though this twisted code made them fiercely self-reliant and arguably the most disciplined noble house — producing the Empire's most powerful Spirit Augmentors — it also came with a darker edge.

If not for the Divine Marshal's Decree stating that the unjust killing of commoners was a punishable offense, they would've killed just as many men as demons.

Even now, they still did — just under the pretense of 'punishing lawbreakers.'

After a bit of small talk between Dustin and Balair — with Torren remaining unusually silent — the three picked up their trays and made their way to an empty table.

As they reached it, Torren stopped short, now full-on glaring at Balair.

"Is that going to be eating on the same table as us?"

The words came sharp, laced with irritation — like his patience had already run dry.

"Hey! I—" Balair tried to protest, but Dustin cut him off.

He wasn't stupid. He had seen everything Torren had been doing, and while he'd ignored it until now, this was too much.

"Torren," Dustin said sharply.

"That has a name. And I'd prefer if you used it. He already introduced himself."

His calm demeanor cracked, the words delivered cold and precise — eyes locked with Torren's, who was now red with rage all eyes on the three at the sudden commotion the murmuring in the Mess Hall now being replaced with silence.

"Then I guess we'll have to postpone our talk till later, Mall," Torren said coldly, walking off in search of a new table — preferably one with fewer of Balair's kind around.

"Ugh, just what the fuck is wrong with nobles?" Balair muttered, irritated as Torren stormed off, taking everyone's attention with him. The murmurs returned, now more focused — centered around the brief scene they'd just witnessed.

The two sat down quietly while the table beside them immediately began talking — not bothering to keep their voices low.

"Ugh, it's the high-and-mighty Dustin," a golden-haired boy said with smug disdain. Clearly a noble — a bit chubby, flanked by three others from his clique.

"You'd think after being basically disowned by his House, he'd chill out a bit," one of his lackeys sneered.

"But no, if anything, that uptight nature's gotten worse."

They were obviously trying to provoke him — but Dustin didn't flinch. He simply kept eating the flavorless military sludge like it was a noble's banquet.

Balair, on the other hand, was chomping like a starved pig, oblivious to everything.

"Hey, do you think they serve seconds? I don't think the protein content in this will help with muscle growth," Balair asked mid-chew, a few bits of food flying out of his mouth.

The nobles shot daggers at him with their eyes — irritated that their baiting had failed because of Balair. He was ruining their entire performance, without even trying.

Dustin took his time swallowing before turning to Balair.

"I'd suggest finishing the extra portion they gave you before asking that question," he said calmly, then returned to his food — completely ignoring the nobles.

"So, any thoughts on who your assistant might be?" Balair asked, setting his bowl down and glancing over at Dustin.

Dustin sighed internally. Interrupting someone while they ate — unforgivable. Still, he answered.

"No. I'll wait for the standings to be released before deciding."

"Oh, the ones determined by our evaluation?" Balair asked again. Dustin just nodded.

"Hey!" the golden-haired noble finally stormed over, slamming his fists onto their table.

Dustin looked up slowly.

"Yes? Mahica, what do you want?" he asked, calling him by name. His lush eyebrows furrowed as he glared.

Mahica seemed caught off guard by the directness — he frowned even harder.

"How dare you talk to a son of House Venswick like that, you mere Namebearer!" he screamed, raising his fist to strike—

—Only for it to be caught mid-swing.

"I'd suggest you didn't go through with that," Balair warned, gripping Mahica's fist.

"Using spiritual energy to fight outside designated zones is against the rules. Page twenty-seven of the Personnel Guidebook," he added with a smug grin.

Mahica froze. His face twisted from anger to confusion — and then a flicker of fear.

He felt no spiritual energy from Balair's grip… so how had he stopped his strike? It made no sense.

Dustin noticed too — but didn't show it. He just sat silently, watching.

"This isn't over, commoner and Namebearer!" Mahica spat, yanking his hand back as he stormed off. His clique followed behind, picking up their trays in silence.

Balair sat back down with a sigh.

"Ugh. One more noble added to the 'hates you' list," he muttered, digging into his now-cold food.

"You didn't have to do that," Dustin said, looking at him.

"I could've handled it better."

"Didn't ask you to stand up for me earlier either," Balair replied, still chewing.

"But you did." He swallowed. "And besides, isn't that what friends do?"

He raised his spoon like a mic drop, almost jabbing it toward Dustin.

Dustin glanced at him and almost let out a laugh.

"Yeah. Sure. Friend," he said with a smirk, chuckling slightly.

"But first, put that spoon down. That's a disturbing sight."

He pushed Balair's hand away and caught a feel of his forearm — solid muscle.

"And by the way… the rule you quoted? It's actually on page thirteen, line eight."

Balair blinked.

Then burst out laughing — holding his stomach like it was about to tear open.

"Wait, that's a real rule?" he howled. "I said that as a bluff! I didn't even open the guidebook!"

He laughed harder, patting Dustin's back heavily.

Dustin sat there, now fully realizing the kind of musclehead he'd just made friends with.