Morning lectures had already begun. Amon sat quietly at the very back of the class, his posture relaxed yet attentive. From his seat, he could see that every student had shown up today — no empty desks, no absentees pretending to be sick.
His body was still aching from last night’s hunt.
"As you all know, our strength cos from raising our ranks," a clear, beautiful voice rang out across the silent classroom.
The speaker was a woman whose presence could silence even the most restless of students.
"Most races progress in power from Awakened to Mana Initiate, Master, Adept Expert , Transcendent, Mystic Sovereign, and lastly... Mythborn," she continued. "On the human continent, there are currently only seven Mythborn in existence."
Her voice was confident and fluid, like soone who had spoken before crowds her entire life.
Her long sky-blue hair was tied in a high bun, with a few loose strands falling gracefully to fra her face. Those soft strands contrasted beautifully with her deep, dark blue eyes — eyes that seed to see right through you.
Her attire was sharp and professional, yet it didn’t hide her figure in the slightest. In fact, the tailored fit drew subtle attention to her curves, especially her generous chest.
Unlike most female professors who opted for loose robes, she wore a fitted dark blazer over a crisp white shirt, tucked neatly into a pencil skirt that hugged her waist. Black stockings wrapped snugly around her legs, disappearing neatly into her heels.
Her na was Cristina Frostblade — a na students spoke with equal parts respect and awe. Today she was supposed to be teaching them history, a subject many found dull. But sohow, the lesson had shifted toward the topic of power levels.
"The Abyssal races are no exception," Cristina said, her tone growing heavier. "On the eastern continent of Nerathis, ruled by three empires of the Abyssal races — the Demons, Vampires, and Werewolves — they too follow the sa progression of ranks. They remain the sworn enemies of all other races. Especially... the Demons."
She paused, letting her words settle before continuing.
"During the Third Era, the Demon King Andhaka was said to have received the blessing of the Abyssal Goddess. This gift granted him immortality and divine vision — but with one caveat: he could still be slain by the hands of our Goddess of Light. From that mont on, he set his sights on conquering the world."
A hush fell over the classroom. Even those who had heard this tale countless tis before leaned forward with keen interest.
Amon listened quietly.
This was a story his mother used to tell him when he was a child. It carried a strange nostalgia, like the faint scent of an old ho.
Cristina’s voice grew graver. "Andhaka brought destruction wherever he went, defeating every nation that dared to oppose him. Nothing could kill him."
"He was a true immortal — until he ca to the human continent. When humanity stood at the brink of annihilation, our Goddess descended in her Avatar form, Aureliath, and struck him down with her own hands."
The lecture drew toward its end, but Amon’s mind lingered on the story.
’No matter which world you’re in,’ he thought, ’history teachers always drift off into long stories that everyone’s already heard. Sotis getting away from there main topic’
Still, Cristina told it well — almost too well.
When Andhaka reached the human continent, it was said he hadn’t even been given the chance to properly fight Aureliath before he was reduced to ashes.
Perhaps that was why Demons bore such deep hatred toward humans, more so than any other race.
When the professor finally dismissed the class, Amon turned to the boy sitting beside him.
Yes, he was sitting next to Marcus, Amon thought wryly, even though Marcus seed annoyed just by his presence.
Amon enjoyed Marcus annoy face.
"Hey," Amon said casually, "do you believe that story? Do you think Demon King Andhaka actually existed?"
Marcus turned, his irritation clear.
"Commoner, don’t talk to like we’re friends. And yes, I do believe in the Demon King’s story."
Despite the scowl on his face, Marcus still answered — which was more than Amon expected.
Amon simply nodded, his expression calm. "Interesting. I thought we were already good friends."
Then, with mock sincerity, he added, "Well, we can take it slow — strengthen our friendship step by step."
Marcus ground his teeth. "Don’t you get it, commoner? We. Are. Not. Friends."
Seeing no reaction from Amon, Marcus pressed on.
"Haven’t your parents taught you common sense? Or how to speak to a noble? Who are your parents, anyway? Are they so kind of big shots, that you dare speak so casually to us?"
Amon’s eyes widened slightly at the question.
"I don’t have parents. They’re gone," he said plainly. "Though they did teach how to speak kindly to others — and how to be a good person."
His smile was small but genuine. There was no pain in his tone, just the faint warmth of mory.
Marcus froze, his expression shifting from irritation to surprise. His mouth opened, but no words ca out.
Amon broke the silence. "Co on, let’s get to the training grounds. Today’s our first physical training and sparring class."
He stood, heading toward the door as other students began filing out. Marcus remained seated, unmoving.
------
Training Grounds,
The open-air training yard slled faintly of dust and steel. A tall, muscular man stood before the gathered students, his black training gear hugging a body built for battle. His dark brown hair was cut short, matching the sharpness in his equally brown eyes. His tanned skin spoke of years under the sun — years likely spent in war.
If Amon rembered correctly, this was Asher Ravenshade.
"All of you, listen closely," Asher’s deep voice carried effortlessly across the field. "Today will be your first sparring class. Pairs will be chosen at random — by ."
His eyes swept across the students before he continued.
"But first, those of you without weapons will receive them from the academy."
He gestured toward a nearby rack lined with swords, spears, axes, and staves.
"They’re all of good quality, if not high-grade. Choose one for yourselves."
One by one, students approached the rack. Predictably, the ones without weapons were all commoners — the noble students already had their own finely crafted arms.
When it was his turn, Amon stepped forward. Looking up at the professor with a friendly smile, he asked, "Professor, if it’s alright... can I take two weapons?"
The air seed to freeze for a mont. Heads turned toward him, and several noble students gave him incredulous stares.
Their eyes practically shouted:
This commoner is unbelievably shaless.
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