Marcus Barrows glanced at the transparent window in front of him and sighed heavily. The screen displayed the image of a battered boy, sprawled on the ground in exhaustion, fast asleep. Beside him stood the training dummy, now motionless, as if frozen in the aftermath of the relentless struggle.
After learning about the boy's low ranking, Barrows had done some digging and confirmed his suspicion.
Every year, all academies across the world randomly selected orphans—children whose parents had died on the frontlines—and allowed them to study free of charge, as long as they maintained passing grades. At Astralis Academy, the number was precisely 1,000.
Needless to say, this well-meaning gesture had its flaws, particularly at Astralis Academy, where it functioned more as a PR stunt than a genuine opportunity. The orphans who accepted the offer were rarely a match for the students from prestigious families, who had access to training, resources, and mentorship long before stepping into the academy. As a result, these orphans frequently found themselves among the bottom 1,000 in the rankings, becoming easy targets for bullying, and most of them dropped out after the first midterm.
And as Marcus suspected, Aiden Reed was one such orphan.
His physical stats weren't particularly bad, and his mental resilience was commendable, but that was where the positives ended. His combat skills were abysmal, and even more concerning, Marcus hadn't seen any signs of mana usage during his fight. Despite ranking relatively high among the orphans, Aiden was still weak compared to the rest of the academy. Every year, only about 100 of the orphans managed to pass the first year, and the number of those who actually graduated could often be counted on two hands.
Marcus considered calling for a medic but ultimately decided against it. While he felt a twinge of sympathy for the resilient kid, there was no real reason to intervene. Having a dead weight in the class was unpleasant for everyone, and it would likely be better if Aiden realized his situation and dropped out on his own. It would spare him the inevitable hardship that was bound to come.
With that, Marcus turned off the screen, casting one last glance at the beautiful sunset through the massive glass wall of his office. The warm hues of the fading light filled the room, but he paid them little mind. Without another thought, he turned and quietly left his office, letting the door click shut behind him.
***
"Yaaaaw—ugh!" I groaned, waking up to the sharp sting of every muscle twitching in protest from yesterday's brutal training. Ignoring the pain, I slowly sat up, momentarily confused about where I was.
Looking around, my heart nearly jumped out of my chest when I saw the training dummy looming over me. Finally, the memories came flooding back.
"I must have passed out during training," I muttered to myself.
Despite the soreness, my body felt strangely refreshed. I stood up, grabbed the daggers lying nearby, and sheathed them in the scabbards at my sides—the ones that came with the weapons.
With another yawn, I stumbled out of the glass cube I have been using, into the huge training hall huge hall. This particular hall was massive, filled with such glass cubes, each with transparency settings for private training. The number of dummies inside varied, but for my first session, I had only chosen one. That was enough of a challenge.
As I stepped outside, I noticed the glass cube I had been in turn from opaque to transparent, revealing its battered occupant. I squinted at the bright morning light, trying to piece together how long I'd been out. Three or four hours, maybe?
Curious, I summoned the system window to check the time—then froze.
"Fuck."
I hadn't slept for just a few hours. I had been knocked out the entire night. It was 7:45 a.m.
I glanced down at myself, my torn, bloodied, and sweat-drenched clothes clinging to me. The sight, and worse, the smell, were horrendous.
Blinded momentarily by the rising sun as I exited the building, I realized I only had two choices: rush back to my room, shower, change, and show up late to my first class—guaranteeing punishment—or go to class like this.
The decision was obvious.
Cursing my bad luck and stupidity, I started sprinting toward the building where my homeroom was located.
***
Selene could only be described as an exceptionally stoic person, someone who had nearly perfected the art of controlling her emotions. Trained from a young age to be an assassin, she had performed her first mission—her first kill—at the tender age of ten.
Nothing could shake her... or at least, that's how it usually was. But maintaining her usual composure around him was proving to be unexpectedly difficult.
That guy currently sat two seats away, staring blankly at the teacher as if he had no idea what was going on. He had come sprinting into the room just seconds before the teacher, disheveled and clearly unprepared. His clothes were dirty, drenched in sweat—both old and new—and stained with blood. To top it off, the smell he carried was almost unbearable.
Selene stole a quick glance his way, wondering how in the world someone could look so out of place and yet remain so calm about it. Keeping her usual nonchalant demeanor was becoming harder by the second.
He was currently scribbling on a piece of paper with a pen—both of which, much to her dismay, had been borrowed from her. Five minutes into the lecture, he had leaned over with teary eyes and a desperate plea for help. She had reluctantly handed them over, and now regretted it as she watched him struggle.
From what she could see, his handwriting resembled that of a third grader, with multiple grammar mistakes scattered across each sentence. Watching him write was almost physically painful, and she found herself wincing with every crooked letter.
She turned her gaze back to the professor, determined to focus on the lesson, but for some reason, she just couldn't shake her distraction. Her thoughts drifted back to him, frustration bubbling beneath her calm exterior.
What's this guy's deal, honestly...?