I sat in a chair, my posture relaxed but my mind far from idle. Conversations filtered through the walls of the classroom, the dull murmur of students in the hallway outside. I wasn't eavesdropping—too much pointless chatter for that—but ignoring the range of my enhanced hearing would be wasteful. So, I listened, cataloging voices and words without much investment. Nothing of value so far.
Im front of me, Professor Port sat at his mahogany desk, cradling a coffee mug like it was a treasure of the highest order. The drink seemed potent—each sip sharpened his movements, his already-animated gestures growing even more exaggerated. His mustache twitched in rhythm, a curious tell that might've been amusing if I weren't focused on assessing him.
"Ahh... would you like a cup as well, young Drago?" he asked, his booming voice cutting through the ambient silence.
I didn't particularly want any, but turning down a simple gesture might not be wise. Rapport mattered more than personal preference in these situations.
"Of course, professor," I said, letting a trace of interest slip into my tone. "It seems to pack a punch."
"Oh, my boy, you have no idea..." Port said with a chuckle, the corner of his mustache curling upward like it was enjoying the conversation too.
The man moved with a deliberate ease, retrieving another mug from beneath his desk and pouring the coffee as though time were his to squander.
I couldn't pinpoint what this was supposed to accomplish. Interrogation? Unlikely. My dossier contained everything I was willing to share, and dredging it up here and now would be a waste of time. A reprimand for my earlier actions? Didn't feel like it. Praise for my performance? No chance. The room was full of people who could've outclassed my display easily enough. Two of them were even second years, if I wasn't mistaken.
Take the Eidetic Memory girl, for example. I could barely remember her name, but her semblance had my attention enough to make up for it.
Port's booming voice snapped me back to the present. "Here you go, Mr. Geas," he said, sliding the mug toward me. His grin widened beneath that twitching mustache. "As you guessed, this is a special brew—reserved for faculty, typically. Do tell me how you like it."
His laugh was hearty, genuine, but I wasn't buying the act. This was all fluff, a thin layer of pleasantries masking whatever real reason he had for keeping me here.
And worse, it was cutting into my break. I let my fingers brush the mug's handle, feigning interest. Stalling tactics disguised as generosity—classic power play. If I called it out, it'd probably make things worse. If I didn't, I'd just waste more time.
Guess I'd have to play along.
"Thank you, Professor," I said, my fake smile warming up just enough to seem genuine.
The coffee looked...ordinary. A deep brown, nearly black, with a lighter edge where it kissed the white rim of the mug. Nothing suspicious. I doubted Port, for all his quirks, would risk giving me something illegal. More likely, it was just an ultra-caffeinated brew they didn't want circulating among hyperactive teenagers. Fair enough.
I lifted my gaze, meeting his eyes with fake excitement. If this was a test of patience, then I would have to fail it shortly. Hot-headed kids would've snapped by now, and I'd already played the polite card for longer than most would. I couldn't wait him out, though I was curious how long he planned to drag this out.
He surprised me by raising his mug instead.
"A toast to you, Mr. Geas. May your life at Beacon be the best possible experience."
Huh. That sounded sincere. Genuinely sincere. For a moment, it made me reassess the man. Maybe he wasn't just stalling—he cared, or at least wanted to seem like he did. It wasn't the worst trait to have in a teacher.
My reply was almost genuine too. "To you as well, Professor. May your axe remain sharp, your heart strong, and your lessons lead us to slay many Grimm."
The mugs clinked softly, the sound oddly grounding.
I lifted mine and took a long sip.
Then the world exploded.
Ghostly arms wrapped around me, my mother's warmth enveloping me as her soft voice whispered that everything would be okay. The breeze of an early morning, impossibly fresh, broke through stone and glass to fill my lungs, invigorating me. The muted noise of students in the hallway disappeared, replaced by something else entirely.
Birdsong. High above, the air was alive with it. Beacon's towers must've been home to countless birds, their morning trills weaving a symphony of peace. It wasn't just calming—it was transcendent. A revelation. Time itself seemed to pause, worries about the future, regrets from the past—all gone. There was only the now, a fleeting moment of perfect clarity.
A tear welled in the corner of my eye, trailing down my cheek and hanging there, unnoticed and forgotten.
Across the desk, Port sat with what could have been a shit-eating grin, except he was far too dignified for something so crass.
Oh. So that's how it was.
"Professor," I said, voice calm despite the revelation. "You mentioned this…" Ambrosia "…coffee was reserved exclusively for faculty members?"
"Indeed, Mr. Geas," he replied, his grin somehow widening. "I'm afraid so."
This was revenge.
"...I deeply apologize for damaging your coat during sparring, Professor,"
Port's grey eyes glinted with amusement, his weathered face crinkling in a way that suggested he'd heard far worse excuses over the years.
"Hohoho, don't worry, Mr. Geas," he chuckled, his tone annoyingly jovial. "Accidents happen all the time. Hurry along now—I'm sorry for rambling so much. You know how old people are."
You didn't even say anything.
"It's been a pleasure talking to you, Professor," I replied, lifting the mug and downing the rest of the Ambrosia in one smooth motion. Pure bliss flooded my senses again, and I could only thank my semblance for the poison resistance I had. Without it, I'd never have risked drinking it all at once.
"You too, young Drago. You too…" he said with a chuckle, his amusement lingering as I gave him a final nod and left the classroom.
That could have been worse. Much worse. The old man was far sharper than his theatrics let on. It made me almost dread meeting the even older, even sharper man who ran this school.
Almost.
For now, though, it was time for the next class.