I woke up to Kyle shaking my shoulder like the building was on fire.

"Jin! Jin, come on! First day of classes! We can't be late!"

It's too early for this.

I cracked one eye open. Pale morning light filtered through the window.

"What time is it?" I mumbled.

"Seventh bell just rang! We've got an hour before class starts!"

An hour. That's plenty of time.

"Then why are you waking me up now?"

"Because we need to eat! And get there early! Good seats, remember?"

I groaned, dragging myself upright.

"Fine. Give me five minutes."

"Yes!" Kyle was already dressed, bouncing on his heels like an overexcited puppy.

How does he have this much energy every morning?

I splashed water on my face, changed into my uniform, and grabbed the schedule that had been slipped under our door last night.

Morning (8th Bell): Foundations of Combat Theory — Professor Thorne — Hall B-3

Mid-Morning (9th Bell): Weapons Fundamentals — Instructor Kael — Training Ground West

Afternoon (11th Bell): Tactical Analysis — Professor Vane — Hall A-7

Evening (13th Bell): Elective: TBD

Foundations of Combat Theory. A lecture.

Kyle was already at the door, practically vibrating. "Come on! Breakfast, then class!"

I followed him out, tucking the schedule into my jacket pocket.

The dining hall was packed.

Long wooden tables filled with students eating bread, porridge, fruit, and some kind of meat pie.

Kyle grabbed two bowls of porridge and a couple of apples, balancing everything precariously as we found seats near the back.

I ate slowly.

Kyle, naturally, finished his food in about thirty seconds and spent the rest of the time talking about how excited he was for weapons training.

"Do you think we'll get to spar? Or is it just drills? I hope it's sparring. I wanna see how I stack up against everyone else. I mean, I know I'm not the best, but—"

"Kyle."

"Yeah?"

"You're gonna be fine."

He grinned. "Thanks, man."

Then we moved.

---

Hall B-3 was on the second floor of the main academic building, a large white stone room with rows of wooden desks facing a raised platform at the front. Tall windows lined one wall, letting in natural light that made the space feel less oppressive than it could have been.

We arrived early, just like Kyle wanted. The room was already half-full, students claiming seats, chatting quietly, flipping through blank notebooks or reviewing notes from... somewhere.

Kyle picked a spot in the middle, not too close to the front, not too far back. I slid into the seat next to him, pulling out a blank notebook and a pencil I'd grabbed from the supplies in our dorm.

More students filed in.

The eighth bell rang.

And the door opened.

A man walked in, middle-aged, broad-shouldered, with graying hair tied back in a short ponytail. He wore practical clothing under his instructor's robe, and his hands were scarred in a way that said he'd spent a lot of time holding a sword.

He crossed to the platform, set down a stack of papers, and turned to face the class.

"My name is Professor Thorne," he said, his voice rough but clear. "This is Foundations of Combat Theory. If you are not supposed to be here, leave now."

No one moved.

"Good. Let's begin."

He didn't waste time with pleasantries or icebreakers. No introductions. No warm-up.

Straight to business.

I like him already.

"Combat," Thorne said, pacing slowly across the platform, "is not about swinging a sword until your opponent falls down. It is about understanding variables. Distance. Timing. Momentum. Leverage. Every fight is a problem, and your job is to solve it before your opponent solves you."

He stopped, scanning the room.

"You will fail at this. Repeatedly. The question is whether you learn from your failures or repeat them until someone kills you."

Thorne turned and began writing on the board behind him, terms and concepts in neat, precise handwriting.

'Engagement Range: The distance at which combat begins.'

'Initiative: Who controls the pace and flow.'

'Commitment: The point at which an action cannot be reversed.'

'Recovery: The time needed to reset after an action.'

"These are your fundamentals," he said without turning around. "Every decision you make in combat relates to one or more of these concepts. Ignore them, and you die."

I started writing, copying the terms into my notebook.

Engagement range. Initiative. Commitment. Recovery.

This is just... programming logic.

Input, process, output. Timing and execution. If-then statements.

Thorne continued, breaking down each concept with examples, how a spearman controls engagement range, how a dagger user exploits recovery windows, how committing to a heavy swing leaves you vulnerable if you miss.

I wrote quickly. Some of the terms he used were unfamiliar with fantasy world bullshit about "mana flow disruption" and "aura pressure" but the underlying logic was solid.

Where I didn't understand something, I made notes in shorthand, almost like commenting code:

Aura pressure = intimidation factor? Or actual mechanical debuff?

Mana flow disruption = interrupt casting?

Commitment window = animation lock. Don't overcommit if low HP.

Kyle was also taking notes, though his handwriting was messier and he kept glancing at the board like he was afraid he'd miss something.

Thorne moved on, discussing the concept of tempo, the rhythm of combat, how controlling tempo meant controlling the fight.

"If your opponent dictates the pace," Thorne said, "you are reacting. Reaction is slower than action. You will lose."

Yeah. That tracks.

Stay ahead of the fight. Control the tempo.

Same logic as debugging. Find the problem before it crashes the system.

He began drawing diagrams on the board.

I copied the diagrams, my brain automatically translating them into something more familiar.

Hitboxes. Range indicators. Movement prediction.

He paused, looking directly at the class. "Questions?"

A noble in the front row raised his hand. "Professor, what about mages? How do we account for spells in close combat?"

"Good question," Thorne said. "Mages are glass cannons. High damage, low durability. Your goal is to close the distance before they can finish casting. Most spells require concentration and time. Interrupt either, and you win."

More questions came.

Thorne answered each one with the same no-nonsense efficiency.

By the time the ninth bell rang, my hand was cramping from writing.

"That's all for today," Thorne said, gathering his papers. "Next class, we'll discuss defensive theory and counter-attacks. Read chapters one through three in your combat manual. Dismissed."

Students began packing up, the room filling with the sound of shuffling papers and chairs scraping against stone.

Kyle stretched, grinning. "That was awesome! He's like, super smart, right?"

"Yeah. He knows what he's talking about."

He slung his bag over his shoulder. "Cool! Now we've got weapons training! Come on!"

He practically dragged me out of my seat.

I followed, tucking my notebook under my arm, already mentally reviewing the notes.

We stepped out into the hallway, joining the flow of students heading toward the training grounds.

First class down.

Let's see how the rest of the day goes.

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