"—Absolutely. And it's a rather disconcerting, befuddling, bamboozling question you've asked there," Mr. Grey responded to the question of a student, whom Giuseppe now hates vehemently.
Mr. Grey was pacing in front of the holographic screen like a man possessed. His arms flailing around with grandiose gestures.
"To get to the nucleus of the matter, we must inquire: what is the crux—the crucifix—th-the croutons of this postmodern, pre-colonial, post-Renaissance, post-cataclysmic piece of literature?"
Giuseppe stared blankly at the man, his eyelids twitching with the desperate tremor of someone fighting for his life.
'He's my most formidable opponent yet,' he thought, suppressing a groan. His eyes were bloodshot. Red veins could be seen in his sclera.
'I don't think I can last much longer!'
Unaware of the suffering of his students, the bespectacled monster continued onward, voice growing even more impassioned.
"Which, naturally, brings us to the foundation-the substratum, if you will—of the gerrymandering, the circular reasoning, the gesticulation, prostate examination, Californication, and inquisitional conflagration that was, of course, popularised by the late Castellan of Castle Cercules Red—"
At this point, Giuseppe's vision blurred at the edges. His body remained upright through sheer spite alone. Across the aisle, Marcus caught his dazed expression and struggled—truly struggled—not to laugh.
'Is this punishment for something I did? I've been a good person in life. This is absurd.'
"...thus bringing us to the greater metatextual conundrum of self-referential, neo-Gothic epistemological frameworks that shaped the entire post-Terran literary response!"
Giuseppe slumped deeper into his chair, raising his hand weakly.
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" he whispered hoarsely.
"I'm going to die before even beginning my Script."
Finally, Mr. Grey turned back to his students, his lecture concluded.
What he found were rows of half-dead faces—slack-jawed, glassy-eyed, barely clinging to consciousness.
He sighed, loosening his tie with one hand and pulling off his glasses with the other, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to massage away the collective despair hanging in the room.
"Alright," he said at last, his voice quieter, more grounded—different enough to snap a few students to attention.
"I know how you're feeling right now," Mr. Grey continued, voice steady, almost sympathetic.
"You're tired of this ordinary work. You're restless. You're excited. You're just counting down the minutes until you can leave this place behind and dive into your Scripts."
For the first time all day, the room was completely still—everyone listening.
Mr. Grey's voice softened.
"I don't care if you remember my lectures or anything I said today." He gave a small, wry smile.
"Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you forgot all of it the second you walk out that door."
He straightened, a weary pride in his eyes.
"I just want you to live. I want all of you to come back."
The words, simple as they were, hit harder than any lecture ever could.
Mr. Grey gave one last tired smile, full of something between hope and sorrow.
Then, a single finger tapped the desk in front of him.
Tap
The sound echoed, and a click followed. Several students flinched, exchanging uneasy glances. The doors at the back of the classroom closed, then sealed shut with a metallic hiss.
Mr. Grey did not raise his voice.
"None of you are leaving until you show me something worth remembering."
He began to walk slowly along the front of the room, hands clasped behind his back, scanning each row.
"If you fail... You'll be expelled. Permanently. And you will never enter your Foundational Scripts."
The room immediately exploded with anger. Mr. Grey watched as over a hundred students sprang from their seats, desks and chairs, screeching through the air, all charging at him.
He sighed, despite expecting this outcome, he couldn't shake the disappointment he felt. His words fell on deaf ears.
'No matter what. It seems they just can't appreciate my sincerity.'
Every object became a weapon, the students attacked with whatever they could find.
Some hanged back, among those students were Giuseppe, Marcus, Arthur, Tandav, Daniel and Evelynne. All of which stared at Giuseppe as if he were an alien.
Of all people, they expected Giuseppe to be the first to join the attack—leading the charge, even.
Yet he sat there, with them, silently watching as Mr. Grey dismantled every attack from the incoming students with ease.
Mr. Grey stepped aside, avoiding a chair that had been hurled at his head.
He stretched his gloved hand out, stopping the charge of a boy shouting a war-cry as he attempted to swing a heavy table at him. Allowing the table to fly into the face of the adjacent attacker.
Another girl hit the floor, momentum turning against her as Mr. Grey pressed a single foot to the back of her shoulder blade.
"Sit, please. I am a B-Rank. You have… Zero chance against me." He tried to reason.
But once again, his words seemed to fall on deaf ears. A boy tried to rally a group to charge him together.
"Come on!"
But as Mr. Grey stepped forward, the entire room seamed to slow down to a halt. And he reappeared behind the group, who fell to the ground with a thud, unconscious.
The next few moments followed in silence. Before long, over a hundred students lay on the hall floor, none with serious injuries, only unconscious.
Marcus turned his head as he heard the sound of a chair moving. Giuseppe stood up and slowly stepped toward Mr. Grey.
As he walked toward him, his final step turned into a sharp dash. He flashed, lunging forward at Mr. Grey, charging at him with a wide, backhanded fist swing. The blow cracked across his face, targeting his left cheek.
In the same breath, his other fist followed like a hammer, slamming into the exact same spot—the left cheek again.
Then, he shifted his weight and spun low, his leg sweeping upward into a rising kick that crashed into that same battered cheek.
But Mr. Grey stood there, staring down at Giuseppe with not a mark.
"You are strong. Certainly. Maybe even the strongest among your age. But you haven't taken a single step in your script. You are still within the binds of human limitation."
He didn't say it in a derogatory way, nor did he mean for it to be humiliating. Mr. Grey didn't have an ounce of ill will in saying this to Giuseppe.
But that sincere tone, those pitying eyes, the almost apologetic look on his face as he spoke to him. Giuseppe couldn't stand it. It made him sick to his stomach, and with that… came anger.
As Mr. Grey turned to counterattack, four shadows sprang into motion—closing in from every angle.
Marcus came in from the left, a straight jab aimed at Mr. Grey's ribs, followed by a hook toward the temple.
Arthur flew in from above, carrying a chair and swinging it like a club, going straight for his opponents head, intending to stun for at least a few moments.
Daniel and Tandav moved silently, targeting Mr. Grey's blind spots, going for the joints and the areas that were already hit.
Five against one.
And for a moment, it looked like they might land something.
"Your arrogance stems from your ignorance. I understand that. It seems that no matter how much I wish to teach you the true extent of a Storwalker's power. You simply won't understand without seeing it first hand."
Mr. Grey's voice was calm, but it seemed to ring inside the skull. Lowering his stance, he extended a single closed fist forward, his other hand folded neatly behind his back.
"Then, allow me… to give you a small glimpse."
In that moment, colour seemed to fade from the world. The walls peeled away like pages, into a white expanse of space. Not glowing in a heavenly light, it was like blank paper. To all who were conscious enough to witness, a giant silver-grey blade grew into existence. It's size looked like a world to their eyes.
Giuseppe stared at the sword with wide eyes, frozen still. He felt the vibrations of his heartbeat in his throat.
For the first time in his life, his instinct failed him. He couldn't see a way out. No movements. No last-second escapes. Nothing.
Just that sword.
He understood that Mr. Grey wasn't trying to kill him. He knew this was a lesson—meant to humble, not to harm.
But it didn't matter.
Because for the first time, he saw a future where he died. And there was nothing he could do about it.
Then, in the very next breath—
It vanished. Gone.
The white void curled back into reality, and they returned to the plain, large lecture hall.
Mr. Grey stood to stare at the students, surveying the aftermath.
Mos sat hollow-eyed, drowning in the lingering existential dread the grey sword had carved into their minds. Some had slipped into unconsciousness, their psyches overwhelmed by the sheer weight of what they'd witnessed. And a small few were beginning to stir, gradually returning to the waking world.
Mr. Grey returned to his desk.
"Class dismissed."
***
Location — Glory Academy, Main Hall.
63:45
The Main Hall of Glory Academy was massive. Wide, polished marble stretched from wall to wall, reflecting the soft morning light pouring through tall glass windows. Smooth jade pillars lined the chambers' sides, holding up a ceiling so high it seemed to vanish into mist.
Holographic banners hung overhead, each depicting the story of one of the Ten Great Heavens. At the front of the hall, a giant holographic crest of Glory Academy floated in the air, rotating slowly.
The hall smelled of faint fresh stone and cold air.
Giuseppe eyed the golden dragon murals that decorated the floor and walls. He trailed his gaze ahead to see the same designs on the ceiling and pillars.
"It's always dragons. All the time. Seriously...some people are obsessed."
He sat at a table in the front row, tapping his foot impatiently.
"True. But we don't get to be here a lot, so I don't mind. I quite like it." Daniel said, settling at the table some seats away from Giuseppe. Besides Arthur.
"Personally, not a fan. This place smells like old... things... I don't know. It just smells old, you know." Arthur said.
"Fair enough."
"True."
Marcus and Giuseppe agreed. While Tandav tapped the table rhythmically, humming the music in his ears.
Giuseppe turned and glanced back at the crowd gathering behind them—around eighty first-years, still filing into the hall. Some whispered to each other, others sat stiff and silent, heads snapping toward every new noise.
He saw a familiar silhouette approaching.
Evelynne wore a white blouse, neatly buttoned up to her throat and adorned with a slim black ribbon tie. Over it, she layered a high-waisted black corset, cinching her waist and dramatically emphasising her figure.
Her black heels clicked softly against the floor with each step. A pair of golden earrings glinted beneath her dark, coiled locks.
Giuseppe gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement as she slipped into place, seated beside him.
A low chime rang out throughout the hall, cutting the restless murmurs. Instantly, the students straightened, conversations dying mid-sentence.
From a set of grand doors at the far end of the hall, a procession of figures began to emerge. Each one wore the black and gold regalia of the institute—these are the Professors of Glory Academy.
Leading them was a woman with medium-length white hair with black highlights. Wearing a black dress and high heels.
Vice-Principal Orelia.
She strode to the centre of the stage beneath the great crest and raised her hand.
"Welcome," her voice rang throughout.
"First Years of Glory Academy."
A heavy silence fell over the students settled in the Main Hall.
Vice-Principal Orelia let that silence linger; her heels clicked softly as she ascended to the central podium, but in the silence, each step reverberated across the hall.
Her sharp gaze swept across the room, weighing each student without a word.
"Time for the dramatic speech," Giuseppe leaned sideways, voice low as he whispered to Marcus, who held back a laugh.
Orelia spoke again as she clasped the podium. "You stand at the beginning of your journey."
"In your hands, you will soon hold the Aetherlink Key—what most of you know simply as the Mythlink."
A visible jolt of anticipation passed through the crowd of students at the mention of the word.
"You have been taught the theory. You have heard the rumours, the myths, the stories. But know this—that beyond is not a game. It is much, much more than that. It is a realm where your choices will ripple across far more than just your own lives."
She paused, letting the words hang heavy.
"As students of Glory Academy. You are expected to rise above the ordinary. Failure in the pursuit of greatness will not be punished—but contentment in mediocrity will."
Giuseppe smirked under the shadow of his bucket hat.
"Told you."
Orelia turned slightly, and from the side of the stage, attendants wheeled out a multitude of glass cases. Inside, resting on black velvet cushions, were dozens of Aetherlink Cores—each one a small device, no larger than a pellet, and looking like a small onyx key.
"Names will be called in rank order. Step forward without delay when summoned."
"Now is the time to leave if you are not ready. Because, from the moment you touch it, there is no turning back."
Orelia gazed across the gathered students. Not a single one flinched, not a single foot moved to the door.
A slow, satisfied smile curled across her lips.
"Very well. Then, let the Ceremony commence."
Beep. Beep.
A small holographic screen materialised above the stage, displaying the first name.
[#1 – Giuseppe V. Castellano]
Without hesitation, Giuseppe stepped forward.
He ascended the short set of stairs to the stage. Vice-Principal Orelia watched his approach with a neutral expression.
Giuseppe came to a stop in front of the glass case.
Mavena—dressed in a black-and-gold ceremonial robe—stepped forward and unlatched the case with a flick of her hand. The Aetherlink Cores inside responded immediately, a low, musical hum vibrating in the air.
Without pausing, Giuseppe reached in and plucked one from the velvet bed.
The moment his fingers closed around the black key, it flared with a deep, resonant glow. A soft, tangible thrum of energy pulsed between him and the device as it recognised him as its one and only wielder.
The Mythlink floated from his hand, almost reverently, before slotting itself into the black Connector cuffed to his wrist. The two pieces fused together with a soft click, like the two had been finally unified after a long period of separation.
Giuseppe looked down at his wrist silently. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop the face-splitting grin that grew on his face.
Without taking his eyes off his wrist, he descended the stairs, returning to his place.
Beep. Beep.
The holographic screen shifted.
[#2 — Marcus K. Vathen]
"Guess it's my turn," Marcus muttered, flashing a quick glance at Arthur, Tandav, and Daniel before stepping forward.
He made his way to the stage with a silent stride. Reaching the glass case, he paused. Mavena, standing at attention beside it, gave him a brief, unreadable nod and opened it once again.
Marcus scanned the Mythlinks with a serious glance, then plucked one from the velvet with two fingers.
The moment he touched it, the black key vibrated faintly, resonating with a subtle pulse of energy. Without hesitation, it floated up and snapped into his Connector with a clean, mechanical click.
Marcus smiled faintly, turned, and made his way back to the front row.
Beep. Beep.
The holographic screen flickered as the next name appeared.
[#3 — Arthur W. Rain]
By now, Giuseppe had stopped paying attention.
The names continued to roll by, but his gaze remained locked on his Connector, feeling the faint, rhythmic pulse of the black key as it synchronised with him.
Beep. Beep.
[#4 – Tandav D. Soman]
Beep. Beep.
[#5 – Evelynne S. Pahket]
Beep. Beep.
[#6 – Rachel D. Frankenstern]
Beep. Beep.
[#7 – Maya B. Merin]
Beep. Beep.
[#8 – Daniel T. Gonzales]
The hall continued to buzz with barely-contained excitement, the ceremony unfolding in a steady, almost dreamlike rhythm.
***
___________________________________________
Author Note
;)