The Combat Departnt’s second class was held outdoors, on the departnt’s dedicated training grounds. Students stood in neat, disciplined rows, the open sky above them and the weight of expectation in the air.
Elizabeth stood near the front, her expression bright and alert, every line of her posture radiating focused eagerness. The desire to learn burned in her — sharp, genuine, and impossible to miss.
Today’s class was being led by Professor Ronald. Elizabeth held him in the highest regard. He had once served as Commander of the Imperial Knights, and had joined the Academy as a professor after his retirent. His swordsmanship was spoken of with reverence across the entire Empire. Just being able to train under soone like him felt like a privilege she hadn’t fully earned yet.
What she hadn’t anticipated was what ca next.
A figure stepped onto the training grounds.
Dark hair. A bearing so composed it bordered on effortless. And those distinctive violet eyes, catching the light like sothing not quite of this world.
Necrotize.
The reaction rippled through the students like a current. Legs stiffened. A few began to tremble at the knees. Sweat gathered at temples. Professor Ronald held himself outwardly steady — composed, professional — but a faint trail of perspiration traced its way down from behind his ear. He was nervous, clearly, even if he’d never say so. Still, this hadn’t been entirely unexpected. Necrotize held an all-departnt enrollnt. He could attend any class he chose. Ronald had simply hoped, perhaps, that this particular class wouldn’t be the one.
Necrotize walked in without ceremony and ca to a stop beside Elizabeth.
To their credit, the Combat Departnt students didn’t break formation. No whispers, no sideways glances, no hushed conversations. They were training to beco knights — discipline was the first thing drilled into them and the last thing they surrendered. The panic was there. The tension was palpable. But not a single person let it show in their posture.
---
The mont Elizabeth registered his presence at her side, her mind pulled her elsewhere.
*This morning.*
---
Lady Katherine had paid a visit to the Imperial Palace at dawn. Elizabeth had t her in one of the quieter receiving rooms, still in the early hours before the Academy day began.
"Good morning, Aunt Katherine." Elizabeth had offered a small smile. "I wasn’t expecting you. You said you wanted to speak with ?"
Katherine had returned the smile — warm, unhurried, and carrying the particular quality of soone about to say sothing that would not be received well.
"Yes. It concerns Lord Necrotize." She folded her hands neatly in her lap. "As you know, he begins attending the Academy today. As his next designated attendant, it will fall to you to look after him during that ti. He won’t ask it of you directly — that’s simply not his way — but the responsibility is yours regardless. Think of it as an early form of preparation. An advanced placent, of sorts."
The words landed like stones dropped into still water.
Elizabeth’s hands, resting at her sides, curled slowly inward. Her nails pressed into her palms — not quite breaking skin, but close. Her jaw tightened. She held her expression perfectly still through sheer, practiced effort.
*The Academy.* It was the one place she had believed was hers. The one space where she could simply be a student — not a title, not an attendant, not a reflection of soone else’s expectations. Where she could work toward her own goals, at her own pace, on her own terms.
And now that, too, was gone.
*Will I ever find a path that doesn’t have him standing in the middle of it? Is this what my life is ant to be — always two steps behind, always in service?*
She unclenched her hands. Smoothed her expression. And said, with the flattest possible interpretation of the word:
"...Of course."
---
Necrotize caught the edge of her thoughts and felt a quiet flicker of surprise.
*So that’s why.*
He turned it over for a mont. The resentnt made sense, given what she believed. But she was operating on a premise that wasn’t even accurate — he had never asked for a attendant that must be given to him. He hadn’t made that request. Whoever had decided this arrangent was necessary had done so entirely on their own initiative.
*She doesn’t know she could simply refuse.*
It was a strange thing, he thought, to be resented for a cage you hadn’t built. He felt sothing close to sympathy — not pity, but a genuine recognition of the unfairness of her situation.
Still, he said nothing. He filed it away.
This was class ti, and the training grounds were waiting.
***
Ronald drew a long breath. Then, with the precise and unhurried composure of a man who had commanded battalions, he straightened and faced his students.
"Good morning. I am Professor Ronald, and I will be overseeing your training here in the Combat Departnt." His voice carried the kind of natural authority that didn’t need volu to fill a space. "Today’s session is an assessnt. I want to see where each of you currently stands — your proficiency in combat, your adaptability under pressure, and how you respond when a situation stops going the way you planned. The results will determine the shape of your individual training going forward."
His gaze moved across the rows of students with the practiced efficiency of soone who had spent decades reading people at a glance. It passed over Necrotize without lingering — a deliberate choice, and not a subtle one.
"The Combat Departnt has one core purpose," he continued. "To wake up the fighter already inside you. That process will take four years. We begin today." He let that sit for exactly one beat. "Now — make your way to the weapons section along the eastern wall and select whatever you’re most comfortable with. Once you have your weapon, return and approach one at a ti."
The students moved.
***
The students filtered toward the weapons rack and made their selections.
Elizabeth chose a wooden practice sword, running her thumb along the grain with the quiet familiarity of soone who had held one many tis before. Necrotize reached for one as well — but sothing caught his attention before he could turn away.
A boy with blue hair stood a little apart from the others, lifting a wooden staff from the rack. He wasn’t particularly imposing to look at — average height, lean build, nothing about his appearance that announced itself. But the way his hand closed around the staff gave him away imdiately. The grip was settled, automatic, the kind that forms over years rather than lessons. His whole posture shifted the mont the weapon was in his hand, as though the staff completed sothing.
Now that’s interesting.
Necrotize filed the observation away and turned back toward the field.
***
"One at a ti," Ronald said, his tone carrying the flat certainty of a man who had given this kind of order ten thousand tis. "Co at with everything you have."
The first student stepped forward.
He was a large boy — dark hair, broad-shouldered, the kind of build that made people step aside in hallways without quite knowing why. His focus was total. He tracked Ronald’s stillness with careful eyes, cataloguing each non-movent with the patience of soone trained to read opponents before committing.
His sword hand tightened. He advanced — not in a straight line, but in a weaving, angular approach, his footwork tracing the pattern of whatever style his family had drilled into him since childhood.
Ronald didn’t move. He stood with both hands clasped behind his back, watching with the detached calm of soone waiting for a kettle to boil.
The boy closed the distance and lunged. Both hands drove the sword downward in a heavy overhead strike — maximum force, aid squarely at Ronald’s head. The intent was clear: end it fast, end it decisively, don’t give the professor room to breathe.
Ronald still didn’t move.
The blade fell.
At the last possible mont — when the wood was a hair’s width from connecting — Ronald tilted his head a fraction to one side and rotated his torso, barely more than a shrug’s worth of motion. The sword drove past him and buried itself in the dirt with a hollow thud.
The boy blinked.
That half-second of confusion was all it took.
Without looking at him — without even turning in his direction — Ronald pivoted on his back foot and drove a sharp reverse kick into the boy’s midsection. The strike landed clean and hard, and the boy skidded backward across the training ground, montum carrying him several ters before he went down.
He didn’t get up. His body had simply run out of argunt.
Ronald swept his gaze across the remaining students. His expression hadn’t changed once.
"Next."
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