The weekend passed quietly, uneventful in the truest sense—a mundane slice-of-life period that felt almost unreal after the intensity of the exhibition battle. Mason had barely left the academy grounds, except for one mission: checking up on Emily with Travis.
Emily was resting comfortably in the infirmary, her breathing steady, her wounds mostly healed. The two friends had brought her a fruit basket, a "get well soon" card, and a small bouquet of flowers. It was cliché, sure, but the gesture felt right—a small way to honor someone who had fought so fiercely and come out alive.
As they chatted, Mason couldn't help but praise Emily. "You were incredible during the exhibition, Em. And that was just the beginning. Imagine how much stronger you'll get with proper training here… all of us will."
Emily smiled faintly, grateful but still tired, while Travis chimed in with his usual lighthearted humor. The weekend remained calm, almost serene—but deep down, Mason couldn't shake the feeling that the week ahead would bring challenges far beyond what they had experienced so far.
---
"SHIT! SHIT! SHIT!"
"I'm running late! I've got to get moving before it starts!"
Mason darted through a throng of students, his tall, athletic frame weaving between bodies with frantic urgency. His short, well-groomed hair glinted under the morning sun. Brown eyes wide, blazer slightly askew over his white shirt and black tie, he almost tripped on a stray backpack.
First day. First impression. Totally messed up.
"Man… Travis and Emily are gonna kill me," he muttered, glancing at his phone. Two unread messages stared back—one from Travis, the other from Emily. Hers was in bold letters: "COME TO CLASS NOW!!!"
Finally, he reached Lecture Hall Two.
"Beta… where is Two Beta?" Mason muttered, scanning the confusing layout.
The class structure at Atlas Academy was initially overwhelming. There were four divisions: Omega, Delta, Beta, and Alpha, each split into two age groups.
Omega: ages 18–19
Delta: ages 20–21
Beta: ages 22–23
Alpha: ages 24–25
Twenty-five was the cutoff for compulsory military conscription, so placement was strict. Age determined your cohort, and each cohort's number indicated the subgroup.
"One… Two… ah, there it is," Mason muttered with relief. He grabbed the door handle and stepped inside.
---
The room buzzed with chatter, but a commanding voice cut through it:
"A Lens is shaped by your life experiences. It defines how you see the world—and therefore, how your powers manifest."
Mason immediately felt the weight of the words. The lesson had already begun.
"An Authority is a unique ability derived from your Lens," the voice continued. "It functions under a specific Law, often paradoxical, and strengthens when aligned with your current state of being."
"The Lens is the progenitor of an Authority. Without the Lens, there is no Authority. The two act in perfect symbiosis."
Mason's height made him impossible to miss as he stepped further into the room. A curse, really—he had never blended in anywhere.
"You're twelve minutes late, Mr…" the voice paused, sharp.
"Grey. Mason Christian Grey," he replied, bowing slightly.
"And what might be the cause of such…"
"Well, ma'am—"
"ZIP IT!" she snapped. "That was a rhetorical question."
Mason flinched slightly at the force of her tone.
"Mr. Grey, you are an adult. You are expected to manage your time wisely. Your tardiness has deprived your peers of crucial knowledge—information that could make the difference between life and death. The very least you could do is apologize."
"Yes, ma'am. I'm sorry," Mason said, bowing again.
"Good. Take your seat."
Shaken, Mason slid into the chair next to Travis and Emily. Travis's smirk was immediate—the infamous "I told you so" glint sparkling in his eyes. Emily simply shook her head, chuckling quietly.
"That was… smooth, Mason," she whispered, still laughing.
"I think ma'am likes you," Travis teased, nudging Mason with a grin. "She wasn't this… spirited at the start of the lecture."
---
"Now, for those who missed my introductory address, I am Professor Jennifer Ripley," the instructor announced. Dirty blonde hair tied back neatly, eyes sharp and piercing, every movement exuded authority. "I expect maturity, decorum, and intellectual curiosity. Lazy, inept, or unsophisticated behavior will not be tolerated. Work with me, and you might learn a thing or two." Her gaze lingered on Mason, unmistakably sharp.
"Mr. Grey," she said.
"Yes, Professor Ripley," Mason replied.
"Do stand and introduce yourself to the class."
Mason took a deep breath. "I'm Mason Grey, twenty-three years old. I'm unawakened, here to understand myself and learn about charismatics. One day, I hope to cultivate my strength, to protect the world from threats that may arise. My goal is mastery through knowledge, for the betterment of mankind."
Ripley nodded slowly. "Ambitious… but imagine if a reality fracture occurs and darkspawn begin bleeding through. Lives—hundreds, thousands—could be lost because of a lack of urgency. Or you lead a battalion and fail to act on time. Every decision has consequences. You must be prepared for that. All lives matter here—charismatic or normal. If you cannot commit to that responsibility, reconsider why you are here."
Mason nodded solemnly. "Understood, ma'am."
---
The lesson continued, diving into deeper complexities.
"Does anyone know about Wills?" Professor Ripley asked.
A timid hand shot up—a bespectacled girl with freckles, reddish-brown hair, and a soft aura.
"Uh… all charismatics possess a Will, also called the Soul's Pressure. It's an inner force that enhances Authority and protects the mind and soul from external influence. There are defensive, aggressive, and supportive variations," she explained.
"Very good, Miss Yuki," Ripley said approvingly. "Indeed, the Will acts as a secondary tool—a powerful augmentation to a charismatic's Authority."
She straightened, her eyes sweeping the room. "Take my Authority, for example—Marionette, a subjugation-type. Every Authority obeys a Law. Mine: Manipulation is only effective when unnoticed. Control works best when the target is unaware, like a spider's invisible thread wrapping its prey. Encounter a defensive Will? They may resist, depending on mastery. Or I may use my Will itself to alter a battle's outcome—a corrosive type capable of melting even diamond."
Ripley's explanation captivated the students. Her words painted a vivid picture of the potential of charismatics—of powers awakening, mastered, and wielded with precision. The room buzzed with excitement, with Mason and his classmates imagining the possibilities awaiting them if they could awaken—or master—the abilities they had been born with.
The bell rang, signaling the end of the period. Students filed out, murmuring excitedly.
"Mr. Grey—a word, please," Professor Ripley said, her gaze locking onto him.
Mason's heart raced, curiosity and apprehension twisting together. Whatever awaited, he knew his new life at Atlas Academy had truly begun.