With hesitation and palpable fear gripping him, Takada took a cautious step forward, as though each footfall was an act of daring defiance against the world. He moved past row after row of neatly arranged chairs, all occupied by faces that turned toward him like sunflowers tracking the sun—except these expressions radiated nothing but disbelief and thinly veiled scorn. Their sharp, penetrating gazes bore into him, as if silently asking, Who let this guy in?
Takada's legs quivered violently, resembling a baby deer learning to walk, and his progress was so painstakingly slow that it could have been mistaken for a methodical snail's pace. The instructor at the far end of the cavernous room, whose patience had already been tested beyond reasonable limits, finally snapped.
"Move it! Faster! I don't have all day to watch you crawl across this floor like some lost sloth! This entire lesson is in shambles because you can't figure out how to walk properly!" the instructor bellowed, his voice echoing through the room like thunder during a quiet library reading hour.
Takada flinched as though struck by lightning, nodding his head so timidly it might have been mistaken for a breeze shifting his hair. He quickened his steps, although "quickened" might be an overstatement. His trembling legs were now wobbling so erratically that he looked like a malfunctioning wind-up toy set loose on an obstacle course.
The room, grand and overwhelming, stretched endlessly before him like a tennis court designed for giants. The ceiling loomed high above, supported by architecture so pristine and expensive it screamed, You don't belong here. Takada's breath grew shallow as he neared the instructor, every step amplifying the crushing weight of judgment from all directions.
But fate had other plans for him. Just a few feet away from the instructor, Takada's traitorous foot found itself tangled in the lush red carpet that lined the floor, a carpet that might as well have been plotting against him this whole time.
"WHAM!"
Takada hurtled forward like a meteor, his body careening straight into the instructor with the force of a runaway shopping cart in a grocery store parking lot. The impact was seismic. Their heads collided with a resounding "CLONK!" that echoed through the room, a sound so cartoonishly loud it might have been followed by animated birds circling overhead.
The laws of physics took over from there. The instructor was sent sprawling to the ground, his dignity evaporating as he landed unceremoniously on his back. Takada, in a valiant yet completely futile attempt to recover, only succeeded in falling directly on top of him like a sack of potatoes tossed onto a very unlucky bed.
And then came the elbow. Oh, the elbow. In his frantic flailing, Takada's pointy joint found its unholy destiny as it drove mercilessly into the instructor's stomach with the precision of a homing missile.
"GHH…!" The instructor's groan was not just a sound but an entire symphony of agony and despair. He clutched his midsection, his face a contorted masterpiece of pain and disbelief, as if questioning every life choice that had led him to this humiliating moment.
Takada, for his part, froze like a deer caught in headlights—or, more accurately, like a man who had just unwittingly delivered a wrestling move in the middle of a lesson. Cold sweat poured down his face as he realized the full gravity of the disaster he had just orchestrated.
The room, once buzzing with judgmental silence, erupted into a cacophony of stifled laughter, gasps, and whispers that sounded suspiciously like bets being placed on whether the instructor would survive the encounter.
"Uh… sir? Are… are you okay?" Takada squeaked, his voice trembling like a leaf in a storm.
The instructor didn't answer immediately. He lay there, sprawled and defeated, staring at the ceiling as though contemplating his resignation letter. His breathing was labored, and his eyes, though hidden by his hands, likely burned with the fiery rage of a thousand suns.
"You… you absolute IDIOT!" he finally roared, his voice muffled but no less volcanic.
Takada, still awkwardly perched on top of the man, had no idea whether to apologize, laugh, or simply accept that he might not survive the day. Instead, he just lay there, frozen, desperately wishing for the ground to open up and swallow him whole—or at least for someone to turn the laughter down a notch.
"What are you waiting for, you foolish boy? Get off my body this instant!" the instructor roared, his voice filled with both fury and disbelief.
Takada, snapping out of his frozen state, scrambled to his feet as quickly as his shaky legs would allow. In his haste, he almost tripped over the instructor again, earning another sharp glare that could have melted steel. Once free of Takada's weight, the instructor let out a guttural groan and began the slow, arduous process of getting up, his movements stiff and awkward.
He clutched his lower back with one hand, the other bracing against his knee as though he were an ancient warrior recovering from a particularly brutal battle. His face contorted into a grimace of pain, and he muttered something under his breath about "kids these days" and "retirement coming too late."
Every move seemed to suggest that his spine was considering filing a formal complaint.
Meanwhile, Takada stood nearby, frozen like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. His fingers twitched nervously, and he pressed them together in a desperate attempt to channel his growing panic. His wide eyes darted toward the instructor, then back to the ground, as if silently praying to every deity he could think of to let him survive this ordeal.
Finally, the instructor straightened up, though his posture remained slightly hunched. He adjusted his uniform with a dramatic flourish, as though trying to salvage whatever shreds of dignity he had left. Then he turned to face Takada, his expression a perfect cocktail of anger, frustration, and begrudging composure.
Takada's heart sank. The man's glare was sharper than a set of freshly forged daggers, and his jaw was clenched so tightly it looked like it might snap. Takada, meanwhile, tried to shrink under the weight of the instructor's gaze, his hands now fidgeting so furiously it was as if he was trying to conjure up a magic spell to disappear.
The silence between them stretched uncomfortably long, filled only with the sound of the instructor's labored breathing and Takada's internal monologue screaming Don't die, don't die, don't die!,
The awkward silence between them, thick enough to cut with a knife, was suddenly shattered by the sound of muffled giggles coming from a nearby student. The laughter, barely restrained, quickly grew louder, drawing attention to the source—a student sitting not far from the unfolding disaster.
The instructor's face, already a mix of embarrassment and suppressed rage, flushed an even deeper shade of red. His eyes snapped toward the offender, and he barked, "Hey! You over there! What are you laughing at?! You little—when someone's in an accident, brats like you think it's funny? No manners! No respect! Kids these days!"
The student tried to stifle their laughter but failed miserably, which only added fuel to the instructor's already raging fire. Huffing and muttering to himself, the instructor stormed back to his chair, his steps heavy with frustration. He plopped down with such force that the chair creaked ominously under the weight of his indignation.
Slumping into the seat, he let out a long sigh and covered his face with both hands, as though attempting to shield himself from the collective judgment of the room. His shoulders sagged, and for a moment, it looked like he was considering whether he could just vanish into thin air and never return.
But alas, no such luck. With a resigned groan, he removed his hands from his face and glanced back at the sea of youthful faces staring at him—some still suppressing laughter, others frozen in awkward silence. His gaze eventually returned to Takada, who was still standing there like a statue, unsure if moving would trigger another catastrophe.
"Well? Are you going to sit down, or do you plan to keep standing there like some disaster magnet? Go on, take a seat, you walking catastrophe!" the instructor grumbled, waving a hand toward the nearest chair.
Hearing the instructor's exasperated command, Takada awkwardly shuffled toward the empty chair that had been pointed out. His movements were hesitant and clumsy, as if his limbs were being controlled by an amateur puppeteer. His heart pounded in his chest as he finally reached the seat and lowered himself into it with all the grace of a collapsing deck chair.
The room, which had been buzzing with suppressed laughter and murmurs just moments ago, fell silent again. It was as if the chaos had never occurred. The instructor, visibly trying to salvage his dignity, straightened his posture and resumed his speech, continuing with the introduction to the room and its purpose.
Takada sat there, stiff and mortified, avoiding eye contact with anyone. His cheeks burned red with embarrassment, and his eyes darted toward the floor, unwilling to meet the judgmental stares he was sure surrounded him. Beside him sat a student he didn't recognize, and Takada was content to keep it that way. Or so he thought.
Out of nowhere, he felt a light yet deliberate poke on his shoulder. The unexpected touch startled him, and his head slowly turned toward the source with the speed and reluctance of someone who had just been told there was a ghost behind them.
His gaze met that of the student sitting beside him—a boy who wore an amused, almost smug smile. His hair was an unusual shade of pale blue, with a silvery-white sheen that gave it the soft, fluffy appearance of something out of a fantasy film. His eyes were wide and bright, giving him an oddly youthful look despite the mischievous glint in them.
His calm yet slightly mocking expression created a puzzling contrast, and his porcelain-like skin only added to his ethereal, almost unreal charm.The boy's eyes locked onto Takada's with unnerving precision, and he finally spoke, his voice quiet yet laced with a teasing tone that somehow managed to sound both apologetic and insincere.
"Sorry about that," the boy said, his lips curling into a sly grin. "I was the one who laughed earlier."
Takada blinked, his mouth opening and closing like a fish gasping for air. "A-Ah! I-it's fine… no problem at all," he stammered, his words tumbling out in a nervous rush.
The boy's grin widened slightly, but he said nothing more. Takada, desperate to escape the conversation, quickly turned his head back toward the instructor, pretending to focus intently on the explanation of the room's rules.
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't shake the feeling of the boy's gaze lingering on him, like an invisible weight pressing against the side of his face. Takada gulped and resolved to ignore it, convincing himself that if he just stayed perfectly still, the strange, unsettling boy might lose interest.
After a few moments, the boy's expression shifted, his once mischievous grin vanishing as his face turned neutral and his gaze grew sharp, now fixed on the instructor speaking at the front of the room. He listened intently, as though the instructor's words were the threads of fate binding his very existence. This sudden change in atmosphere went unnoticed by most, save for Takada, who observed the boy with curiosity. The pale blue-haired boy's intense focus was almost magnetic, prompting Takada to redirect his own attention to the front and listen more carefully.
"Before we proceed, let me introduce myself," the instructor began, his voice steady yet commanding. "My name is Antoine Firmin."
As his name echoed across the room, a tense silence enveloped the space, so profound it was reminiscent of the stillness that follows a fire extinguished by a torrent of water, leaving only the sound of nature in its wake. No one dared to utter a word, their gazes locked on the imposing figure before them. Firmin paused briefly, his sharp eyes scanning the sea of unfamiliar faces. Then, with a furrowed brow and a trace of irritation flashing across his face, he adjusted his glasses, pushing them higher on the bridge of his nose, and straightened the collar of his shirt as though preparing for a formal address.
In a voice that resonated with authority, Firmin declared, "It is natural for you to feel tense—after all, you were forcibly taken from your homeland. But rest assured, I, as a representative of the White Knights organization, am here to guide you. Together, we will ensure you not only survive but become indispensable assets to this cause."
He halted once more, slipping a hand into his pocket and retrieving a peculiar object—a miniature apple with a single green leaf perched atop it. Without a word, his fingers plucked the leaf from the apple. Suddenly, the walls of the room, previously solid and unyielding, began to shift, faint lines forming as they separated to reveal a massive window divided into three sections. With a swift motion, white curtains descended like a cascading wave, their fabric billowing as the windows opened, allowing the morning breeze to rush in.
The sudden rush of wind and the brilliant sunlight flooding the room momentarily paralyzed the gathered crowd. Some were struck with awe, while others trembled with fear, the unfamiliar air and blinding light stark reminders of how far they had been taken from everything they once knew. Their attention was inevitably drawn to a colossal crimson flag swaying outside, its vibrant hue catching the light just as it unfurled. It stood tall and proud in the heart of an opulent white structure, a building both regal and foreboding.
Realizing the shift in focus, Firmin's voice grew louder, sharper, cutting through the awe-struck murmurs like a blade. His tone rose, as though he were an amplified broadcast, commanding absolute attention.
"You have come far, and there is no going back. You will never return to your parents, your families, or the lives you once knew," he said, his words striking like a hammer. "Because you have now felt the cool morning breeze of a land unlike any other..."
The room descended into chaos, his words a match igniting a firestorm of emotions. Cries of despair and protests filled the air, voices trembling with fear and anguish. Amid the cacophony, Takada whipped his head back to the instructor, desperation glinting in his eyes as he tried to catch the next words that would escape Firmin's lips.
"You have felt the cool morning breeze of China," Firmin declared, his voice rising above the turmoil. "Welcome, talented students, to the land of China—your new homeland."
The atmosphere in the room was filled with a chaotic symphony of hysterical screams and frantic chatter, a cacophony of discontent spilling from the mouths of students who spoke in a myriad of languages. With individuals from nearly every corner of the globe crammed into one room, the confusion and discord were as thick as the air they breathed. Amidst the uproar, one figure stood out—a commanding presence with sharp features and an undeniable aura of nobility. His golden hair seemed to gleam under the harsh lights, and his piercing gaze was fixed squarely on the instructor at the front of the room.
Suddenly, his voice rose above the tumult, cutting through the noise like the crack of a whip. Speaking in English, though heavily laced with his unmistakable Italian accent, he unleashed his fury with the fervor of someone unaccustomed to being ignored.
"What is the meaning of this outrage? What kind of vile, corrupt organization do you represent that you would stoop so low as to abduct students like us? What gives you the right to tear us away from our homes, our families, our lives? From the deepest depths of my soul, I reject everything you stand for! You, with your smug air of superiority and that ridiculous bookish demeanor—you're nothing but an old fool! Mark my words, if you do not release us this instant, I will ensure that the proper authorities hear of this atrocity! You will answer for what you've done!"
His voice echoed through the room with a fiery conviction that left the crowd momentarily stunned. Some of the other students paused, their wide-eyed stares shifting between the blonde boy and the instructor. The boy's tone, though dripping with disdain, carried an undeniable weight—a challenge hurled directly at the heart of the oppressive authority they all feared.
Upon hearing those words, the instructor fixed his gaze on the bold student who had dared to challenge him. A smirk of confidence crept across his face, as though the White Knights wielded authority far beyond that of the so-called officials. Finally, he spoke, his voice laced with derision and unwavering assurance.
"Authorities?" he said with a sardonic chuckle. "I'm afraid their mouths and minds are no longer their own. We've silenced them with a price they couldn't resist. Money talks, and in this world, justice bows to wealth."
The blond-haired student fell silent for a moment. His face shifted, his expression trembling between regret and rage. His hands clenched at his sides as his breathing grew uneven, and then, as if steeled by an unshakable resolve, he pushed himself out of his seat. Each step he took toward the instructor seemed heavier than the last, as though he bore the weight of the injustice he had long endured. The room was so silent it felt as though even time had stopped to witness this confrontation.
When he reached the instructor, he stood firm, staring directly into his eyes with a glare sharp enough to cut through steel. His panic had vanished, replaced by a fiery determination to reclaim his freedom. Without hesitation, he grabbed the instructor's collar in a vice-like grip, his knuckles whitening as his hands trembled with a mixture of fury and anguish.
"How many?!" he shouted, his voice quaking with the weight of his pain. "How many more lives will you destroy before you're satisfied?! I won't let you take the last shred of hope from us! If no one else dares to fight back, then I'll be the one to stand against you!"
The instructor remained eerily calm, his expression unreadable as he stared into the storm of emotions before him. The atmosphere in the classroom grew impossibly tense. Every student watching from their seats held their breath, too afraid to move, too stunned to speak. The blond-haired student's grip tightened even further, his chest heaving with heavy, labored breaths. His eyes burned with an uncontainable fury, a rage that had been simmering for far too long.
His right hand curled into a fist, trembling with the force of his emotions, ready to strike the man who had dared to stand as the symbol of everything he despised. His voice, rising to a roar, echoed throughout the room.
"You think I'll just sit back and swallow your lies?!" he bellowed, his tone seething with defiance. "If that's what you believe, then you're even more vile than I imagined! Do you think I'll bow to your twisted version of the truth? No! Justice and courage are not illusions—they're the fire that burns in the hearts of those you try to oppress! It's you and your kind who have poisoned this world with your deceit and fear! I refuse to become like you, no matter what it takes!"
His words hung in the air, heavy with conviction, as the room seemed to tremble under the weight of his declaration. The students looked on, their eyes wide with awe and terror, witnessing a moment that none of them would ever forget.
He swung his fist toward the instructor's face, but before the punch could land, a deafening sound reverberated through the classroom—BANG!
It all happened in an instant. The instructor, moving with the speed and precision of someone who had done this a hundred times before, had pulled an old pistol from his pocket and fired a single shot. The bullet struck the blond-haired student squarely in the head. His body staggered backward, his momentum collapsing like a crumbling wall, before crashing heavily onto the floor. The impact shattered the silence, sending shockwaves of horror rippling through everyone present.
The instructor's collar, rumpled from the force of the student's grip, hung awkwardly around his neck. Unfazed and emotionless, he calmly straightened his shirt, adjusted his round glasses, and took a moment to smooth out the fabric. Once satisfied that his appearance was back in order, he raised his eyes to the rest of the class. His cold, cutting words sliced through the stifling silence.
"One failure etched into history," he declared, his tone as lifeless as the body now lying on the floor.
The room was deathly quiet. Every pair of eyes was fixated on the lifeless form of the blond-haired student. Blood pooled rapidly around his head, its stark red contrast against the dull flooring painting a scene that none of them could have imagined moments earlier. The oppressive silence that followed was almost unbearable, making each passing second feel like an eternity.
From his corner of the room, Takada stood frozen, paralyzed by a reality too brutal to comprehend. Though the instructor wasn't even looking directly at him, Takada felt his gaze—a searing weight, as if the man's presence alone could pierce his soul. Yet Takada couldn't tear his eyes away from the body on the floor. His mind reeled, unable to reconcile what he'd just witnessed.
"What… What did I just see?" he thought, his breath shallow, his chest tightening as if constricted by invisible chains. "He… he actually killed him. Just like that. No hesitation. No remorse. As if it meant nothing.."
His heart thundered in his ears, each beat growing louder and faster, pounding against the suffocating weight of fear that clawed at him. "This isn't a dream. This isn't an illusion. He's dead. Dead, just because he spoke out!"
Takada's gaze shifted back to the instructor, who seemed disturbingly unaffected by the violence he'd just committed. The man's calm demeanor, the way he adjusted his collar and glasses as if it were just another day, sent chills down Takada's spine. He felt as though he were standing in a world where life and death were nothing more than a game, a world ruled by those who played god with others' fates.
"How can he be so calm?" Takada wondered, his throat dry and his hands trembling. "How can he feel nothing after taking a life?" His thoughts swirled, each more terrifying than the last.
"Will I end up like that too..?" A dark, inescapable question sank into the pit of his stomach. Takada's breathing quickened as his mind became a battleground. The lifeless body of the blond-haired student burned itself into his memory, a horrifying reminder of what defiance could cost. "If I fight back… will I be destroyed just as easily?"
His teeth clenched as he fought back the tide of emotions threatening to overwhelm him. "No… I can't think like this. I can't let fear win." But no matter how hard he tried to summon courage, it felt like sand slipping through his fingers.
The instructor's voice broke through the oppressive silence, each word a dagger that stabbed into the hearts of everyone present. "Would anyone else like to try something similar?" His tone was as icy and unforgiving as the gunshot that had just echoed through the room.
Takada's body remained rigid, his muscles locked in place, as if shackled by invisible chains. His mind churned, trapped between paralyzing fear and the faint glimmer of defiance struggling to break free. His heart raced as he realized the stakes.
"T-This is it..", he thought. "T-This moment will define who I really am. Am I going to sit here, drowning in terror like everyone else? Or will I stand up and fight, even if it costs me everything..?"
His eyes remained fixed on the instructor, who now loomed like an immovable shadow over the classroom. The weight of the situation pressed down on him, leaving him with one burning question, And! Will he let fear consume him, or..
Will he risk everything for what hes believe in?
-To Be Continued..