Tod adjusted his glasses, the soft gleam of the classroom lights reflecting off the lenses. "Now, ranking the headsman. First, we have cadets, like ourselves. Then comes the black hat headsman, who makes up the majority of our order. After that, we have the colored hat squads. Currently, we have the crimson and white squads, the latter is here with us. How fortunate we are to experience the presence of the best headsman of our era. Truly remarkable," Tod explained, his voice exuding admiration.
Bran clenched his teeth in frustration, slamming his hand down on the table, causing the surrounding students to jump in surprise. "Best headsman? Headsman are supposed to protect people, but they…"
In that moment, Bran's mind flashed back to his friend Dab lifeless body on the courtyard.
"Do you believe that what you saw today is what a headsman should be?" Bran asked, turning to face his classmates.
The room fell into an uneasy silence.
"Our motto is: 'What makes a headsman is his heart,'" Bran continued, his voice tinged with bitterness. "What a load of horseshit." Bran sat back in his place.
A sudden silence was placed on the whole class, as they thought through what just Bran talked about.
"Thank you for that, Bran," Tod remarked, his voice carrying a hint of irony. "So, after the colored caps, there's the council, then the bishop. And above them is the king, of course. In the past, we had a special role for the strongest headsman, someone who could serve as a beacon for the entire world, representing our profession. This role was called Omega because it was believed to herald the end of the vampire menace."
"That's what I'm talking about!" Alfred exclaimed as he jumped up onto the table, his enthusiasm contagious. "I'll be the next Omega!"
"Well, we haven't had an Omega in the last fifty years," Tod began to explain, but Alfred wasn't about to be deterred. "So its doubtful-"
"What about the women who help the headsman?" Layla chimed in as she, too, hopped onto the table. "I'll be the first headswoman."
The rest of the students in the classroom chuckled, as they had heard Layla make this declaration many times before.
"Well, I'm all for the idea of allowing women to be headsman," Tod remarked, his mind briefly wandering as he imagined Layla in a sleek headsman tricorn hat and jacket. His thoughts took a more frivolous turn, but he quickly cleared his throat and returned to the conversation. "I think it's a good idea."
"I don't need your pity," Layla replied defiantly, her determination unwavering. "I'll earn it on my own."
Wanzi suddenly sat up straight. "Women can't take angel blood," he stated plainly. The room fell silent once again, Layla's teeth audibly grinding as she absorbed this harsh truth. "And if I heard correctly, you lost a duel over this. How do you plan to become a headsman if you can't even keep your word?" Wanzi's words were blunt and unsparing, and Layla couldn't help but feel a mix of shame and anger.
Alfred, not one to be discouraged easily, offered his own spirited remark. "Well, I can still become an Omega," he said with a confident smile.
The class collectively sighed, seemingly exhausted by the antics of these two strong-willed students. Someone in the room muttered, "Get a room, you two."
Startled by the remark, Layla and Tod both froze. Almost simultaneously, they began to protest, "Hold up..."
****
In the dimly lit training room, an expansive hall with wooden floors and an assortment of dusty weapons lining the walls, the air was thick with an aura of neglect. Cobwebs clung to the corners, testifying to the room's infrequent use, reserved exclusively for the headsman's training sessions.
Amidst the shadowy recesses of this chamber, Bran and his companions huddled together, their faces etched with determination and desperation.
"We need to take advantage of this opportunity while they're here," one of them whispered fervently.
"I think I can get my hands on some poison from the cellar," another offered, his voice laced with grim intent.
The room was filled with cautious nods and murmured agreements. Everyone was onboard with the plan, except for Bran. His gaze remained distant, lost in thought.
"Then we can put it in their drinks when they're not looking," someone suggested, their voices brimming with anticipation.
Enthusiasm rippled through the group, except for Bran, who remained silently conflicted.
"That's not what a headsman would do," Bran finally spoke, his voice barely above a whisper.
A dissenting murmur arose amongst his friends.
"Who cares about the headsmen?" one of them retorted bitterly. "They train us like animals and they don't even feed us enough."
"The only way we can seek revenge is if we become strong enough, change how the headsman operate from the inside," Bran argued, his tone filled with quiet resolve.
"But can we become strong enough? You're the only one who might survive the angel blood assimilation, if we're even lucky enough to be alive by then. This is our chance, Bran, and we might not get another with the white hat squad," another voice chimed in.
"Yeah, I think so too. We can't afford to wait around, not after what they did to Dab," someone added.
"So, Bran, are you in?" they asked in unison, the weight of their plan hanging heavily in the air.
The pressure mounted on Bran as he hesitated. He understood the gravity of their mission and the risks involved. It felt like a suicide mission.
Just as Bran was about to reply, the door to the training room creaked open. In walked Alfred, his presence casting a sudden and unexpected light on the group.
Alfred's arrival triggered the group's retreat, emphasizing the seriousness of their hidden agenda.
"Hey there, fellas. How's your friend?" Alfred inquired, addressing the group.
Everyone else had hurried away, leaving only Bran to confront Alfred. He mustered a weak smile amidst his unease.
"Thanks to you, he'll survive. But he's never going to be handsome... well, he never was," Bran chuckled weakly, his voice tinged with bitterness.
"Good to hear," Alfred replied, his tone casual, before turning to leave.
Bran couldn't let it rest. He had to know.
"How?" he blurted out, his voice quivering. "How did you manage to step in when you could've died?"
Alfred paused for a moment, pondering the question.
"You could die any day," he finally responded with a shrug, his words laden with an enigmatic gravity.
With that, Alfred continued on his way, leaving Bran standing there, his mind a whirlwind of confusion and intrigue.