"Let me be the first to formally congratulate you," the Vice Headmaster said, though his voice held absolutely zero warmth.
The administrative office of the High Pristina Academy was sickeningly opulent.
Golden chandeliers dripped from the vaulted ceilings, and the air smelled faintly of expensive mana crystals and crushed velvet.
Sitting behind a massive mahogany desk was Vice Headmaster Ren, a high noble draped in silk robes that cost more than a commoner family would see in a lifetime.
He adjusted his gold rimmed monocle, looking down his nose at the man standing across from him.
"To think a mere commoner passed the basic imperial instructor qualifications, quite a rare achievement," Ren sneered, tapping a stack of parchment with a manicured finger.
"Pristina is the pinnacle of the kingdom. We train the future protectors of the realm. Flashy spellcasting, grand bloodlines, noble lineage, that is what we cultivate here."
The newly hired combat instructor didn't answer.
He stood perfectly still, dressed in a simple, faded grey coat. His hands were tucked casually into his pockets, and his expression was completely blank.
He didn't look awed by the gold.
He didn't look intimidated by the noble's pressure.
He was just quiet.
"However," Ren continued, a cruel smile curling his lips as he slid a single, dusty assignment sheet across the desk.
"A commoner cannot be permitted to teach the sons and daughters of dukes and counts. It would upset the natural order. Therefore, you have been assigned to the Physical Combat elective. Specifically, Class F."
Ren paused, waiting for a look of despair, anger, or humiliation to cross the instructor's face.
Class F.
The absolute dregs of the academy.
The commoner scholarship students, the rejects, the talentless low lives who couldn't cast a basic firebolt to save their lives.
In a school that worshipped magic, a physical combat class for Class F was essentially a garbage dump for people the academy wanted to kick out.
"They are unpolished, unruly, and frankly, a waste of the academy's oxygen," Ren said flatly.
"Your job is simply to keep them out of the way until they inevitably fail the ranking exams and get expelled. Do you understand your duties, Instructor?"
The quiet man looked down at the dusty assignment sheet.
He didn't argue.
He didn't demand a higher class.
He reached out with a steady hand, picked up the paper, and folded it neatly into his pocket.
"Understood," he replied.
His voice was low, calm, and completely unbothered.
Ren waved a dismissive hand, already looking away as if the commoner's presence was staining his pristine office.
"Good. Dismissed. Go find your courtyard. Try not to embarrass the academy before the month ends."
The instructor turned and quietly walked out of the grand office, closing the heavy oak doors behind him without making a sound.
He walked down the marble corridors, ignoring the whispers and arrogant glances from the noble students passing by in their embroidered uniforms.
He kept walking until the marble turned to stone, and the stone turned to dusty, cracked dirt.
At the furthest, most isolated edge of the academy grounds sat a neglected courtyard.
The wooden training weapons were splintered, the stone walls were crumbling, and sitting on the ground were twenty scrawny, bruised teenagers looking utterly defeated.
They were Class F.
The low lives.
The instructor stopped at the edge of the dirt.
He tucked his hands back into his pockets, looked at the crowd of rejects, and slowly closed his eyes.
When he opened them, the world faded into a sharp, minimalist interface.
Translucent parchment style windows erupted over every single teenager in the yard, flashing with red warnings, exposed blind spots, and hidden metrics of raw, untapped power.
A quiet smile finally touched the corner of the instructor's mouth as he stared at his new canvas.
The royals think they threw away garbage, he thought silently, stepping onto the dusty earth.
They have no idea what kind of monsters I’m about to build.