The sun stood high and merciless over the school grounds, its light so sharp it seemed to bleach the color out of the sky. Somewhere above the rooftops, a flock of birds scattered in a panicked burst, as if they’d sensed something the ground below hadn’t yet noticed.
Madam Habi stood with her arms crossed, her brow furrowed into a hard line. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a weight of authority, a command so absolute the whole field went quiet to hear it.
"For what the three of you did," she said, each word measured, "you will apologize to Hasib. Now."
Beside her, the Principal cut an unusual figure, a shock of red hair, one eye magnified grotesquely behind a thick monocle. He gave a small cough, smoothed his mustache with two fingers, and turned his attention to the boys standing before him.
"Raka. Rohan." His voice was flat, almost bored. "You will be punished, of course. A hundred push-ups. A hundred squats. Then laps, as many as it takes for the lesson to sink in."
Rohan’s jaw tightened. "But it was Hasib’s fault. Wasn’t it?"
Madam Habi’s eyes narrowed to slits. "Are you truly going to argue with me right now?"
The Principal said nothing. He was watching Madam Habi instead, the set of her shoulders, the fire behind her eyes, and his pen moved rapidly across the notebook in his hands, scratching out notes no one else could see. His face had gone faintly red, though whether from the heat or from something else entirely, no one could say.
Madam Habi noticed the scribbling and stepped closer, tilting her head toward the page. The Principal, with the practiced ease of a man caught doing something he shouldn’t, slid the notebook behind his back and straightened his spine.
"Right, then," he said quickly. "Off to the field with you."
Hasib had been standing just outside the whole time. He saw them come out, saw the way Raka and Rohan’s eyes found him first, before anything else, their jaws tightening like coiled springs.
He met their stares for a moment, eyes narrowing slightly, then turned and walked into the classroom without a word.
Inside, classmates were settling into their seats with a low hum of chatter. Hasib’s gaze swept the rows until it landed on Sara, and something in his chest loosened, a crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. He crossed the room and dropped into the seat beside her without asking.
Sara did not smile back. Not even close.
"Hey! Sara...!" He lifted a hand in greeting.
Her eyes narrowed to thin slits. "Why are you sitting here? Go. Sit over there."
"But why?"
"Because I said so. Go."
Before he could argue further, a softer voice rose from the next row, quiet, almost hesitant, like it wasn’t sure it deserved to be heard.
"Hasib... you can sit here, if you want."
It was Hina.
He moved without a second thought, settling into the seat beside her instead. She reached up and tugged the edge of her veil a little further forward, then pressed her palm gently against her right cheek, as if trying to cool something that had no business being that warm.
Hasib studied her face for a moment. "Are you okay? You look a little flushed."
"N-no," she stammered, eyes darting anywhere but him. "I’m fine. Really."
Then, all at once, the chatter of the girls around them died.
A boy walked in through the classroom door, and the sound of his footsteps alone was enough to make Sara’s eyes go wide. He had sharp blue hair swept back in an effortless curve, narrow eyes, and a long fair nose that gave him the look of something carved.
Beside Sara, a girl’s pencil slipped from her fingers and clattered to the floor. She didn’t even notice. Sara’s lips parted on their own.
"...Rocky."
She waved, mouthing his name, gesturing for him to take the empty seat beside her. He looked at her, then walked straight past, settling instead into a seat near the back. The girls around the room turned to watch him with even more interest than before.
Hasib’s brow furrowed, and he muttered under his breath, "Hah. What an attitude. That’s not even cool."
Rocky pulled a book from his bag and opened it without acknowledging anyone. Sara let out a slow breath, her shoulders sinking just slightly. He hadn’t looked at her. Not even once.
The door opened again, and this time a man ambled in, silver-haired, a length of ribbon tied loosely around each wrist, moving with the rolling gait of someone who had never been in a hurry in his life. Every student shot to their feet at once.
"Hello, Yamin Sir!"
He waved them back down with a lazy flick of his hand. "Sit, sit." His eyes swept the room. "Now. Can anyone tell me the real reason we took you all to the Museum yesterday?"
He pointed at random. "You. Go on."
The boy he’d chosen scratched the back of his head, groaning. "Me? Ugh, why does it always have to be me? Can’t a guy get some peace around here?"
Yamin Sir chuckled, unbothered. "To learn about our Legendary Warriors, of course. What else would it be?"
His gaze shifted, and he gestured for Hasib to stand.
Hasib blinked, glancing left and right before pointing at his own chest. "...Me?" He rose slowly. Beside him, Hina’s eyes followed his every movement. A ripple of quiet laughter passed through the room, students nudging each other, already anticipating something to laugh at.
Hasib ignored all of it. He closed his eyes, lifted his chin, and let the words rise from somewhere deep and unshaken.
"To see my own future. Because I truly believe that one day, I will become a Legendary Warrior too. And my memory, my story, will stand in that museum, just like theirs."
For a moment, the entire classroom went still. Then the laughter broke, loud, rolling across the room in waves. But at the back, Rocky’s lips curved into the faintest hint of a smile, there and gone in an instant.
Hina didn’t laugh at all. She simply watched him, steady, a small smile of her own settling quietly on her face.
Yamin Sir showed no reaction whatsoever. "Well then," he said simply. "Best of luck to you." He let the laughter die down on its own before continuing. "Now, why are you all laughing? Have you forgotten? Tomorrow is the Cadet Selection."
"Yes, sir!" the class answered as one.
"Then prepare yourselves. Truly prepare. Tomorrow, you prove yourselves worthy of your country, and you begin building the identity that will carry you for the rest of your lives."
Something flickered behind Hasib’s eyes, small but alive.
"Alright," Yamin Sir said, clapping his hands together once. "Everyone, to the training ground. Now."
The training ground stretched out beneath the open sky, dust rising faintly with every gust of wind that swept across it. Hasib stood at its center, an ordinary practice sword gripped in both hands, facing Rohan across the sun-baked earth.
Rohan’s brow was drawn low, his lips curled into a smirk. He rolled his neck side to side, settling into an arrogant stance.
"It’s about time," he said, "someone taught you exactly what you’re worth."
He closed the distance in a single leap.
Around the edges of the field, students pressed closer to watch. Hina clasped both hands together at her chest, her voice rising above the murmur of the crowd.
"You can do this, Hasib!"
Rohan’s blade came down in a hard slash. Hasib barely managed to catch it, the impact jolting up through his arms and forcing him a step backward, the sword trembling faintly in his grip. Before he could steady himself, Rohan struck again, straight for his face. Hasib twisted just enough to block the worst of it, but the edge still caught his cheek, opening a thin line that welled red almost instantly.
Hina flinched, her eyes squeezing shut for a heartbeat, then forced them open again, unwilling to look away.
"Give up," Rohan sneered. "You’re weak."
Heat rose in Hasib’s chest, sharper than fear. He clenched his jaw until it ached, tightened his grip until his knuckles went white, and drove forward with everything he had, sword raised.
But Rohan was faster. Three quick steps, a twist of the body, and he was already behind him, the blade whistling through the air in a brutal backward arc.
"Huh. Loser."
Without thinking, without planning it at all, Hasib’s hand shot out and caught Rohan’s wrist mid-swing. He turned, seized the other arm too, and drove his head forward in a desperate strike.
The impact cracked through the silence of the field. Blood bloomed across both their brows. Hasib staggered and dropped to the ground. Rohan swayed on his feet for one long second, then his knees buckled, and he collapsed into the dirt beside him.
Darkness swallowed everything.
Then, out of nowhere, a pale light unfurled in front of Hasib’s fading vision, a screen, hovering in the black, its words glowing cold:
[DO YOU WANT TO BECOME A STRONG WARRIOR?]
[YES OR NO]