The next morning…
The sound of a bell echoed through the corridors of both dormitories — loud, persistent, and merciless. The kind that could drag even the heaviest sleeper out of their dreams.
It was Greem and Betty, fulfilling their morning duty with a rather cruel enthusiasm.
For most of the candidates, the bell was torture.
But for Francis, it wasn't.
He had been awake for a long while, lying on his bunk with open eyes, staring absently at the wooden frame beneath Clinton's bed. Clinton's soft, rhythmic snores had kept him from sleeping all night.
With a quiet sigh, Francis swung his legs off the bed and stood the moment the bell rang again. The metallic sound carried through the hallway like a command.
He straightened his shirt, brushed his hair back with his fingers, and stepped into the corridor.
By the time he reached the front hall, two other boys were already there.
The first was tall — slightly taller than Francis — and his posture screamed confidence bordering on arrogance. His dark eyes scanned the room like a man measuring his competition. He had an easy smirk, the kind that didn't quite reach his eyes.
The second was lean, sharp-faced, and cleanly kept. His glasses reflected the dim morning light, his movements precise — the kind that spoke of discipline and order.
Francis's gaze lingered on them, and theirs lingered on him.
No words were exchanged, but in that silence, something passed between them — the quiet spark of rivalry.
Greem noticed.
Standing by the doorway with his arms crossed, he smirked to himself.
"It seems the competition has already begun," he muttered under his breath.
With a grunt, he slammed the heel of his boot against the floor — a thud that echoed through the hall — and rang the bell again, louder this time. Doors burst open, and sleepy boys stumbled out, eyes half-shut and hair untidy.
Within minutes, the hall was filled with groggy faces and muffled yawns.
Meanwhile, Francis caught the distant sound of another bell — coming from the girls' dormitory.
---
In the Girls' Dormitory
Betty stood proudly with the bell still in her hand, unbothered by fatigue. She rang it again — this time with such vigor that the noise nearly rattled the windows.
Only five girls had shown up so far.
Angel rubbed her eyes sleepily, stretching her arms with a faint smile toward Angelina.
"Good morning," she murmured.
"Good morning," Angelina replied, brushing back her hair with a yawn.
Angel glanced around the hall.
One of the girls was tall and striking — confidence radiating from her like sunlight. Her smirk was sharp; her stance screamed pride. Angel could tell right away she was the type who loved attention — maybe even a bully.
Another girl, about Angel's height, looked nervous and unsteady, clutching the edge of her nightrobe like it was a lifeline. Her messy hair and anxious eyes made her look like the clumsy one.
But the last of the group stood out the most.
She was beautiful — breathtaking, even — but her beauty was cold, distant. Her expression was blank, her eyes unreadable. She stood straight, still, almost like a soldier awaiting orders.
Angel blinked. Something about her felt… different.
After nearly an hour of relentless ringing, every candidate was finally awake — both boys and girls.
Greem lowered his bell, groaning.
"Gosh," he muttered, rubbing his temples, "I swear this is the hardest part of the job."
He'd been ringing for too long. His hands were sore, his patience thin. Still, he smirked, imagining Betty struggling with the same task.
But unknown to him, Betty wasn't struggling at all.
She sat comfortably on a wooden chair, one leg crossed over the other, a proud smile curving her lips as she watched the girls gather in haste.
A faint chuckle escaped her.
"That fool probably thinks I'm exhausted… poor Greem. He truly doesn't know me."
She stood, her voice smooth but commanding.
"Candidates, welcome once again to the Writer's Academy!" she announced. "Today marks your first official day. Some of you might think you'll get a few more days to rest."
Her smile widened knowingly. "You're absolutely wrong."
Her words sent a wave of tension through the room.
"By the Academy's rule, all candidates must be at the Grand Hall before nine o'clock sharp. And as of this moment…" she glanced at the wall clock, "it's exactly eight."
She let her words sink in.
"Go and get ready. You are dismissed."
The girls scattered in panic, rushing for their rooms.
Then, Betty's voice echoed sweetly from behind — honeyed, yet venomous.
"Oh, and one more thing…" she added with a devilish smile. "If you're even one minute late…"
Her tone dropped to a teasing whisper.
"…you might just get disqualified."
A few girls froze mid-step, eyes wide in horror.
Betty chuckled softly. She clearly enjoyed this.
---
Back at the Boys' Dormitory
Greem watched the now-crowded hall of half-awake boys, arms crossed and expression stern.
"Alright, you bunch of sleepy quills," he barked. "The Headmaster doesn't wait for latecomers!"
He paced slowly, his boots thudding against the floor.
"You have exactly one hour to clean up, dress up, and be at the Grand Hall. If I see anyone walking in after the clock strikes nine…"
He paused. The room went dead silent.
"…you can kiss this Academy goodbye."
His lips curved into a smirk. "That's not a threat — it's a promise."
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then chaos erupted — doors slamming, footsteps pounding, voices overlapping.
Greem chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he watched them scatter like startled birds.
"Writers or not," he muttered, "discipline's what'll keep them standing."
Meanwhile, Francis lingered a moment longer, glancing around at the others. A faint smile tugged at his lips.
The day had barely begun, but already, he could feel it —
the air was thick with tension, rivalry… and something deeper.
Something that whispered quietly in his mind:
The story has begun.