Ray woke to the sound of buzzing flies and a symphony of groans.

  His spine cracked like a rusted door hinge as he pushed himself up from the cold dirt. All around him, the training yard looked like a discarded pile of laundry; cadets were sprawled face-down in the sand, some still tracing crime-scene chalk outlines with their limp fingers. A few water mages lay snoring in shallow puddles of their own spell runoff, their mana completely spent.

  Ray rubbed his eyes—and froze.

  Towering above the entrance to the yard was a massive wooden board suspended by thick iron chains. The morning sunlight made the painted letters shine with a cruel, divine glow.

  GRAND HALL — BREAKFAST TIME (Attendance Mandatory)

  Ray squinted through the glare. “…Since when do they make signs for this?”

  Calen dragged himself upright beside him, looking like a corpse that had been summoned back for clerical duties. His normally smug face was lopsided, a spectacular purple bruise blossoming across his cheek like an angry flower. One eye was swollen half-shut, and his shirt hung in tatters, looking as though it had barely survived a bear attack.

  “Every year, apparently,” Calen croaked. “Ever since a bunch of cadets kept passing out in the wrong hallways before they could reach the porridge.”

  A few feet away, Harel rolled onto his back with a pitiful wheeze. His torso was a mosaic of sloppy healing-bandage patches—some glowing with fading magic, others just wet cloth. One of his arms twitched involuntarily every few seconds from residual electrical shock.

  “Breakfast…? Gods,” he wheezed. “I was halfway to the grave, and someone pulled me back by the hair.”

  Next to them, Rian sat upright in a silence so profound it was actually worrying. His right leg was entombed in a crude cast of hardened earth—a masterpiece of panic rather than skill. A half-trained water mage had clearly tried to stabilize a fracture, failed, and settled for burial instead.

  Each movement sent grains of dirt trickling from the shell, which was already spider-webbing under its own weight. Rian’s lip was split, and a slow trail of blood crept from a cut on his eyebrow, but his expression remained as blank as a fresh sheet of paper.

  “…Rian?” Ray asked cautiously.

  Rian blinked, his eyes unfocused. “I'm in pain.”

  “Fair enough,” Ray sighed.

  He pushed himself to his feet, fighting through muscles that felt like they had been run over by a heavy supply cart. Water-magic residue shimmered faintly on his skin; his cuts had closed halfway, leaving him looking like an unfinished painting of a mugging victim.

  The four roommates stared at one another—battered, bruised, and barely clinging to life—and then turned their collective gaze toward the glowing sign of salvation.

  Ray swallowed hard. “Right. Food. Let’s move before someone’s heart actually stops.”

  Calen nodded, clutching his ribs. “Realistically? It’ll be you.”

  Harel pointed a trembling finger at Rian. “No…it's the rock-man. Look at him. He’s becoming a geological formation.”

  “I am fine,” Rian lied, the stone around his leg cracking audibly with a sharp cr-ack.

  Ray sighed and slung one of Rian’s heavy arms over his shoulder. Calen did the same for Harel. Together, limping like the survivors of a catastrophic war rather than a school exercise, the four of them hobbled toward the Grand Hall.

  Around them, the "army" of first-years began to rise in slow, stiff waves. It looked less like a group of elite warriors and more like a zombie horde responding to a dinner bell.

  Ray inhaled deeply, catching the golden scent of toasted bread on the wind. Food. Warm food. Healing food. His stomach let out a cavernous growl, loud enough to startle a sleeping mage three feet away.

  “Alright,” Ray whispered to himself, his legs trembling like saplings in a gale. “New day. New arc. I can do this.”

  Behind him, a cadet promptly vomited into a nearby bush.

  Ray chose to take that as encouragement. He dusted off as much dirt as he could without dislocating his collarbone and leaned his weight into Calen. Together, they hobbled toward the sign as if it were the pearly gates of heaven.

  As they moved, Ray’s eyes began scanning the recovery piles for a familiar shade of light-brown hair. He was looking for Celestine. She’d been healing since sunrise, and he was already mentally drafting an invitation to bring her into their group. She was Elaine’s friend, after all, and in Ray’s book, that made her an automatic ally.

  Maybe she’ll even be Harem Member Number Two, he thought.

  Ray’s face instantly flushed a brilliant crimson. He shook his head violently, nearly toppling both himself and Calen. No. Stop. Don't get ahead of yourself. He was barely surviving basic training and currently looked like he’d been chewed up and spat out by a mountain troll. He was no legendary hero—not yet, anyway—and a "hero" who couldn't even walk straight didn't deserve a harem.

  Besides, would Elaine even allow that?

  The image of Elaine flashed in his mind—cool, precise, and utterly unshakeable. He couldn’t help but think that the second he even tried to start a harem, she’d shut it down with a single look. Or worse, she’d shut down the idea until he felt like a complete idiot for even thinking it. No, Elaine was definitely not the type to play along with trope-filled fantasies.

  He needed to focus on the basics: standing, eating, and not dying.

  Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

  Ray turned his gaze back toward the field—and then he saw him.

  Rowan.

  Both of the boy's eyes were swollen shut into matching purple balloons. His cheeks were puffed out like overripe, rotten fruit, and his lower lip looked like it had fought a boulder and lost. He stumbled along with the posture of someone who had been beaten by gravity, fate, and several dozen anonymous fists.

  Ray couldn't help it. A slow, petty, deeply satisfying smirk crept across his face.

  That’s what you get, you turd.

  As soon as Ray and his roommates limped into the Grand Hall, the noise hit them like a physical force.

  Laughter. Loud, unapologetic, merciless laughter.

  Senior cadets slammed their palms onto the tables. Squires pointed openly. Mages choked on their porridge. One upperclassman actually fell off his bench, wheezing for air as he pointed a shaking finger at the battered freshmen.

  “I suddenly regret being alive,” Calen muttered, trying to hide behind his own shoulder.

  Harel covered his face with his one good hand. “Can we… go back outside? Into the dirt? Please? The dirt was kinder than this.”

  Rian said nothing—mostly because his jaw was still locked stiff from a well-placed hook—but his left eye twitched with a deep, quiet humiliation.

  Ray took it all in. Every table was shaking. Every veteran student was grinning like it was their favorite holiday. Even the instructors were smirking behind their silver cups. This was mockery, yes, but more importantly, it was tradition. The Rite of First Combat: where those who survived the free-for-all showed up bruised and half-dead just so the entire academy could remind them they weren't special yet.

  Suddenly, Ray’s eyes widened as a realization hit him harder than Rowan’s right hook ever could.

  So that’s it.

  The real reason they hadn't been allowed in the Grand Hall for the last three years—back when their Foundation Vein training began—finally clicked into place. It wasn't for some noble, monk-like pursuit of focus. It wasn't to "protect" their young minds from distraction.

  It was so they would live in total, blissful ignorance.

  For three years, they had looked at the upperclassmen as untouchable, stoic warriors. They had no idea that every single one of these laughing seniors had once stood exactly where Ray was standing—limping, leaking, and looking like a discarded laundry pile. The Academy had curated their ignorance specifically for this moment: to make the sudden drop from "future hero" to "laughing stock" as steep and hilarious as possible.

  Rowan stumbled in behind them, his eyes swollen shut into purple, puffy slits. The roar of laughter doubled in volume, shaking the very rafters of the hall.

  Ray snorted, his own humiliation eased slightly by the sight. “Okay… that part might be deserved.”

  In the corner of his eye, Ray caught a flicker of movement—soft, controlled, and graceful.

  Elaine.

  She wasn’t laughing like the others—no dramatic wheezing or hysterics. But her lips were curved in a small, unmistakable smile. Her blue eyes shimmered with a warmth that only came when someone was trying to stay composed and failing just a little.

  Ray felt heat creep up his neck. She wasn’t just mocking him; she was enjoying him. For a heartbeat, her smile deepened, her eyes dancing with unspoken amusement.

  Ray whipped his head forward immediately. Great. Fantastic. Perfect. I can handle a hundred strangers laughing, but Elaine quietly enjoying my misery is where I draw the line.

  He tore his gaze away before he died of second-hand embarrassment—and then he froze again. Because sitting at one of the mage tables was someone he’d never expected to see expressing human emotion.

  Lucien D’Roselle.

  The quiet, blade-eyed statue. The storm-grey enigma who walked around like feelings were an optional DLC.

  Lucien was laughing.

  Not a smirk. Not a polite exhale. He was leaning back in his seat, one hand covering his mouth, his shoulders shaking with genuine, actual laughter as he watched the battered Knight cadets hobble in.

  And Ray knew—instinctively—that Lucien wasn’t laughing at the situation. He was laughing at him. Personally. Like Ray Melborne, looking like a half-cooked, bruised dumpling, was the funniest joke Lucien had ever heard.

  “What the—? Since when does he do that?!” Ray hissed.

  Calen winced. “Do what?”

  Ray pointed a trembling finger. “Laugh!”

  Harel blinked. “...He laughs?”

  Rian squinted through his one good eye. “I thought he only had two modes: ‘murder’ and ‘contemplating murder.’”

  Lucien finally noticed Ray staring. Their eyes met. Lucien’s laughter softened into a small, amused smile—his storm-grey eyes warm for exactly one second—before he turned away, effortlessly composed once more. But he was still smiling.

  Ray’s heart did a confused whiplash. “Why is he laughing at me?! What did I do?!”

  Calen clapped his shoulder sympathetically. “Buddy… you exist. That’s usually enough.”

  The Knight Division looked less like warriors and more like a horde of undead trying—and failing—to enjoy a meal.

  Ray sat hunched over his plate, his arms trembling so much he dropped his bread twice. He stared at it, defeated. “…I’ll just eat air.”

  Calen tried to lift a spoon, but his arm spasmed, flinging porridge directly into his own eye. He didn't even wipe it off. “I meant to do that.”

  Harel sipped water like an ancient monk. “I think my kidneys migrated,” he whispered. “They’re in my lower back now.”

  Rian managed to eat, but every bite made his stiff neck go CRK-CRK-CRK. “I can’t look left anymore,” he said softly. “This is my life now.”

  Across the room, Rowan Vernhard sat with a single tooth sitting sadly on his plate like a fallen comrade. He tried to chew and immediately whimpered. Ray grinned with petty, agonizing satisfaction.

  The Water Mages were in even worse shape. Their hands were shaking from a day of healing. One tried to conjure a drink and accidentally poked himself in the eye with a floating globule of water.

  Elaine watched it all from the engraver's table with perfect posture, sipping tea like she was watching a nature documentary about injured animals.

  Ray reached for his cup, his torso turning in one rigid piece because his neck was locked, when a flicker of movement from the top balcony caught his eye.

  Garret and Isolde.

  Garret was roaring, slapping the railing so hard it rattled. Isolde was laughing into her hand, her other hand pointing directly at Ray.

  “Why the hell are they even HERE?!” Ray hissed through his teeth.

  Calen followed his gaze. “Oh. Hey, aren’t those your siblings?”

  Ray’s eye twitched. “They GRADUATED already. Isolde graduated yesterday. They’re supposed to be GONE!”

  Isolde spotted him and mimed a dramatic thumbs-up—the universal sign for “You look pathetic.”

  Garret leaned over the railing, cupping his hands. “LOOK AT HIM! HE CAN’T EVEN HOLD A SPOON!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the hall.

  The surrounding tables erupted into fresh, howling laughter. Ray wanted the floor to open up and swallow him whole.

  “If my older siblings did that to me, I’d fake my own death,” Harel whispered.

  Ray dropped his forehead onto the table with a dull thud.

  “WE CAME BACK TO WATCH THE FRESHMAN BREAKFAST!” Garret called out joyfully. “IT’S TRADITION!”

  Of course. Of course, they stayed. His siblings had literally delayed their lives just to mock him from a balcony like evil aristocrats watching a peasant brawl.

  There was no dignity left. None at all.