Alpha

The hall had long since emptied, as I stared down at the glowing emblem dissolving into my NexBand.

I exhaled, then tapped one of the metallic pearls of my NexBand. It blinked in response with a soft mechanical chime, and the screen flickered to life.

My name, rank and dorm appeared as usual and beneath it was a single bold line of text;

[Assigned Class: Alpha.]

I barked a dry laugh.

Of f*cking course.

Alpha class, the flagship class. The one where all the story's main characters were dumped together like a volatile chemical experiment. Dorian, Isolde, Ravina, Varek, and Tess, the narrative magnets.

Anyone who read the book could see it coming from a mile away.

It was no longer a cliché but every transmigrator's rite of passage.

Still, seeing it in my NexBand made something in my stomach twist. Not from fear, more like annoyance.

It was like walking into a party you didn't want to attend, knowing everyone there already hated you, or worse, didn't know you existed. Only this time, they knew of my existence.

I was Ronan Fitzroy.

I sighed and began the trek through the eastern corridor wings. The walls here were smoother and embedded with faint lines of crystal that pulsed slowly with Forge's internal grid.

Even the air seemed tighter in this wing.

The name Alpha in Alpha class was not random. Forge had ten classes in total for their new juniors, each one named after Greek numerals. So we had Alpha, Beta, Gamma, Delta, Epsilon, Stigma, Zets, Eta, Theta and Finally Iota.

Even with Ronan's memories I still could not find the reason people of this world were hugely fascinated with Greek, but that was beside the point.

Each class housed a part of the one thousand cadets, not strictly a hundred which had always bugged my brain, like was symmetry a foreign concept?

For the classes, there was no strict power-based division, because unlike the dorms, Forge didn't always work like that. At least in the class structure.

It wasn't about creating elite versus cannon fodder lines, in fact, it was the opposite.

Xander had once explained it himself in the story that the goal was to balance each class, to temper the strong with the weak and force collaboration.

You could have a top-five cadet and a bottom-ranked nobody training side by side. If you wanted to survive, you had to adapt.

Not that most made it to the second year.

Especially not in the Alpha class.

Because this was the class with Dorian and Varek, the two protagonists.

Their mere presence acted like gravity wells, pulling chaos into their orbit. From major incidents to classroom brawls, from spontaneous duels to unexplainable catastrophes, if something was going to blow up, odds were it started around, or with, one of them.

Most years, only 60% of the first-years made it through. In Alpha Class? It was even less.

I passed a stained-glass window showing the founding of Forge, a cursed child standing before a colossus of flame and iron, sword raised.

It was peak noble propaganda at its finest, but who am I to judge?

By the time I reached the entrance to Room 01, the door was already slightly ajar. I saw the silhouette of a man step in before me, his voice low and even, echoing throughout the room.

"...I will be your homeroom instructor."

I rapped my knuckles once on the doorframe.

The man paused and then turned.

Cold eyes met mine. He was tall, wrapped in a long charcoal cloak with trim that shimmered like wet ink. His hair was raven-black, tied back into a tail and a scar ran from the corner of his mouth to his jawline like someone had tried to erase a smile permanently.

'Why does this seem familiar?'

The man looked at me like one would a gnat that wandered into a military briefing.

"You're late," he said.

'Yeah, no shit,' I thought.

I stepped in, ignoring the many heads that turned in unison. There were a few snickers and a few curious looks.

Most importantly, there was one particularly long, judgmental stare.

The instructor gestured vaguely.

"Sit."

As I walked in, my eyes scanned the classroom. It was wide and tiered, designed like an amphitheatre. Semi-circular rows climbed up toward the back wall, and the instructor's platform was slightly sunken, almost like a stage.

'Of course,' I thought again.

'Everything here is performative.'

First, my eyes caught hers. Isolde was three rows from the front, on the left-hand side with her arms crossed and her posture perfect.

Her silver-grey eyes met mine for the briefest moment.

Identical to my own.

No greeting or smile, just a glint of recognition... and something else.

She looked away first.

'I won.'

Two rows ahead of her, almost lounging in his chair like it was a throne carved from boredom, was Varek Alighieri. With a smirk and all.

He twirled a pen between his fingers lazily, like he was moments away from throwing it at someone just to see what would happen.

And then I felt it.

A stare.

I glanced toward the opposite end of the room and met Dorian's gaze. His jaw was set and his eyes narrowed.

I didn't need to guess what that expression meant.

'I guess he's still mad,'

If I had to make a guess, he was either mad that I existed or mad that I was in his class.

If he knew what I knew, he would definitely be mad that I still had a role to play in his life. And I relished it.

I quickly found an empty seat midway up the room, slightly to the right. Not too close to anyone notable and not far enough to look like I was hiding.

As I slid into the seat, the man at the front took a slow breath, like he was already calculating which of us would break first.

Then he spoke.

"As I was saying," he resumed, "my name is Kaelen Duskbane. I will be your Homeroom Instructor."