Lunch at Halcyon Academy wasn’t chaos.

  It was worse.

  The cafeteria was less of a room and more of a converted stadium hall with polished floors, tall ceilings, and zero acoustic treatment—every voice echoed like it was trying to be heard in another dimension. Students packed in from every wing, some lined up at food terminals, others already crowding the long tables. The elite sat at the front, closest to the giant screens cycling through academy rankings and sponsor highlights.

  The rest found whatever spot wasn’t claimed.

  Class 1-D walked in like they had reserved seating at a five-star place, not like they were about to end up at the table nearest the janitor’s closet.

  “I smell noodles,” Mika said, inhaling deeply. “I also smell judgment. So much judgment.”

  “Back right corner,” Elle said. “Low visibility. Good exit points.”

  “I was thinking high visibility,” Mika replied. “Make ‘em stare.”

  “They already are,” Sato muttered.

  He wasn’t wrong. Heads turned the second they walked through the doors. Not everyone, but enough. A couple 1-C students elbowed each other and nodded in their direction. One of the guys from 1-B outright laughed.

  Zach kept his arms tucked into his haori, wooden sword swaying lightly at his hip. He wasn’t smiling, but he wasn’t hiding either. Just walking, reading the room.

  The five of them reached a free table—slightly sticky, one leg shorter than the others—and dropped into place like they owned it.

  “I call window seat,” Mika said, even though there were no windows.

  Derrin placed a sealed container on the table and opened it with precision. Inside were perfectly arranged snacks. He popped one into his mouth without a word.

  Elle unwrapped a protein bar like she’d already memorized its ingredients. Sato plugged in a portable charger for his tablet and pulled out a small packet of compressed rations.

  Zach grabbed a tray from the line and returned with a mystery curry that looked like it had beef, maybe. Possibly.

  “Alright,” Mika said around a bite of her sandwich, “let’s play a game. One to ten, how fast does this food kill us?”

  “Six,” Sato answered immediately.

  “I was gonna say four,” Zach added.

  “Cowards,” Mika grinned. “I’m betting on eleven. Gotta believe in something.”

  That was when the noise shifted.

  Sharp. Focused. Like sound was pouring toward a single point on the far end of the cafeteria.

  Zach looked up.

  A case of content theft: this narrative is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  A crowd was gathering near the center tables—too many students standing, too many gasps, too much movement.

  Something had happened.

  Then someone shouted, loud enough to cut through the room: “Lucien just dropped four from Class A!”

  The cafeteria erupted.

  Chairs scraped. People rushed to see. Phones were already out, streaming, recording. Halcyon wasn’t known for subtlety, and this? This was content.

  Mika’s eyes lit up like someone had handed her a birthday cake made of gossip.

  “Oh hell yes. Field trip!”

  Before Zach could even blink, she grabbed his arm and dragged him toward the noise.

  He didn’t fight it. But something in his gut tightened as the crowd thickened. His fingers brushed the hilt of his wooden sword out of habit.

  Just in case.

  The air was getting heavier by the second.

  Lucien stood calm at the center of it all, surrounded by the unconscious or groaning remains of four Class A students. But apparently, someone didn’t get the message.

  Two more stepped forward from the crowd.

  Tall. Broad. Matching smug grins like they’d just downed a protein shake and decided to cause problems about it.

  Frat bro energy. Full blast.

  The taller one cracked his knuckles, each pop louder than necessary. “Alright, Mr. Rank 2. Let’s see how you do against someone with actual hands.”

  The shorter one bounced on the balls of his feet, eyes darting around. “Yo, yo, we runnin’ this or what? I’m feeling spicy today.”

  Zach raised an eyebrow.

  ‘Let me guess. Shared brain cell. No survivors.’

  The tall one took a stance, rolling his shoulders. “Name’s Brett.”

  Lucien didn’t answer. He didn’t move. He just… blinked.

  The short one grinned. “Jax.”

  Zach scoffed quietly.

  Mika leaned over. “These guys are adorable. I hope Lucien doesn’t break them too hard.”

  ‘He will. But they’ll pretend they slipped afterward.’

  Brett charged first, steps heavy, planting each one like he was trying to crack the tile. His first punch cut through the air—Lucien shifted to the side with barely a motion.

  Brett smiled wider. “That’s one.”

  Zach’s eyes narrowed.

  ‘So the second one hits harder. That makes him dangerous if he builds up momentum.’

  He looked to Jax, who was already clapping once—vanishing a tray of food that reappeared midair ten feet to the left.

  ‘And this one’s a disruptor. Annoying if not handled fast. The moment you forget he’s there, you’re getting yoinked into a wall.’

  Lucien didn’t speak. He let Brett come again.

  The second punch whistled—faster, harder.

  Lucien blocked with a forearm, sliding back a half step.

  The crowd murmured.

  Jax clapped again.

  A chair disappeared from the sidelines and reappeared behind Lucien’s legs—Zach caught it before Lucien even reacted.

  ‘Smart. Set the field against him.’

  Lucien ducked, spun, kicked the chair aside, and lunged forward.

  The third punch came. Strong. Enough to rattle the floor.

  Lucien caught it mid-swing with both hands.

  The impact cracked like thunder.

  Gasps rippled.

  Zach didn’t blink.

  ‘He’s testing how far he can let them go. He’s not reacting late. He’s waiting.’

  Lucien pivoted, slammed his shoulder into Brett’s chest, and sent him stumbling.

  Another clap.

  A full cafeteria table appeared in Lucien’s path.

  Lucien side-stepped it with a calm grace, grabbing Brett by the collar and tossing him over the table like a training dummy.

  Jax clapped again—fast—trying to blink Brett back into the fight, but Lucien was already on him.

  One punch. Flat to the chest.

  Jax went down.

  No flair. No cruelty. Just efficiency.

  The crowd reeled.

  And in the midst of the shifting gasps and camera clicks—

  Someone shoved Zach forward.

  Not hard.

  Just enough.

  He stumbled into the edge of the cleared circle, and the sea of students closed behind him.

  Lucien turned.

  And looked directly at him.

  Zach’s hand dropped to his sword.

  Arms still tucked in his haori.

  ‘…Cool. Guess I’m next.’

  Zach didn’t move at first.

  The circle had already formed around him—tight, unrelenting. Students pressing in like vultures waiting for meat to hit the floor.

  He could’ve stepped back. Could’ve raised a hand, said, “my bad,” and slipped into the background like a good little D-Class nobody.

  But instead, his feet moved forward.

  One step.

  Then another.

  His arms were still tucked inside his haori. Wooden sword bouncing lightly against his hip.

  ‘What the hell am I doing?’

  He wasn’t sure. It wasn’t pride. Wasn’t ego. It was something else.

  Maybe it was the way Lucien’s eyes had landed on him—not dismissive, not hostile. Just curious. Like Zach was a piece on the board that didn’t quite fit.

  Zach stopped three steps in.

  Close enough to see the precision in Lucien’s stance. The weight distribution. The loose fingers. The quiet readiness.

  Lucien raised an eyebrow. “You here to fight?”

  Zach shrugged. “I was here for noodles.”

  Lucien didn’t smile, but something in his eyes shifted. Like recognition.

  “You carry a sword,” he said simply.

  Zach nodded, arms still hidden. “Most people carry pens. Doesn’t mean they can write.”

  Another pause. Lucien looked him over again—really looked this time.

  “You’re from D-Class.”

  “Yup.”

  “You know what you’re doing?”

  ‘Nope.’

  “…Sure.”

  Lucien didn’t react. Just tilted his head slightly. “You’re not like the others.”

  Zach exhaled through his nose. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  Finally, he moved.

  One hand slipped free from his sleeve, settling calmly at his side. The other reached for the hilt at his hip—not the wooden sword.

  Not this time.

  With a low shimmer of light, the air around his hand rippled—and the wooden blade dissolved.

  In its place: steel.

  Simple. Unadorned. A clean grip, a narrow edge. No glowing runes. No oversized anime blade nonsense.

  Just a real sword.

  Held like an extension of his own limb.

  Lucien’s posture adjusted. Barely. But enough.

  Zach took a slow step forward, shifting into stance—not rigid, not textbook. Just ready.

  His eyes narrowed.

  ‘Alright. Let’s see how far this gets me.’