"I’m thinking about what we need to prepare before we head into the portal next time," Cecil said naturally, for he truly had been turning the thought over in his mind. "That notebook from last night — did it note down any safety rules for portals? Freddy, did you come across them?"
Freddy swallowed his porridge and nodded. "There’s one entry: ’The first three days after a portal opens are the golden window for exploration. Only after three days will the Academy officially register it as a training ground and send people to clear it out. Before then, only students go inside. As long as no fatalities occur, the Academy turns a blind eye.’ Which means we have to go in once more before tomorrow. The day‑after‑tomorrow the Academy will register it, and the portal will be sealed."
"Tomorrow?" Oliver frowned.
"So we go straight after class," Lydia said. "Everyone bring whatever usable gear you have. I went through my old equipment chest last night. I’ve got two emergency hemostatic potions and a roll of bandages."
"I’ll bring the notebook," Freddy said. "If we run into something unfamiliar out there, it might hold answers."
"Robin’s wings have mostly healed," Oliver added. "He can fly again without trouble."
Edwin silently pulled a handful of small iron scraps out of his pocket and set them on the table. His copper‑shell beetle crawled down from his collar onto the pile, its antennae twitching excitedly. "I gathered some scrap iron last night and let it practise biting. It’s a little faster than it was the day before yesterday."
Cecil glanced at the jumble of makeshift supplies spread across the table, the corners of his mouth tugging upward. They possessed none of Group‑A’s standard‑issue gear, refined potions, or well‑trained battle beasts. All they had was an old notebook, a couple of hemostatic vials, a rusted three‑copper knife, a beetle learning to gnaw through metal, a cold‑sensitive vine‑snake, a skittish weasel, and a wind‑falcon missing three tail feathers.
And a tiny blue‑and‑white lizard who claimed to be their ancestor.
"It’s enough," Cecil stated. "We assemble after afternoon classes. Same spot, the gap in the old library."
All four nodded. No grand ceremony, no high‑fives or handshakes. They simply lowered their heads and kept eating breakfast, bound by an unspoken understanding.
Perched on the tabletop, Gwendolyn swept her tail slowly along the table’s edge and spoke softly. "The five of you together are stronger than those lone‑fighting Group‑A brats. At the very least, you know where your weaknesses lie."
Freddy looked up at her and chuckled. "Is that a compliment or an insult?"
"A statement of fact." Gwendolyn turned her head away. "Believe it or not."
Cecil went back to his bread. His fingers curled around the crust, an almost imperceptible chill creeping across his fingertips. He could feel the icy current inside him flowing steadily, calm and even, as though everything was finally falling into place.
Yet deep down he knew the silver interface still held secrets he had not uncovered. Secrets about a second mythic beast, about the true meaning of the word Unlimited. He could confide in no one about this — not even Gwendolyn. Not out of distrust, but because he himself did not fully understand it. To speak of it would only sow confusion.
He bit down on the bread and swallowed.
He would figure the system out on his own. Right now, what mattered most was surviving their second trip through the portal this afternoon, and bringing everyone back alive.
"Finished?" Edwin asked.
Cecil stuffed the last piece of bread into his mouth, stood, and brushed crumbs from his hands. "Let’s go. Class."
The five rose one after another, set their trays at the collection station, and walked through the growing throng within the dining hall. At the exit, Cecil glanced back. The Group‑A students in their grey‑blue uniforms in the centre of the hall laughed loudly. A griffin chick perched proudly on one student’s shoulder; another had a glossy shadow‑wolf crouching beside him.
Leon sat right in the middle. His Thunder Gryphon stood on the floor behind his chair, its golden plumage shimmering. His gaze swept over the crowd and locked briefly with Cecil’s as he passed the doorway.
Cecil did not slow his pace. He turned and pushed open the door, stepping out into the morning sunlight.
Gwendolyn sat upon his shoulder, her tail brushing the nape of his neck.
"You looked at him," she said.
"He looked at me first."
"You glanced a second time."
"I was checking he wasn’t following us."
Her tail brushed against his skin once more, her tone tinged with faint approval. "...Smart. Don’t look back."
Cecil said nothing and kept walking.
Soon they reached the assembly grounds. A morning breeze blew in from the east of the training field, carrying the scent of grass and dew.
Cecil stood within the Group‑B formation, heels together, hands at his sides, waiting alongside dozens of other students.
Twenty minutes slipped by.
No one else had arrived. The iron gate leading toward the main building to the east remained shut. Not a single footstep echoed from beyond it.
"Do you think she forgot about today’s class?" Freddy whispered from Cecil’s left.
"Probably not," Oliver replied from his right. "I went to the hall ahead of time this morning. The headmaster said we were all supposed to assemble there, right? Yet I saw the notice board. It says: Group‑B · Practical Theory · Lesson One · The assembly grounds.Anastasia Flint."
"Flint... that name rings a bell," Lydia frowned. "I heard she used to be an assistant instructor for Group‑A, in charge of high‑level tactical training."
"Then why is she teaching us in Group‑B?" Edwin wondered aloud.
Nobody answered. Murmurs had already rippled through the ranks. A tall boy in the front row shifted restlessly, tapping his heel against the stone pavement. Behind him, a girl wearing glasses yawned behind her hand, moisture welling at the corners of her eyes.
"Showing up late on the very first lesson, that’s pretty bad..."
"Maybe she overslept?"
"It’s only Group‑B. They just sent whoever they could spare to get us out of the way."
"I heard she got demoted. She offended some noble parent back in Group‑A —"
"What exactly happened?"
"No one knows. Whatever it was, it can’t have been good. Otherwise she wouldn’t end up with us."
Cecil ignored the quiet chatter. His eyes stayed fixed on the closed eastern iron gate. Gwendolyn sat on his shoulder, her tail coiled around his collar. She was wide awake today, her blue eyes locked toward the gate, as if listening to something beyond it.
"She’s coming," Gwendolyn said abruptly.
Before Cecil could ask how she knew, boot heels struck the stone slabs behind the gate. Loud, sharp, rhythmic, like a hammer beating an anvil. Then came the groan of metal as the gate was thrown hard open, slamming against the wall with a dull thud.
A woman stepped out.
She was tall, taller than nearly every boy present. Her deep crimson hair was tied in a neat low ponytail, loose strands falling across her forehead.
She wore a tight‑fitted dark grey leather jacket with cuffs fastened tight, revealing sharply defined forearms. Every step sent her boot heels striking the stone, slow and deliberate, meant for everyone to hear.
She halted in the centre of the training field, hands planted on her hips, her gaze sweeping across the entire Group‑B formation from left to right. Her eyes were pale, almost ice‑grey. A small beauty mark sat beneath her right eye, as if charcoal had been touched to smooth porcelain.
"My name is Anastasia Flint," she spoke. Her voice was not loud, yet it cut through the air like a dull blade scraping across sheet metal. "I will be your Practical Theory instructor from today onward. As you can see — I am late. I will make no excuses. I am late. Late on my very first day teaching you. What does that tell you?"
No one dared reply.
"It tells you that, as of right now, you are not worth my punctuality." Instructor Flint clasped her hands behind her back and began to pace slowly along the front rank. "I know what you are all thinking. ’A cast‑off from Group‑A sent to teach Group‑B. What good can she possibly offer?’" She stopped before one student, staring down at the silver‑furred squirrel perched on his shoulder. "Isn’t that right?"
The boy flushed bright red, his lips trembling, unable to utter a word. The silver squirrel shrank deep inside his collar, tiny claws clutching the fabric, frozen in place.
Flint did not wait for his answer and kept walking. "Among you, Spirit‑Beasts are rats, beetles, tattered‑tailed sparrows, palm‑sized lizards —"
Gwendolyn’s tail tip twitched upward. Cecil laid a hand flat against her back, gently pressing her down without drawing attention.
"You are the lowest‑tier students within Griffin Holt. The Academy assigns you theory classes. Their message is simple: you do not need to learn how to fight. Just graduate without disgracing the school." She finished pacing the last row, turned to face the whole assembly once more. "But I do not teach theory."
A beat of silence hung over the field.
"Your first lesson is simple," Flint drew her slender whip from her belt and coiled it in her grasp. "Summon forth your Spirit‑Beasts. Attack me. No restrictions on method, timing, or numbers. If any one of you can make me shift even half a step from this spot —" She cracked the whip against the ground. A sharp crack rang out, leaving a pale mark on the stone. "This lesson ends here. For the rest of the semester, all Practical Theory periods become free training. You may do whatever you wish."
The whole crowd erupted in shock.
"What?"