I woke up early and checked the pendry. Dozens of neatly hung uniforms waited inside, each with a selection of purple and gold accessories so polished they practically gleamed. After some very serious deliberation—okay, like five seconds—I picked out a purple butterfly knot and matching bretelles, then threw on a gray trench coat with the academy insignia stitched into the shoulder: a blazing axe over a star. Clean. Sharp. Well-fitted. I looked like I belonged in a recruitment poster… or at least someone pretending to belong there.

  I packed my armor and a plain set of linen training clothes into a bag—no way was I showing up to a fight in a dress coat—and headed out with Wojtek to grab some breakfast before class.

  By now, I'd gotten into the habit of tucking my left sleeve into my pocket whenever I had one—kept wandering eyes off the sore spot on my ego that used to be my arm. Years of piano, guitar, and violin… all wasted with one cursed swing of a sword. But that swing taught me two things.

  First: I had to become way stronger than I'd ever thought possible if I wanted to keep living.

  Second: the impossible wasn't always impossible.

  I'd never believed a sword could cut through metal like butter—until one did. That changed everything. I needed to learn that trick. Or die trying.

  We sat at the same table as last time, except this morning every seat was taken—except for Wojtek’s and mine. As we settled in, Woj leaned over and explained that everyone at the table was part of the Elite class.

  Our plates were stacked with enough meat to make a butcher weep. Around the table sat:

  Two elves—one was a tall man with the posture of a crossbow string pulled taut, like he might snap at any second. The other, a regal woman styled like a Victorian noble, her hair and poise perfectly sculpted to match.

  Three human girls, two of them brunettes who looked like twins, and one blonde. All three had the airs of nobles who hadn’t been told no in a long time.

  An Owlkin boy with feathers in a bluish-purple sheen that reminded me of a great horned owl dressed for a royal banquet.

  A Wolfkin girl with midnight-black hair and a Foxkin girl with a mischievous spark in her eye.

  But the ones who really caught my attention were the dark-skinned orc—thick with muscle and stone-faced—and the red-eyed and black haired elf girl who gave off a goth vibe with her pale face. Dark races.

  I blinked. I hadn't expected to see any of them here. The mountain range that split the continent supposedly kept most dark races up north. At least, that’s what the stories made me think. But that was just the problem—stories. Biased fantasy logic that didn’t hold up in the real world.

  Everyone at the table—except for the orc, Wojtek, and me—had a servant standing proudly behind them. Ready to refill their cups, clear their trays the moment they finished, and probably catch a thrown napkin mid-air if needed. Bunch of show-offs.

  The orc sitting to my right turned to me and offered a hand.

  "Hi, I’m Marcus Ferdinand. I believe we’ll be in the same class starting today."

  His voice carried a strange lilt, like a Frenchman speaking English. It hit me right in the nostalgia—just enough to stir a little homesickness.

  Marcus was massive, with dark gray skin like cooled lava and eyes as soft and blue as a spring sky. The kind of guy who could bench press a horse but would still be your shoulder to cry on after a bad breakup. The kind of vibe that made you want to spill your darkest secrets and get a hug,after. A real bro.

  "Hey, I’m Sam," I replied, shaking his hand. "Yeah, we’re classmates—and hopefully friends too. Is this the full Elite class?"

  "Not quite," he said, gesturing across the hall. "There are two other Elite tables."

  One was long, narrow, and perched on a raised platform like some kind of throne room setup. A dozen noble kids sat there—dwarves, humans, elves—each of them flashier than the last. Everyone had at least two servants. No beastkin. No dark races. I didn’t need Wojtek to tell me what that meant.

  Then there was a smaller, short-legged table tucked into the corner. At it sat a Micekin boy, a Squirrelkin girl, two Dwarven girls, and three Goblin girls. No servants. No flash. Just quiet conversation and a lot of side-eyes from the other nobles.

  Class divisions weren’t subtle here—they were practically the first lesson of the day.

  As I looked around the cafeteria, something felt... off. Then it hit me—there were way more women than men. Like, a lot more.

  Before the question could fully form in my brain, the answer slid in on its own. Right—men only made up about thirty percent of the birthrate in this world. It made sense. Still weird to see it play out so clearly in front of me, though. Twice as many women at least, chatting, laughing, arguing over seating. The gender ratio wasn’t just a statistic—it shaped everything around here.

  Once we finished eating, the whole group stood up and made our way to the training arena together.

  I was dressed in my thick gambeson, steel armor strapped tight over it, standing in formation with the rest of the Elite Class. Most of the others looked like they’d stepped out of a royal armory catalog—engraved plate mail, gold inlays, even velvet capes. Hell, half of them looked like they’d just robbed the British History Museum and walked away with the loot.

  Everyone but the goblins, the orc, and me.

  We stood there like the discount rack at a blacksmith’s shop—functional, ugly, and probably the only ones who knew how to actually bleed in their gear. Even their training weapons were carved ironwood, ornate enough to sit in a display case. Mine? A blunt ironwood saber that had seen some better days.

  You might be reading a pirated copy. Look for the official release to support the author.

  If I’d thought training under Harold was brutal, this was a damn revelation. That old knight had only shown me the tip of the iceberg. Here, the iceberg was doing backflips and punching me in the face. Every student around me moved with the terrifying grace of someone who'd been stage 2 since they could walk—baby swordsmen fresh out of the cradle.

  And me? I was just trying not to die before lunch.

  The instructor was an orc that made Marcus look like a dwarf. Towering and terrifying, with gray-green skin pulled tight over muscle so dense it looked like it forged the armor itself. Scarred from tusk to toe, the guy didn’t wear armor—he was armor, shaped by war and bad decisions.

  The next two hours were pure hell. I was bruised everywhere but the face, and that was probably just because it was the only part of me Marcus didn’t feel like hitting. Still, the pain came with lessons. Every tip I got was earned in blood and grunts, but I could feel myself improving. The curved sword in my hand—an unfamiliar dance partner at first—was starting to feel less like a liability and more like an extension of my body. A wobbly, clumsy extension, sure, but progress was progress.

  Marcus was a beast with two gladius swords, moving like a hurricane wrapped in muscle. Fast, precise, and graceful in a way that made me wonder if he had a dancer’s past. I, meanwhile, was trying to keep up with one arm and a sword that felt like it weighed as much as my pride. He kept landing hits, and each one came with a gentle correction, a nudge on my stance, or a quick comment on my form.

  Honestly? Sweetest mountain of a man I’d ever met on par with Wojtek and Father Mathias.

  I was trying to block one of Marcus’s attacks—emphasis on trying—when the instructor’s voice boomed across the arena like a war drum.

  “You call that a stance, string bean? My grandmother could hold her sword straighter and she’s been dead for fifty years!”

  The class froze, half in shock, half in glee. I straightened up like a kid caught stealing bread.

  “Yes, sir!” I barked back, mostly out of instinct and residual military trauma.

  “Wrong answer! Fix it! That curved stick in your hand ain’t a decorative wall piece!”

  The next hour was just more pain, sweat, and public humiliation. But by the end of it, I did manage to block a strike that would've cracked my ribs before. Progress. Bleeding, limping, aching progress.

  After we were finally dismissed, I dragged my sorry carcass to the baths. Fast rinse this time—no two-hour soak like yesterday. It was just enough to scrub off the shame, sweat, and whatever dark magic was keeping my thighs from functioning properly.

  Then came theory class.

  I limped in, slumped into my seat, and was greeted by a pair of curious gold eyes. The blue-haired goblin girl sitting next to me gave a polite nod. Tiny, sharp-eyed, and with ears too big for her head, she had an open textbook, three different quills, and a look that said “I eat calculus for breakfast.”

  “Oceania,” she said, extending a hand.

  “Sam. I’m new and dumb. Please be gentle.”

  She smirked. “I’ll try.”

  Turns out, she was a lifesaver. Anytime a topic went over my head—runes, mana flow, spell lattice theory—she whispered quick explanations that actually made sense. I took notes like my life depended on it, which, knowing this world, it probably did.

  Only one person was missing from class all day: Adamias. Apparently, he was an elite student. Huh.

  Rumors were flying like arrows. Beaten half to death. Found in the street. Barely breathing.

  I didn’t say a word. Just sipped my school-issue coffee and listened.

  The next two weeks were rinse, wash, repeat. Brutal training in the morning, theory in the afternoon, bruises by night. It felt like I’d joined some medieval boot camp for future warlords. And honestly? I kinda liked it.

  There were a few exceptions. For some of toptional classes—alchemy, ritual theory, summoning, stuff with names that screamed “boom” or “bleeding accidents”—I wasn’t allowed in yet. Instead, I got handed reading lists long enough to use as rope and was politely told to get my illiterate ass to the library.

  So I did.

  Wojtek showed me a corner that had become unofficially his, filled with thick tomes, enchanted lanterns, and the scent of very old paper. I’d sit there, scratch notes on whatever subject I was banished from, and slowly hammer the basics into my skull. Some stuff clicked. Some stuff clicked, exploded, and then caught fire—mentally speaking.

  As for magic practice? Nada. The Dean had vanished like a politician after election day. Without him to oversee my magic training, I was stuck on the theoretical side of things.

  I’d really hoped to get some hands-on spell-slinging done before the Hunt. But hey—life doesn’t always hand you a wand. Sometimes it just kicks you in the ribs and tells you to read chapter three.

  Two days before the Hunt, Lilith showed up.

  I didn’t even hear her coming—just looked up from a book on wilderness survival and there she was, bouncing on the balls of her feet like a kid who’d just finished a science project and couldn’t wait to show it off.

  She was radiating happiness.

  “Hi! I’m so happy I got to you in time—I almost didn’t make it, but I did!” she beamed. “Percussion caps! Look!”

  She pulled Shorty from the new holster on her left hip with a proud little flourish. I recognized the pistol instantly—same double-barrel beast—but the lock mechanism gleamed with new parts. Sleek, compact. A tiny extractor lever was built into the side, elegant in its simplicity.

  My jaw damn near hit the floor.

  “Amazing!” I boomed, the excitement pouring out of me. “That’s way faster than I expected you to make it happen!”

  She giggled, holding the gun like it was a newborn baby. “You gave me the theory. I just had to fill in the blanks.”

  “Lilith, this is gonna change everything.”

  “Oh, I know,” she said, eyes gleaming. “That’s why I made two.”

  She winked, pulling a second Shorty from behind her back.

  The new Shorty was a beauty—sleek silver, triple-barreled, rifled, and capped with a heavy grip that fit my hand like it had been made for it. Which, knowing Lilith, it probably had.

  She handed it to me with a grin like she was giving me a Christmas present.

  “Keep it,” she said. “That one’s yours. I made us matching sets his name is Triplet.”

  My fingers curled around the grip. The balance was perfect, the action smooth. The weight alone promised one hell of a punch. I felt like a kid holding a dragon egg.

  Before I could say anything, she held out her hand expectantly. “Also, pass me the hand cannon. I should be able to convert it before your Hunt too.”

  I unclipped it and handed it over without a word, still trying to figure out how to say thank you without sounding like an idiot.

  “You should beware and rest well before the Hunt,” she added, her voice a little more serious now. “Hunts are no joke—even for a tough cookie like you.”

  Then she winked.

  And dammit, I got flustered. Me. Flustered. Like some blushing schoolboy with a crush. I cleared my throat and looked away, pretending to check the sight alignment like it was the most important thing in the world.

  Okay bye then Lilith just ran out with the hand canon gigling. She was ... nice.

  I watched her go, a mix of warmth and amusement filling me as she disappeared around the corner. Despite the chaos, her energy was a welcome distraction. I couldn’t help but smile a little. It was strange, feeling like I had a purpose again, even if it was only temporary.

  The Triplet was still in my hands, heavy and solid, its craftsmanship flawless. I could see how she’d modified it—some subtle, some less so. There was definitely a sense of pride in her work. I was going to need that for the hunt. This wasn’t going to be a walk in the park.

  The last few days of preparation had been a blur, filled with drills and theories, hours of practice, and a constant internal battle to stay sharp. I hadn’t expected it to be so demanding, especially with my focus split between classes and... well, everything else going on. But here I was, ready or not, the clock ticking down.

  I set the modified hand cannon down on the table, then glanced at the clock. The hunt was coming fast. Time to rest, to gather myself. Tomorrow, we would see what I was really made of.