Time soon passed, and with Mozart's introduction of the syllabus, class F was in full swing

The entrance ceremony had long since ended, and the opening banquet was nearing ever closer.

At this time, he sun had set over the Academy, painting the white spires in hues of blood orange

In this setting, while the rest of the campus prepared for the prestigious Opening Banquet,

The students of Class F lay face-down in the mud near the sewage treatment plant, gasping for air like dying fish.

"I can't... I can't breathe..." Lukas wheezed, his face streaked with dirt and vomit.

"Get up," Alaric rasped.

The Protagonist was barely holding together. His bandages had unraveled and dragged through the muck, his legs trembling so violently they threatened to give out. Still, he remained standing.

He reached down and offered Lukas a filthy hand.

"The Professor said... if we're late to the Banquet... we run again," Alaric choked out.

Lukas stared at the hand, then at the rusty iron sword strapped to Alaric's back. With a groan, he grabbed it and hauled himself upright.

"He's a demon," Lukas spat, checking his eyebrows to see if they had grown back.

Truth check, they hadn't. "Mozart is a demon in a suit."

Nearby, Elena brushed dust from her dress. Even coated in grime, she carried herself with natural grace.

Her breathing was steady, high Elves endured exertion differently, but irritation sharpened her gaze. She despised sweat.

"We're late," Elena said, gesturing toward the glowing lights of the Grand Hall.

"And I refuse to run again."

….

[The Grand Hall]

The Grand Hall was a monument to excess. Its ceiling shimmered with an enchanted night sky, constellations drifting slowly across its surface.

Floating candles bathed the room in warm gold. Long banquet tables overflowed with roasted beasts, exotic fruits, and cascading fountains of wine.

Five thousand students sat arranged by class rank.

Closest to the faculty table sat Class S, immaculate uniforms, styled hair, relaxed laughter. Mana auras flared casually around them, a display meant to be seen.

At the center of the Golden Table lounged Prince Nero, regaling his entourage.

"...so I told the guard, 'Touch my cloak again and I'll have your hand chopped off.' And the fool actually cried."

The table burst into laughter.

"Your Highness is truly merciful," a noble girl giggled, brushing his arm.

At the far end of the hall, near the service entrance, the heavy oak doors creaked open.

Class F entered.

They moved like survivors, not guests. Limping. Dragging their feet. Uniforms soaked in sweat and mud, bodies radiating exhaustion.

A hush spread through the hall.

Prince Nero curled his lip. "Did they roll here?"

"I heard their instructor made them run the perimeter," someone whispered. "On the first day."

"Barbarians," Nero said, lifting his goblet. "Just like their teacher."

At the Faculty High Table, the professors observed in silence.

Professor Arthur swirled his vintage red wine and glanced toward Mozart, who sat at the far end of the table, calmly cutting into his steak.

"Your students resemble beggars, Mozart," Arthur said loudly, projecting for the Dean.

"They're ruining the appetite of the nobility. Is humiliation your teaching method?"

Mozart continued eating. He chewed, swallowed, then wiped his mouth with a linen napkin.

"Hunger builds character, Arthur," he replied evenly. "Something your students seem short on."

Arthur slammed his goblet down, wine spilling over the rim. "You—!"

DING.

DING.

DING.

The sharp tap of a spoon against crystal silenced the hall.

Dean Alice rose from her seat. Her crimson robes flowed like liquid blood, and the pressure of her presence Peak 6th Order rolled outward, commanding attention.

"Welcome," she announced, her voice carried by wind magic, "to the Central Academy."

Her gaze swept across the hall, pausing on the pale faces of the first-years.

"You stand here as the chosen. The shield against the darkness. The sword against the Abyss."

Cheers erupted. Spines straightened. Pride swelled.

Alice raised a hand.

"Talent alone is insufficient," she continued. "This year, our curriculum emphasizes practical application."

She turned toward the end of the table.

"To that end, we welcome a new faculty member. A man with a… distinct approach to discipline."

Her smile was sharp.

"Professor Mozart. Please."

Arthur leaned back, smirking. The other professors watched with interest, waiting for the masked pianist to falter under five thousand stares.

Yet Mozart set his cutlery down, perfectly aligned.

He rose.

The silver half-mask caught the candlelight. His posture was relaxed, detached.

He remained by his chair.

His gaze swept the hall. Class S's arrogance, Class D's unease, Class F's bone-deep fatigue.

"Dean Alice calls you the elite," Mozart said, his voice carried by [Mana: Resonance], soft yet inescapable. It settled into every ear.

"I see something else."

A ripple of unease moved through the room.

"I see livestock," Mozart continued. "Soft. Well-fed. Waiting."

A noble from Class S shot to his feet. "How dare you! My father is a Duke—!"

BOOM.

Mozart released his Intent.

A fragment. Just enough.

The air collapsed inward. Candles flickered blue. The false sky darkened, clouds spiraling into a violent storm. The scent of ozone and iron filled the hall.

The noble crumpled back into his chair, eyes rolling white, foam spilling from his mouth.

Silence.

Five thousand students froze, lungs locked, bodies pinned by invisible weight. It felt like something vast had coiled around the hall, patient and predatory.

Mozart stepped forward, descending from the High Table.

"The Abyss does not recognize titles," he said, each footstep cracking against the marble.

He passed Prince Nero. The Prince's hand crushed his fork until it bent, his glare collapsing under instinctive terror.

"It does not care about your mana," Mozart continued. "Your wealth. Your beauty."

He stopped at the center of the hall.

"Look left."

The students obeyed.

"Look right."

They turned again.

"Before this year ends," Mozart said quietly, his words sinking deep, "one of you will be dead."

The hall held its breath.

"Thirty percent of first-years do not survive this Academy. This is not a school. It is a filter."

His gaze shifted to the back.

Class F.

Mud-stained. Hollow-eyed. Standing firm.

They had already endured him once today.

Alaric watched from the shadows, posture rigid, attention locked on every word. Each sentence carved itself into his mind.

Behind the mask, Mozart smiled.

"If you intend to live," he said to the room, "abandon heroic fantasies. Heroes die first."

He turned and returned to his seat.

"Enjoy your meal."

The pressure vanished.

For several seconds, nothing moved.

Then a fork scraped against a plate.

Conversation never returned. The hall filled only with cautious chewing and lowered eyes.

Dean Alice leaned closer to Mozart, amused. "A bit excessive?"

"Fear accelerates learning," Mozart replied, lifting his glass. "And my standards are unforgiving."

At the Class F table, Lukas stared at his chicken, hands shaking.

"I was wrong," he whispered. "He's not a demon."

Alaric tightened his grip on his sword, eyes burning.

"No," he said. "He's worse."

And for the first time that night, he smiled.

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