Greem's heavy boots struck the polished floor with a resounding thud that echoed through the boys' dormitory hall.
Every head turned instantly.
"Now, listen to my instructions," he said, clasping his hands neatly behind him. His tall frame straightened, the faint smirk on his face both mocking and commanding.
The boys stiffened. Some gulped down hard, while others fixed their gazes on him, uncertain whether to look defiant or obedient.
"This is the Writer's Academy," Greem continued, pacing slowly before them like a lion before its cubs. "And if any of you are caught breaking the rules, it's straight disqualification."
He smiled faintly, almost entertained by their nervous faces.
"I won't be the one to explain the rules to you—it's already in your rooms. Read them carefully. Understand them. Breathe them."
Then his tone shifted—still calm, but heavier.
"But I do have my own rules," he said, removing a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "And if you fail to follow them, you won't need anyone to tell you what comes next."
He chuckled briefly before his voice hardened again.
"Now—give yourselves numbers."
The boys glanced around, murmuring as they began to count off. A few looked confused; others rushed to finish before they made a mistake.
"Done?" Greem asked, raising an eyebrow.
When they nodded, he said, "There will be two of you per room. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!" they chorused.
"Since there are a hundred of you, that makes fifty rooms," he muttered, scanning his list. Then, in a firm voice, he called, "No. 1 and No. 50—Room 1."
The first pair grabbed their bags and disappeared down the corridor, where a bronze plate above the door read: Room No. 1.
He continued calling out more numbers as the boys shuffled off one by one.
---
Meanwhile, at the girls' dormitory, Lady Betty sat back in a sturdy wooden chair, her arms crossed, her sharp eyes assessing each girl. She was round-faced, with rosy cheeks and a bun so tight it seemed to lift her eyebrows.
"In your rooms," she began, her tone steady but firm, "you'll find the rules and guidelines. Follow them exactly as they're written."
The girls nodded quickly. Betty squinted, scanning the crowd.
"According to the higher-ups, two candidates per room," she said. "Number yourselves."
The girls began moving about, whispering and counting. Betty watched in silence, a sly smile twitching at her lips.
"Done already?" she asked. "One hundred and fifty, huh?" She nodded. "That means seventy-five rooms. Now—No. 1 and No. 150, Room 1."
And so it began. The groups divided, each heading toward their new quarters with different hopes and fears reflected in their eyes.
---
Francis found himself standing before Room 27.
The door creaked open, revealing a simple yet tidy space. The floor was smooth polished wood, the walls a pale ivory. Two bunks stood at opposite corners with a small table and two wooden chairs between them.
A faint scent of parchment and ink lingered in the air. Near the door hung a single parchment titled boldly:
"Rules and Guidelines of the Writer's Academy."
Francis's roommate was already unpacking — a shorter boy with round glasses, soft brown hair, and a timid air that seemed to shrink under Greem's lingering authority.
Francis approached the parchment. The boy followed, holding it steady as he began to read aloud, voice quiet but clear.
"Rule No. 1: You mustn't tell anybody—even your room partner—any details about your book.
Punishment: Disqualification."
He glanced at Francis, who only nodded slightly, face unreadable.
After a brief silence, Francis asked, "What's your name?"
"Clinton," the boy replied, adjusting his glasses nervously. "Yours?"
"Francis."
That was all.
Clinton climbed up to the top bunk, careful not to make a sound. Francis took the lower one, lying flat on his back, eyes tracing the ceiling.
Clinton's breathing soon steadied—he was asleep.
But Francis couldn't.
His thoughts were already racing ahead—to tomorrow, to the challenges that waited, to the words of the Headmaster that still echoed in his head.
"All may enter, but few will remain," he whispered, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Interesting."
Then he shut his eyes, though sleep refused to come.
---
Angel's dorm was warm and neatly arranged. The cream curtains swayed gently in the evening breeze, carrying the faint scent of lavender.
A pair of bunks stood near the far wall, and opposite them, a small reading desk with two chairs.
Angel's roommate, a petite but slightly older girl, was already unpacking. Her movements were graceful and confident. She looked up and smiled warmly.
"What's your name?" she asked, curiosity gleaming in her eyes.
"Angel," she said softly. "Yours?"
"Wow, we almost share a name," the girl chuckled. "Mine's Angelina."
Angel smiled faintly. "I think we should start by reading the rules first."
"That's true," Angelina said, glancing around. "But where are they?"
Angel pointed and laughed softly. "Right there, near the door."
"Oh! How did I not notice that?" Angelina said, slapping her forehead lightly.
They read together, voices low.
"You mustn't tell anybody—even your room partner—any details about your book.
Punishment: Disqualification."
They exchanged looks.
Angelina sighed. "That's a relief. At least I don't have to explain my story to anyone."
"Indeed," Angel said, a faint smile playing on her lips.
As they continued reading, the faint sounds of the Academy at night drifted through the window — the whispering wind, the hum of distant lamps, the tolling of a clock.
Somewhere beyond those walls, hundreds of stories had just begun.
But for now, the dormitories were quiet.
Dreams were stirring.
And tomorrow, the real test would begin.