James Vellaroux had been trying to hit me for eleven minutes.
I want to be clear that this was not my idea.
***
Combat Fundamentals met in the lower training hall, which was underground, reinforced, and built by people who had clearly been told what fifteen-year-olds with attributes were capable of and had believed every word.
Class Five and Class Two.
Seventy-five students.
One instructor.
The instructor was Professor Darius.
I recognized him immediately, because he had spent a portion of the orientation exam suggesting that several of us would probably die, and had seemed neither pleased nor upset about the possibility.
He walked the length of the hall once without speaking. Then stopped.
"Most of you can fight."
That was, statistically, generous.
"Some of you can fight well. A few of you have been told you can fight well by people paid to tell you that."
Somewhere in the Class Two section, Tristan Rhael laughed.
