I was still basking in the afterglow of my perfectly delivered speech, the one that had left half the crowd in existential crisis and the other half wondering if I'd just declared them peasants, when a loud, deliberate ahem echoed from the side of the stage.
The sound was followed by the heavy, deliberate footsteps of doom itself.
Enter Instructor Vale.
The man looked like he'd lost a war with a razor. Bald as a polished sphere, muscles packed into a suit that probably used to be black before it got tired of his shouting, and a glare sharp enough to shave steel.
He stopped beside me, arms crossed, veins on his forehead already visible.
"Mr. Nekros," he said slowly, in that deadly calm tone that only people on the verge of a breakdown use. "That was… quite a speech."
I smiled innocently. "Thank you, Instructor Vale. I do try to—"
"—it will be remembered," he interrupted flatly. "For centuries, I'm sure."
