Two suited individuals entered the room as he finished speaking, each carrying a stack of books some 130-pages thick that reached up to their necks.

  "This is your textbook for the week. Complete the first twenty pages, and we'll review at the end of class."

  "The thirty pages we don't complete will be completed in your own time. You will receive another next week."

  "These two on their feet right now are my teaching aides; they were alumni who graduated from the Honor Class, so you will not be lowering yourself to ask them questions."

  "They will be in charge when I am away; therefore you will respect them as you would me."

  "The first test will be in two weeks."

  Arthur froze, pushing the shock—warning of danger—sent by his nerves into his legs.

  His quadriceps performed an isometric contraction, channeling the force into the floor with his feet, and his calves tensed to reduce the rest of the energy into heat.

  He could feel numerous eyes staring the needles of envy at his crown.

  Every test changes the class rankings; they stare at me so enviously, but needles are just needles.

  "It will be a written test," he said, placing his hat on his head.

  "Be at the Training Grounds in the North Wing before the period starts."

  Clive held his book at his side and walked out of the room.

  That was very efficient; everything he said was right to my knowledge. I judged him so quickly.

  How could I judge someone so quickly?

  An image appeared in his head: It was raining inside, heavy rain in a familiar room.

  A person laid on the floor, a male. He looked relaxed: their arms and legs looked as if several chiropractors worked on them for a day straight.

  His joints bent freely, without the constraints of muscles, tendons, or bone.

  He was drenched, not from the rain, but deep-crimson fluid from his body.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Woe is he who fell from the plane of life; woe is he who created this terrible being.

  Woe is he whose vision is impaired: who looks upon the field of futility, yet sees hope; he is blind.

  He is deaf; he is faithless. He will—

  That was very efficient; everything he said was right to my knowledge. I judged him so quickly.

  How could I judge someone so quickly?

  A man who values energy-efficiency is respectable; I need to re-educate myself.

  I would have loved to hear his interpretation of Affinity Execution, but I guess it's too complicated at this point for the other students.

  He lifted the hardcover of the collection of paper in front of him.

  Twenty pages in an hour and forty minutes? I've never had to complete so much work—in the measurement of paper at least.

  He imagined his mouth turning to a frown. I miss Vigo's class, he thought.

  Majorly because he was genuine, but the part that compelled him to do it was to seem complex.

  While others struggled to the end, he had one minute to spare after completing it twice.

  There is much to learn.

  "Arthur?"

  The whites of his eyes grew in visibility, and his pupils trembled micrometers at a time.

  Hesitantly, he glanced up to meet the speaker; he did not have to turn much, her head was situated directly over his own.

  Her long brown hair created a tunnel that provided a shield from the outside.

  Their gazes snapped into place, like two pieces of a puzzle—for one of them at least; the other was too lost to think.

  She uncurled one hand from the ledge supporting her and created a shape resembling something round with her fingers at the site just below her collarbone.

  His eyes followed as she went, and his hand did shortly after.

  It was something round, smooth, hard. "What is this?" He tried to think, and decided to turn his brain back on.

  This is my pendant… Arthur's pendant.

  He looked up again; she was still staring, hypnotizing him until the tunnel of hair was suddenly yanked back.

  "Hey, don't mess with Cedric; you're being too insensitive about his situation."

  This is one of the nobles in this class. They're lecturing someone else on sensitivity?

  "Let her go, it's fine. She didn't mean any ill intent behind it," Arthur said in a casual manner, like a friend would to another friend.

  "Oww," she exaggerated after her restrainer released her hair; she continued patting the area of tension until she saw the look of regret on the noble's face.

  "Just kidding! You were actually really careful handling my hair, and your hands are so soft!"

  "You're _, right? I'm Alice."

  "___, ___"

  "____"

  "__" "That's great! Let's see each other again in our history period."

  "And Cedric, I'm sorry if I made you uncomfortable, my eyes were tricking me into seeing something that was still in my mind, and I misspoke. I hope we can still get along!"

  Arthur stared blankly at her as she bowed deeply.

  "Yeah, sure," he managed to muster, well enough to pass as a Cedric response.

  As she rose from her bow, in the gaps between strands of hair, she glanced once more at his chest, and the pendant was no longer there.

  Alice, I need to be cautious of her as well.

  I can't say for certain now, but she might be entrancing me with some kind of Black Magic.

  Alice Noctiliene, Celeste Devreux, Vicktor Vulivar, and Derrick Dunwell. They are all oddities in this class who've left an impression on me.

  But whether they'll be friend or foe, such has yet to be conclusive.