"I'm your Monster Studies instructor, Mohr. You can call me Old Blind-Eye."
The old man's tone was calm again, as if nothing had happened a second ago.
"Today, I'm going to tell you about the threats you'll face in the future—maybe even tonight. Stay alert!"
He suddenly roared the last word, making everyone jump in their seats.
Casha hurried to pull out her textbook, but Mohr raised one finger—an artificial one, Rod noticed—and pointed at it.
"We don't need that junk. I talk, you listen. Take notes."
Books snapped shut. Notebooks and charcoal pens appeared. Dozens of eyes gleamed with curiosity. This teacher's odd, rule-breaking style clearly excited them.
"Monsters—our enemies. The manifestation of dark law. The cold whisper of the universe. The final resting place of all chaos and decay."
"Everything we study, everything we practice—no matter if you end up a soldier or a scholar—it all leads to this. Them."
"There's enough to say about monsters and how to fight them to fill a thousand nights. But for now, we'll start with what matters most: how we classify them—and how to tell them apart."
"The core of every monster is its dark soul. That's what holds it together. Destroy that, and everything else falls apart—back into the void, back to the source of the world. Anyone who's killed one knows it: the body collapses into dust, drifts away, leaves nothing."
Rod's eyes flickered. So that's why. He'd never thought about it—just assumed it was natural.
"So—be warned!" Mohr barked again. "If the corpse hasn't collapsed, the monster isn't dead!"
He let that hang, then his voice dropped back to normal.
"Now, according to the strength of the soul, monsters fall into six ranks. First: Gray-tier. The dust of the battlefield. Harmless. Their defining feature is that they have none. When you view them through spirit-sight, their soul-wave barely moves—flat as a line. Still, on rare occasions, they can hurt you. Stay alert."
Students flinched instinctively—but this time, the old man didn't shout.
"Next—Proto-tier. Meaning not yet fully formed. Weak souls. On the battlefield, you'll meet these most often: wraiths, shamblers, half-born things. Their soul-wave starts to take shape—like, say, the gentle curves of a teenage girl's first—"
A loud wave of gasps broke through the classroom. Several girls went crimson. Casha, expression unchanged, neatly wrote down every word.
Mohr nodded approvingly at his group leader."Good. No reason to be shy. It's the most accurate description. Out there, to stay alive, you'll learn even eating crap isn't off the table."
The color drained from most faces. The cheerful student world they knew suddenly felt like a fragile bubble about to burst.
Only Casha looked unfazed. She raised her hand: "Professor Mohr, what's the use of… eating crap?"
Mohr's wrinkled face folded into a strange smile."Never underestimate it. It's waste, yes—but it's a bio-toxin. If you eat enough, you'll mildly poison yourself, and sometimes that helps keep you from losing your mind—or turning undead."
A red-haired girl bolted out of the room, hand over her mouth.
The rest looked sick; even Rod's stomach rolled.
Mohr's tone turned flat. "I'd rather ruin your appetite and dreams than see you lose your lives."
He kindly sent Casha to fetch the girl back. She returned pale, still dry-heaving.
"Third, the Formed-tier—fully developed monsters. The most dangerous category by number and variety. Their soul-waves are complicated, usually oscillating like springs. If you meet one, call for backup immediately."
"Fourth, Feral-tier. Fifth, Mighty-tier. Just remember this—if you can see the soul-wave clearly, run. Don't fight. Don't think."
"These are general ranks; there are finer ones, but that's for later. Now, let's talk about using spirit-sight—"
Casha's hand shot up. "Professor Mohr, what about the sixth rank?"
His one cloudy eye swiveled toward her, and when he smiled, his mouth showed a full set of yellow, broken teeth.
"Sixth-tier: King-class. You don't need to know its wave pattern. By the time it appears before you, you're already dead. When one descends, the entire Royal City moves—the end of the world walking, apocalypse incarnate."
The room fell silent. A chill crawled through every spine; even the air felt colder.
Mohr's smile turned icy."Knowing too much isn't good. Many scholars learned that the hard way—madness, suicide, worshipping doomsday cults. I'd prefer you stay sane. Strength is the spine of sanity. Each rung of power earns you the right to know a little more. That's the New King's doctrine—and I agree, though he's taken it too far. The Academy's become a greenhouse. Our future warriors? Hothouse flowers. They shatter once they see the real world."
It felt like winter itself had crept into the classroom. Even Casha's face went white.
Only Rod kept steady.So that's what this really is, he thought. Makes sense. A society under siege needs illusions to keep running.
He felt Mohr's single good eye turn toward him—approvingly."Good. Looks like we've got a real fighter here. I'll give you full marks, boy. Don't make me regret it."
Wait, that's a thing?Rod's spirits lifted—teacher evaluations counted for a quarter of the "Goldworth's Star" score. His impression of Old Blind-Eye instantly improved.
The class's tension eased. Casha pinched him on the thigh and muttered with mock annoyance, "Didn't know you had the guts to stand out."
Wayne, envious, whispered, "What'd you do—get special training from the Internal Tribunal or something?"
Thonk!Mohr's prosthetic leg struck the floor. The whispers died instantly.
"So, about this practical combat training—I, Old Blind-Eye Mohr, fully support it. You may not leave the academy, but times are dire, and no one can guarantee what you'll face. So—stay alert!"
He roared again. Everyone jolted. Green-hair actually fell out of his chair.
"Now then, spirit-sight," Mohr said, limping back to the podium. He raised a finger before his face.
"Spirit-sight is our second vision—the eye that sees soul and energy. Follow me carefully: place your index finger upright before your nose. Focus between your brows. Breathe three times. On the last breath—don't exhale. Hold it. Move your finger slowly, but keep your gaze fixed just beyond it. Repeat until you feel a pulse between your brows."
Soon the room was filled with the sounds of breathing and sighing.
Maybe because it was close to his own Soul Eye, Rod got it on the first try. The world lit up—ribbons of color flowed through the air; every person became a glowing silhouette with shimmering networks like veins of light. Their foreheads burned brightest.
Almost the same as his Soul Eye.
What if I used both?
A spark flared in his brow. His Soul Eye opened.
The world split open.Light dimmed; everything sharpened. Loose energy drifted like fish in water, stirring ripples. Every glow left faint wave-lines—the pulse of life itself.
These must be the soul-waves Mohr talked about.
But none of the students' waves looked like what he'd described. Each was unique: Casha's like a grand pipe organ, Wayne's like an axe, Green-Hair Zales's… sort of like ice cream, though honestly, more like a lump of crap.
Casha's wave was the brightest; awakened students glowed clearly; the unawakened were dim.Strength of soul, plain as day.
Then Rod glanced at Mohr—and blinked. The teacher's wave was faint, steady, stretched out like a deep brass note. His brow shimmered: he was using spirit-sight on them too.
Rod hesitated—should he ask? But perfect-student Casha beat him to it.
"Professor Mohr, why don't the students have the waveforms you described?"
Mohr turned his head—and Rod clearly saw a huge red eye bloom on his forehead, staring straight at her.
"Ah. We've got a gifted one here. Casha of the Mipor family—you have talent."
The bloody eye blinked shut again. Rod wasn't sure if he'd actually seen it or just imagined it.
"The waveforms I mentioned apply to monsters only. Human souls are different—rational. Monster souls follow only their own strength and nature. Ours are influenced by countless things—emotions, thoughts. Strength is just one factor among many."
That sparked more questions.
"So, Professor," Casha pressed, "how are we ranked?"
Mohr smiled—a kindly expression that, with his sunken eye and wrinkles, looked anything but.
"This one's safe enough to share early."
"When you graduate from Goldworth, you shift from reserve to active combatant—rank nine. From there, each official battle evaluation can move you up one level. The test measures several things—but above all, your Spirit Energy, meaning the strength of your soul."
"The most critical indicator is Spirit Grade—the tier of your energy. Every step up triples your strength."
He swept his gaze across the class.
"Question: how much stronger is Grade Three compared to Grade One?"
Green-hair Zales's hand shot up. The guy had been scared half to death earlier and had already decided he'd go home after graduation and take over the family shop. Leave the dangerous work to brave idiots.
But math—math was his thing. The best in their group, maybe the whole department.
The moment Mohr looked his way, Zales jumped to his feet and declared proudly:
"Six times!"