The bell hadn't even rung yet, but Nash could already feel the weight of twenty-nine stares boring into the back of his head.
"They're still looking."
"I know."
"It's been twenty minutes since class ended."
"I know."
"One of them is literally pretending to tie their shoe so they can keep staring."
Nash didn't turn around. "Cyro. I'm trying to read."
"You're staring at the same page you've been staring at for ten minutes."
"I'm reading slowly."
"You're hiding."
Nash flipped the page. "I'm reading."
The textbook was called Intermediate Mana Theory: Year 2. It was thick. It was boring. It was a great excuse to keep his head down and his face hidden.
The shoe-tying student finally gave up and walked away. Nash felt the stares diminish from twenty-nine to about fifteen.
"Progress," Cyro noted.
"Shut up."
---
BRRRRRING.
The afternoon bell saved him. Students shuffled out, conversations picked up, and finally — finally — the room emptied until it was just him and the faint smell of chalk dust and old paper.
Nash closed his textbook. Stretched. His neck cracked in three places.
"You should find your next class."
"In a minute."
"You'll be late."
"It's the first day. No one cares if you're late the first day."
"That seems like flawed logic."
"It's academy logic. You wouldn't get it."
"I have existed for millennia—"
"Yeah, but you've never been a student. Different thing."
Cyro went quiet. Which meant he was thinking. Which meant he'd come back with something annoyingly clever in about thirty seconds.
Nash stood. Grabbed his bag. Headed for the door.
"Where are we going?"
"Combat Fundamentals. Uncle Moses."
"Ah. The interesting one."
"Yeah."
"I like him."
"You like everyone who doesn't try to kill us."
"That's most people."
"Most people haven't met us."
Cyro chuckled. It was a weird sound — ancient and dry, like old paper rustling. Nash had gotten used to it over the years. Almost.
---
The training hall was massive.
Nash stopped in the doorway and just... looked.
High ceilings. Wooden floors worn smooth by generations of students. Weapon racks along one wall — swords, staffs, things Nash didn't have names for. Training dummies in the corner, some of them scorched, some of them cracked, all of them looking like they'd seen better days.
Sunlight streamed through tall windows, catching dust motes floating in the air. It应该是 peaceful. It was not peaceful.
Because thirty students were already gathered in loose groups, stretching, talking, stealing glances at each other. Assessing. Always assessing.
"Combat class," Cyro said. "This will be interesting."
"You said Power Theory was going to be interesting. You fell asleep."
"That was different. That man's voice could cure insomnia."
Nash walked in. Found a spot near the back. Leaned against the wall.
"You should stretch."
"No."
"You'll pull something."
"I'm sixteen. I don't pull things."
"Famous last words."
Nash ignored him. Watched the room instead.
Groups formed naturally — bloodline kids together, scholarship kids in their own clusters, the in-between kids hovering at the edges. Nash recognized some faces from 2C. Others were new. Upperclassmen? Different section?
He catalogued them automatically. Tall guy with expensive shoes — bloodline, probably fire or something flashy. Girl with braids and a focused expression — scholarship, here to work. Twins in matching warm-ups — creepy or cute, not sure yet.
"The dark-haired boy from this morning."
Nash's eyes found him. Same guy. Perfect hair. Expensive everything. Standing in the center of a small group, laughing at something, radiating the kind of confidence that came from never being told no.
He glanced over. Caught Nash looking.
For a second, neither moved.
Then the guy smiled. Friendly. Warm. The kind of smile that made you feel like you'd been assessed and filed in under "not a threat."
Nash didn't smile back.
The guy's smile didn't waver. He just turned back to his friends.
"Interesting," Cyro said.
"Not really."
"He's going to be a problem."
"Everyone's a problem until they're not."
"That's deeply philosophical."
"It's deeply obvious."
---
CLAP.
The sound cut through the room like a whip. Thirty students snapped to attention.
Instructor Moses stood at the front, hands clasped, expression pleasant. He'd changed into training gear — loose pants, fitted shirt, nothing special. But the way he held himself made it clear: this man could kill everyone in this room and still make it to lunch.
"Afternoon, everyone." His voice carried without effort. "Welcome to Combat Fundamentals. If you're in the wrong room, leave now. If you're in the right room, welcome to the next three hours of your life."
A few nervous laughs.
Moses smiled. "Here's how this works. We warm up. We drill. We spar. Some of you will get hit. Some of you will do the hitting. By the end of today, I'll know more about you than your parents do. Questions?"
Silence.
"Good. Spread out. We're running laps."
---
Thirty minutes later, Nash was reconsidering his life choices.
"You said you wouldn't pull anything."
"I didn't pull anything."
"You're wheezing."
"I'm breathing heavily. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
Nash bent over, hands on knees, trying to remember what air felt like. The training hall spun slightly. Around him, other students were in similar states of distress. The twins looked fine. Of course they looked fine.
Moses walked through the carnage, completely unbothered. "Good. Good. You're all still alive. That's the first victory."
Someone groaned.
Moses grinned. "Hydrate. Two minutes. Then we start the real work."
---
The real work, it turned out, was drills.
Basic stuff — stances, footwork, the kind of fundamentals that every fighter learned before they learned anything else. Nash had done them a thousand times at Redwood. His body moved on autopilot while his mind wandered.
"He's watching you."
Nash didn't look. "Who?"
"The dark-haired boy. Third row."
Nash adjusted his stance. Shifted weight. Kept his face blank.
"He's been watching for five minutes."
"Maybe he's admiring my form."
"You don't have form. You're on autopilot."
"Exactly. My autopilot has great form."
Cyro made a sound that might have been disgust or amusement. Hard to tell.
---
"Alright." Moses clapped again. "Drills are done. Now we see what you can actually do."
The room tensed.
"Partner up. I'll assign pairs. You'll spar — light contact, controlled techniques. This isn't about winning. It's about showing me what you know."
Nash felt the words land like stones. Partner up. Spar. Show what you know.
"This should be interesting."
"You said that already."
"I meant it both times."
Moses started calling names. Students moved to the center of the floor in pairs. Some looked excited. Some looked terrified. Most looked somewhere in between.
"Nash Ashford."
Nash straightened.
Moses's eyes found him. Held for a second. Then:
"Kaelan Vex."
The dark-haired boy stepped forward. Perfect hair. Perfect smile. Perfect posture.
He walked toward Nash like he owned the floor. Maybe he did.
"Hey." He extended a hand. "Kaelan. Guess we're up."
Nash looked at the hand. Looked at Kaelan's face. Took the hand.
"Nash."
Kaelan's grip was firm. Confident. The kind of handshake that said I know who I am. He held eye contact a beat too long. Still smiling.
"I definitely don't like him," Cyro muttered.
Nash pulled his hand back. "Ready when you are."
Kaelan's smile widened. "Oh, I've been ready."
---
The circle formed. Students gathered around, curious. Two transfers — one obvious bloodline heir, one mysterious question mark. Of course they'd watch.
Moses stood at the edge, arms crossed. "Light contact. I see anything dangerous, I stop it. Understood?"
Nash nodded.
Kaelan nodded.
"Then begin."
---
Kaelan moved first.
Fast. Smooth. The kind of speed that came from years of training and natural talent. His first strike was a testing jab — nothing serious, just feeling out reaction time.
Nash dodged. Barely.
"He's quick."
"I noticed."
Another strike. Nash blocked. The impact vibrated up his arm. Kaelan was stronger than he looked.
"Pattern?"
"Too early."
Kaelan came again — a combination this time, jab-cross-hook, textbook perfect. Nash slipped the first two, took the third on his forearm. Stepped back. Reset.
Kaelan paused. Cocked his head. "You're faster than you look."
Nash said nothing.
Kaelan smiled. "Quiet type. Got it."
He attacked again.
This time Nash was ready. He read the opening — slight shift in weight, tell in the shoulder — and sidestepped. His counter caught Kaelan in the ribs. Light. Controlled. But solid.
The crowd murmured.
Kaelan's eyes widened slightly. Then he laughed. "Oh, that was nice. Do it again."
"He's enjoying this," Cyro observed.
"He's weird."
"Agreed."
They circled. Kaelan came in again — more serious now, less testing. Nash read him better this time. Dodged. Countered. Took a hit to the shoulder that would bruise.
"Pattern forming."
"Give me two more exchanges."
"You'll take more damage."
"I'll be fine."
Another exchange. Nash took a hit to the ribs. Landed one to Kaelan's jaw. Kaelan's smile got wider.
Another. Nash read the combination before Kaelan threw it. Stepped inside. Swept his leg.
Kaelan hit the floor.
Silence.
Nash stepped back. Breathed. Watched Kaelan stare at the ceiling for a long second.
Then Kaelan laughed. Loud. Genuine. "Okay. OKAY." He sat up, rubbing his jaw. "Where'd you learn to read like that?"
Nash didn't answer.
Moses stepped forward. "Good. Both of you. Kaelan — excellent aggression, but you're predictable when you're excited. Nash —" He paused. Looked at Nash with something unreadable. "Good instincts. Next time, don't wait so long to use them."
Nash nodded.
Kaelan stood. Offered his hand again. Nash took it.
"Round two sometime?" Kaelan's eyes sparkled. "I want a rematch."
Nash shrugged. "Sure."
Kaelan grinned. Walked back to his friends, who immediately surrounded him with questions.
"You made a friend," Cyro said.
"I made an opponent."
"Same thing, sometimes."
Nash walked to the edge of the floor. Leaned against the wall. His ribs ached. His shoulder throbbed. His hand was still warm from Kaelan's grip.
"You did well."
"It was fine."
"It was better than fine. You read him completely in under three minutes."
Nash didn't answer.
Across the room, Kaelan glanced over. Caught his eye. Gave a small nod.
Nash nodded back.
"Definitely an opponent," Cyro said. "Maybe a friend. We'll see."
"Yeah." Nash shifted against the wall. "We'll see."