Song Liu finally reached the main academic building half an hour late for his first class, breathing heavily and absolutely fuming. His bespoke slacks were slightly rumpled, his silk shirt was sticking to his back (the horrors!), and he was pretty sure he had scuffed his Italian loafers. He spent the entire morning in a haze of indignant rage, glaring at every single Alpha who dared to make eye contact.
When the bell finally rang for the midday meal, Song Liu didn't hesitate. He wasn't about to subject himself to the cafeteria. He had a very clear plan: stroll into the nearest dining hall, demand to see the Head Chef, and order a simple, perfectly prepared truffle pasta dish, delivered to a private booth. That's how things worked for the son of the Duke of the North.
He found his way to the Grand Dining Hall, a ridiculously ornate room with soaring arches and crystal chandeliers. It looked more like a banquet space for a royal wedding than a school lunchroom. But the atmosphere inside was chaos. Hundreds of Alphas were lined up, moving with military precision towards several long service stations.
Song Liu cut straight through the middle of the crowd, ignoring the glares and the low, rumbling territorial scents of the masses. He walked right up to the velvet rope section marked "Faculty and Special Guests Only."
He was about to pull the rope aside when a massive, granite-faced Alpha guard, who looked like he hadn't smiled since the last century, stepped in front of him.
"This area is restricted, student," the guard rumbled, blocking the entire entrance with his sheer size.
"Don't be ridiculous," Song Liu scoffed. "I'm Song Liu, son of Duke Song. I'm a special guest every damn place I go. Tell the Head Chef I want a private table and that the chicken should be replaced with quail today."
The guard remained completely impassive. "All students, regardless of rank or parental status, are required to utilize the main service line for daily meals. No exceptions. It's Academy Rule 4-B, Section 7."
"Are you serious?" Song Liu felt his eye twitching. "You want me to stand in line with all... this?" He gestured vaguely at the sweaty, pushing crowd of hungry Alphas.
"The line begins there," the guard pointed to the back of a winding queue that disappeared behind a pillar.
Furious, Song Liu spun on his heel, muttering curses under his breath that would make a sailor blush. He eventually found the end of the line. It was long. It was stinky. It smelled strongly of generic Alpha pheromones, sweat, and cheap, cooked meat—a truly vile combination.
He stood there for about thirty seconds, twitching his nose, before deciding this was an affront to his dignity. He was about to bail and order delivery to his dorm when he heard that infuriatingly cool voice right behind him.
"Cutting the queue, Song Liu? That's another demerit, and perhaps a weekend of scrubbing the training grounds."
Song Liu whirled around to find Wei Ze standing directly behind him, single-file, looking completely unfazed by the chaos. He had traded his uniform blazer for a simple, heavy Academy hoodie, and he looked annoyingly casual. He wasn't surrounded by his previous entourage; he was just... waiting in line.
"You!" Song Liu hissed. "Don't you have a private dining room? Why are you even here? Stop stalking me!"
Wei Ze just gave him a look that clearly said, 'You're the one standing in the middle of the hall yelling.'
"I told you, Song Liu," Wei Ze said calmly, his scent—a subtle, cold sandalwood—managed to cut through the messy air. "I uphold the rules. And the rules state that every student lines up. Besides," he glanced at Song Liu's impeccably clean hands and disgusted expression, "you need the practice. You look entirely unprepared for the rigors of waiting your turn."
"Oh, go to hell," Song Liu spat.
"After you," Wei Ze replied, nodding politely at the line moving slowly forward.
Song Liu stood stock-still for a moment, torn between retreating to starvation and enduring this ultimate insult. Then, fueled by spite and the need to prove this irritating Alpha wrong, he reluctantly stepped into line, putting himself directly in front of Wei Ze.
The line moved with agonizing slowness. Every few minutes, Song Liu would check his watch and let out an over-dramatic sigh.
"Is the air too thin for you, Duke's son?" Wei Ze murmured from behind him after the fifth sigh.
"The air is fine," Song Liu muttered back, "but I'm going to expire from the sheer tacky level of this institution. I just want my food."
Finally, after what felt like an hour, they reached the service station. Song Liu wrinkled his nose at the trays of vaguely recognizable food.
"I need a fresh plate," Song Liu announced to the harried-looking Omega server. "And please, only the asparagus. But it must be blanched for exactly forty-five seconds, then sautéed in unsalted butter."
The server, overwhelmed by the lunch rush, looked at him blankly. "Sir, we have roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans."
"I don't eat green beans," Song Liu said, appalled.
"Take a tray, Song Liu," Wei Ze said, his voice flat with annoyance, right behind him. "You're holding up the line."
Song Liu, panicked and humiliated by the pressure from the hundreds of hungry Alphas watching, grabbed the nearest tray—a generic metal thing—and slammed a meager scoop of mashed potatoes onto it, barely managing to keep his composure. He practically fled the service station.
He found an empty table in a far corner, set his tray down, and jabbed at the potatoes with a silver fork he'd sneakily taken from his luggage. They tasted like disappointment.
A moment later, Wei Ze appeared and calmly placed his own tray across from Song Liu. He had a balanced meal: a huge slab of chicken, a mound of mashed potatoes, and a hefty portion of the "disgusting" green beans.
"What are you doing?" Song Liu demanded. "This is my table."
"There are no assigned tables," Wei Ze said, already cutting his chicken with practiced ease. "And this is the quietest corner." He took a large bite.
Song Liu stared at the Alpha. "I hate you, Wei Ze. You're trying to make my life a living hell."
Wei Ze chewed slowly, then looked up, his ice-blue eyes serious. "Your life was already a hell of your own making, Song Liu. I'm just making sure you follow the rules. Now, eat. We have an afternoon of weapons training."
Song Liu's mashed potato suddenly taste
d like ash. Weapons training? What kind of finishing school was this?