Michael walked, wandering the halls of the royal academy. All around him, students swirled, hurrying from one classroom to the next. A soft din of chatter filled the corridors—voices discussing recent lessons, the scraping of chairs across tile, and the rustle of textbooks being shifted in arms. Despite the bustle, there was a subdued, collective poise in the air. Nobody rushed heedlessly or even bumped into one another, as though each student harbored an unspoken understanding of the havoc even a small slip in self-control could cause.

  As he walked, he couldn’t believe that there were this many young contractors around. He had always believed that being a contractor was something rare, that very few people could attain such capabilities in general—much less before they hit adolescence. Yet here they were: thousands of young contractors, each one harboring powers that had to be tempered before they could wreak irreparable damage. A glimpse into a classroom revealed an instructor writing formulas on the board; in another, a practical demonstration was underway, with small bursts of light popping above a student’s fingertips.

  There was no violence, no mischief, only the pervasive knowledge that everyone around was capable of bringing extreme harm to the world. And based on that simple concept, all actions were observed, analyzed, and carried out with careful deliberation. A respectful hush underlined every conversation—an unspoken contract that, within these walls, discipline was not just a school rule but a necessity.

  Michael wandered through the corridors, unfamiliar with the layout. Signs and directories posted near stairwells pointed toward different specialized wings: Elemental Mastery, Support Magics, Offensive Tactics, and more. Sometimes he passed a window overlooking the academy’s extensive training grounds. There, students paired off, sparring with androids and each other. Each demonstration seemed meticulously supervised, instructors observing from raised platforms, ready to intervene at the first sign of overreach.

  Eventually, he reached the irregular wing. An area of the academy designated for contractors who possessed “unordinary” talents and abilities—where anomalies in potential and function were the norm. The passageway leading into this wing felt less polished than the others: the lighting a little dimmer, the corridors narrower, as if it were an annex retrofitted to accommodate a growing number of unconventional students. A modest plaque near the entrance spelled out “Irregular Division,” the letters etched in an almost hesitant script.

  The abilities here weren’t classified based on raw strength but on function. Even weaker contractors might be assigned to this sector if their power defied typical categories. Some students might manipulate esoteric concepts, like twisting the senses or exerting subtle influences over time or space—abilities that required intense study to avoid catastrophic mistakes. Passing through, Michael caught fragments of whispered conversations: one student fretting about controlling their own living shadow, another describing how they perceived the world through vibrations rather than sight, and a third lamenting how they occasionally vanished from reality if they lost focus.

  Michael found himself musing that, if he were a student in this academy, he’d most likely be considered an irregular as well. After all, there had been no documented demon contractor quite like him—someone who wielded curses. The standard training modules, he suspected, wouldn’t account for the complexities of curse magic. It wasn’t raw destruction, nor was it clearly elemental. It slipped between the cracks of conventional knowledge, following its own obscure rules and unraveling foes in a manner few could anticipate.

  He let out a quiet exhale, trailing his fingers along the stone walls. Though he was apart from these students, in spirit he felt the pull of kinship—the sense of standing at the edges of accepted understanding, forging one’s own path because no established guide existed. The occasional stares of uniformed teenagers told him that strangers rarely wandered these corridors, yet no one confronted him. Some seemed curious, a few nodded politely as they passed. Even in the hush of the hall, he sensed their collective vigilance.

  Soon he reached a classroom with a shabby old wooden door. On the front, a yellow plastic plaque was attached, its bold black lettering reading “Chill Room.”

  The sign itself looked as if it had survived decades of indifferent students—dented at one corner, a few scratches running across the text. Michael felt a nostalgic pull at the sight of it and smirked slightly before pushing the door open.

  Inside, the classroom was the epitome of disrepair. Polka-dot curtains, hung haphazardly from the lone window, were torn at the top where the fabric clipped onto the rod, sagging in places and letting in thin beams of cold light. At the front stood a battered green chalkboard, portions of its surface chipped and stained with years’ worth of chalk residue. Brightly colored floral doodles sprawled across one corner, overlapping hasty graffiti proclaiming “Fuck Hemmings” in large red letters—underlined and outlined multiple times, as though someone really wanted to make a statement. Nine mismatched desks were arranged in no particular pattern, each carved with initials, random phrases, or crude sketches.

  Michael wandered between them, running his fingertips along the uneven wood of the nearest desk. He paused to trace a small, crudely etched skull near the corner, its hollow eyes giving him a silent, macabre welcome. In the back of the class, where the light was dimmest, an old torn leather sofa slouched against the wall. The cushions looked deflated, the seams frayed, but it was clearly a favorite hangout spot.

  On that sofa were two students—a girl and a boy—sitting in a comfortable tangle of limbs that suggested longstanding familiarity.

  The girl, Olivia, was short and slender, wearing a black pleated skirt and a white button-down shirt with the first couple of buttons undone. A fringe fell across her forehead, framing a pale, porcelain-like face that possessed an enigmatic quality. She had sharp, symmetrical features and hypnotic, light-gray eyes that seemed to glow from within, lending her a captivating presence that was at odds with her bored expression. At that moment, she was leaning her head on the boy’s thigh, idly scrolling through her phone with a languid flick of her incex finger.

  The boy, Orland, was tall and lightly muscular, dressed in black uniform trousers and a neatly pressed shirt with the sleeves rolled up. A red bead necklace hung around his neck, resting just below his open collar. His short buzz cut brought out the angular lines of his face: high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a chiseled jaw that seemed meticulously sculpted. His skin was unblemished, tight across the underlying structure so that his features looked almost too perfect—like a statue brought to life. He had piercing ice-blue irises set beneath sharp, dark eyebrows, giving his otherwise impassive expression a subtle edge of intensity. He, too, was staring at his phone, but unlike Olivia’s languid disinterest, there was a quiet, steady calm in his demeanor, as if no amount of chaos in the world could stir him from that peaceful lull.

  Michael approached the two, each step resonating softly against the worn flooring. A faint draft wafted in from a cracked windowpane, shuffling the polka-dot curtains. He felt a tingle of anticipation as he drew closer, the corners of his mouth inching upward into a slight smirk. Above the hush, he could hear the distant drone of other students milling about in the hall, though here in the Chill Room, time seemed slower—like a bubble set apart from the rest of the academy.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  Sensing movement, Olivia lifted her gaze. The instant she recognized Michael, her pupils dilated, and a spark of excitement lit her eyes, transforming her face from bored apathy to beaming surprise.

  “Hey, Orland! Am I hallucinating?” she asked, rubbing her eyes with a dramatic flourish.

  Orland responded by shifting his attention from his phone to Michael, scanning him from head to toe without a flicker of emotion. “I don’t think so,” he said in a measured, deadpan tone.

  Before Michael could greet them, Olivia sprang off the sofa. She dashed forward and leaped onto him with feline agility, wrapping her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist. Her black skirt fluttered at the edges, and her hair momentarily fanned out like an inky halo.

  “Hi, my dear, lovely strategist,” she said, kissing him on the cheek with a wink. “How have you been?”

  Her voice, warm and lilting, held just a hint of mischief. Up close, her pale cheeks blushed slightly, whether from enthusiasm or from the exertion of her abrupt pounce. Michael gently supported her weight, returning a lopsided smile as he steadied himself.

  “Hi, Olivia. I see you still like clinging to me like a koala,” Michael smiled awkwardly. He attempted to shift his stance, but her grip remained firm. Her slender arms looped around his shoulders, and for a moment, he could feel her rapid heartbeat against his chest. A faint blush tinted his cheeks—part embarrassment, part amusement—while he attempted to keep his balance.

  “Yes, yes, yes. Koalas are cute don’t you think? Wait…” she pressed her index finger to her mouth. “Do Koalas still exist?” she asked, squeezing Michael’s cheeks with her palms. Her hypnotic eyes narrowed in theatrical contemplation, as though she were trying to recall a half-forgotten encyclopedia entry. Michael winced, his mouth pressed into a puckered shape by her sudden grip. The faint scent of fruity soap clung to her hands, giving the moment an oddly playful tinge.

  “I have no idea,” he mumbled as his cheeks compressed his mouth. His words came out muffled, causing Olivia’s glossy hair to sway as she tilted her head for a better look at his face.

  “So, even you don’t know huh?” she paused in consideration. “Orland! Do Koalas still exist?” she asked, turning her head back to him.

  “I’m sure they do somewhere,” Orland apathetically stated. His voice had a steady calmness, like someone providing a matter-of-fact observation on a mundane topic.

  “Oh wow! How romantic! The beauty of such a frail and fragile creature against the backdrop of insane demonic monsters!” She leaped off Michael, kicking off her shoes as she stood up on the couch with her bare feet, extending her fist into the air. “They might be hunted, they may be eaten, but they still exist somewhere as long as there is love among them. Such beauty, such grace!” she screamed out with great enthusiasm.

  Her sudden shift from clinging to Michael to bounding across the creaky sofa caused one of the seat’s cushions to slip askew. Dust motes danced in the sunlight slicing through the ripped polka-dot curtains, and Olivia’s dramatic stance gave her an almost stage-like aura. Her voice pitched higher as she gestured passionately, imagining a mythical haven for beleaguered koalas.

  “Are you okay?” Michael asked with a confused expression.

  “Yes!” she leaned in closer to his face. “Are you?” A teasing grin curled her lips. Her animated presence filled the dingy classroom with a strange vibrancy, at odds with the peeling paint and unsteady desks around them.

  “I’m not sure,” Michael mumbled. His shoulders rose and fell in a small shrug. The honesty in his tone spoke of weariness and uncertainty that had accumulated from his own obligations and recent endeavors.

  “Mike, don’t mind her, she’s just all giddy since you finally came to visit,” Orland said in a matter-of-fact tone. He tossed a cursory glance in Michael’s direction, the corners of his mouth twitching into a subtle half-smile.

  “Exactly! I was starving to see you!” Olivia said, hopping off the couch. “A girl cannot survive on group chats alone.”

  She skipped forward, landing with an abrupt stop beside Michael. The worn floor squeaked under her bare toes, and her arms swung at her sides.

  “Yeah, sorry guys, I was just really busy,” Michael stated with a guilty expression. A faint flush touched his cheekbones as he rubbed the back of his neck.

  “We know,” Orland sighed. “We’ve seen all of the strategies you sent to the board. Are you sure it’s fine for you to do that?” He folded his arms, frowning slightly, as if weighing the moral implications of Michael’s involvement.

  “Do what?” Michael said in a confused tone. He cocked his head, brow furrowing. A faint tension rippled across his features, unsure what Orland was referring to.

  “You know, help the knights. We are a rival organization you know,” Orland clarified.

  “My dad’s pretty mad about it but he doesn’t say anything,” Michael replied. “By the way guys, I didn’t ask you beforehand if you were free to hang out. Honestly, I didn’t even know if you were gonna be here in the first place,” he muttered in a hushed tone.

  He glanced at the chipped floor, a slight apprehension creasing his expression. The regular hum of distant activity in the corridor reminded him that they weren’t exactly off-limits here, but their presence was certainly notable.

  “Come on Mike,” Orland sighed. “We’re child soldiers, we don’t give a shit about classes and such,” he leaned back, dropping his arms to rest on the half-torn arm of the sofa.

  “I wouldn’t call you guys child soldiers,” Michael stated. A twinge of earnest sympathy colored his tone. He reached out, pressing his palm flat on a nearby desk as if grounding himself in the conversation.

  “Of course not!” Olivia replied. “You’re an idealist through and through. A pure soul and a genuine pragmatist. Yet, if you admit that we’re children being used as soldiers, you would have to admit that you’re one too.” She smiled, there was a playful glint in her light-gray eyes, but also an undercurrent of seriousness.

  “I guess you’re right,” Michael replied with a thoughtful expression. He sighed, recalling late-night reflections on the lines they’d all been forced to cross too soon. Yet the acceptance in his voice signaled he’d come to terms with his role long ago, even if it pained him.

  “Besides, if we weren’t child soldiers, we would have never met in the first place,” Olivia stated. “Gosh, I remember that day like it was yesterday. We were surrounded on all sides with gunfire raining over our heads and nothing but Orland’s shield protecting us. Our commander was dead, most of our squad was wounded, when suddenly, seemingly out of nowhere someone hijacked our radio.” She spoke with a sparkle in her eyes. “Back then, you backed us up with your magic and directed us toward an escape route while keeping yourself close to the enemy lines to give us an opening.”

  She took a small step back, letting images of that harrowing memory flood the shabby room. The patchy polka-dot curtains fluttered. Orland’s stoic gaze shifted downward, as though remembering the deafening chaos of that battlefield.

  “Yeah, and he got himself captured!” Orland laughed. “So much for being smart!” The laughter was hollow yet tinged with relief—a reminder they’d all survived circumstances that should’ve spelled their end.

  “Hey, there was no way to distract them without using magic. And using magic leaves me defenseless,” Michael stated. “Capture was a risk I was willing to take.” His tone held a sense of finality—he hadn’t forgotten how close it had been. A memory of iron bars and confined spaces flitted through his mind.

  “And then, out of nowhere,” Olivia said with a dramatic tone, “we rushed back to save you—like true valiant heroes.” She paused, as though savoring the thrill of that rescue mission. “And the rest is history!”

  A beam of golden sunlight slipped through a gap in the curtains, illuminating the side of her face and casting streaks across the scuffed floor.

  “It’s been a year,” Orland sighed.

  “Ancient history,” Olivia whispered with a dramatically playful tone.