"Welcome to Ytrial," the man says. He adjusts his spectacles and smiles. "There are so many of you this year! And so much talent! Welcome, welcome!"

Despite his nerdy look, the man carries effortless charisma that lifts the hairs on my arms. The stage lights catch the lenses and flash like small stars. Murmurs roll through the crowd and then fade because everyone is listening.

"Is that…" I start to ask Fatty, yet the answer arrives before I finish.

"I am your Headmaster! You can call me that, Sir Headmaster!" The man tilts his head forward, and he waits for laughter.

No one laughs. The whole courtyard holds its breath. A vice principal coughs into a fist, and the Headmaster licks his lips.

"Alright, that one fell flat. Do you guys not like comedy? Alright. It's fine. I don't take things personally."

A few faculty members snort before they can stop themselves.

"Hey! That wasn't a joke!" The Headmaster sighs and then grins again because he refuses to sulk on a stage that size.

"Anyway, welcome to all of you, young promises, Apprentices! Let me warn you, first of all: Ytrial is a dangerous place. We won't let you kill each other between our walls. We must foster friendship, and even rivalries, of course, but camaraderie is of the utmost importance. I know that some of you petty nobles and royals think that your kingdom is the most important thing under the sky, yet monsters lurk in every corner of this world, and they wait for the moment you start killing each other and stop paying attention to them. Politics can be fun. Race wars can be fun, I suppose, if you have nothing better to do and you're an idiot. Whether you're Human, Elf, Minotaur, Dwarf, Goblin, or whatever, you sit on the same side of the line—the line between sentient beings and monsters. Do not forget that out there, for monsters, you are all the same. You are beacons of energy that they want to consume so that they can grow stronger. That is why Ytrial was founded. We hold the first line of defense, and we clear Dungeons, and we repel monster hordes, and we hunt the bastards who attack the seams that hold this world together."

I swallow because the words land hard. The stone under my boots feels colder while I stand there. I have always wanted to be a Knight who saves people, who walks into the greatest Dungeons, who clears them before monsters spill out.

"Who do you think is the greatest threat to the security of the world right now? Who is the worst enemy you will ever face?"

"The Cathedral Steel and their followers?" someone shouts from the front.

"The Undead Hordes in the Dead Lands?!"

"The Gods?!"

The Headmaster raises a hand, and the noise dies fast. No one misbehaves even though the man looks harmless.

"Yourself. You are your worst enemy—you and your pride, and your arrogance, and your many sins. You will find that no one can betray you like yourself. No one can humiliate you better than the person you see in the mirror in the morning. That is your worst enemy."

Students glance at each other with frowns. A few stare at their own hands as if they expect them to speak.

"I don't expect young people like you to understand what I mean right now. Keep it in mind, because soon, sooner than you want, you will find out how accurate this is."

"Huh…" The Headmaster scans us, and he squints. "I will leave the rest of the presentation to my current number two. Give it up for Vice Principal John!"

I do not know why I expect a more exotic name. A middle‑aged man with salt‑and‑pepper hair stands from the seat closest to a throne that rises from a trap in the middle of the stage. The thing glows like hammered gold from where I sit. The Headmaster takes that seat, and Vice Principal John steps to the front and faces the crowd.

"We thank the Headmaster for his words and his wisdom. Now, if you do not know the basic rules of the Academy, let me refresh your memory. No killing each other. If you are caught and you were not defending yourself from an attack, you will be executed. If you murder someone, we will find out. Every year, some Royal thinks they can get away with killing a commoner. This is not your kingdom. Do that, and even if you flee back to your country, your parents will either give you up if they are sworn Knights, or we will topple the kingdom to kill you. Please say 'I understand' if you understand."

"I understand," the students say. I add my voice to the mess of sound.

"How many people try to kill each other here each year that this is the first thing they say?" I ask Fatty, yet he cannot hear me through the noise.

If the madman is still here, probably A LOT, King Baalrek replies.

Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

You know the Headmaster?

I know the bastard very well. He used to be all over me when I came here.

Wait, you went to Ytrial?

Cloud, do you know how old this place is? And do you know WHAT the Headmaster is?

Very powerful? I frown.

You will find out soon enough, then.

"If you have passed the selection, your courses have already been assigned to you or will be in the next two days as the common classes begin. Please do not skip classes. You can learn even from the classes you think sit below you and your stature. Furthermore," Vice Principal John says with a clipped tone, "do not steal from others, and do not bully people excessively. If someone creates problems in the dorms, we will know it. We say this at every turn. If any Royal feels entitled to their own room, they can go back to where they came from. If a Royal tries to kick someone out of their assigned bed, we will kick them out of the Academy instead. Do I make myself clear?"

I hear a tired edge in his voice, like someone who repeats rules that pride keeps breaking.

What do the Royals even do here? Why is the entire speech about them?

I tried kicking someone out of the dorm. Well, I tried to kick everyone out of my dorm. I did it the Infernal way. A few oaths, and bets, and contracts. I almost emptied it out before the stupid Headmaster forced me to negate all of it and reinstate the students. I like to be myself, Jacob Cloud.

I see now. I keep that thought to myself. You were the problem, got it.

"If you have any questions that are not about your privilege as Royals, nobles, Great Races, or whatever, please raise your hand."

The Headmaster snickers, and he raises his hand, and he elbows the vice principal beside him, a giant Minotaur who does not budge.

"No questions?" Vice Principal John asks, and he scans the tiers.

A long human arm rises above the crowd. The owner stands, and the man reaches close to two meters. Long blond hair falls down his back, and his shoulders look like carved stone.

"Yes?" Vice Principal John says. He does not sound thrilled about the question.

"When's the Champion selection?" the man asks.

Vice Principal John sighs, and he rolls his eyes.

"After this. Any other questions?"

The man shakes his head and sits down.

"Holy divines," someone mutters beside me. "Was that a Highblood?"

"It certainly looked like it!" another says.

"A Highblood in our year! That is so cool!"

A Highblood, huh? I muse. King Baalrek, how strong is a Highblood?

Among the three Great Races, they are the least numerous, Jacob Cloud. Dragonkin and Infernals still hold civilizations. Highbloods live in small enclaves. Every single one of them compares to Royalty in the other two Great Races. They are VERY obnoxious people.

It sounds like a Great Race feud to me. I do not argue. I would not mind befriending one if he turns out decent. Power helps if the person wearing it has a spine that points the right way.

Vice Principal John answers a few more questions, and then he points toward the side of the stage.

"Alright, all of those who would like to try their hand at the Champion's selection, get in the arena. Everybody else, take a seat on the bleachers. Please, if you are not serious about the Champion's selection and you only want to waste our time, do not."

The courtyard empties toward the giant arena like water flowing into a basin. Most people angle for the bleachers, and their voices fill the tunnel with echoes that roll back on themselves. I keep walking because the word "Champion" hooks something old in me.

King Baalrek, do you think I should try?

Of course, Jacob Cloud. Go humiliate yourself. I was a Champion, you fool. Do you think—

"Someone's in a bad mood," I say, and I ignore Fatty's sidelong glance. I peel away from the main flow and head for the entrance marked with iron runes.

Kai appears to my right like a wall that learned to move.

"Jacob!" he says, and he waves with both hands. "How is it going?! I wish I could have spent the last two weeks with you! I was busy with the family. Have you made a decision?"

I look at the giant half‑brother who is only a year and a half older than me, and I wonder which giant breast‑fed him in place of our mother.

"Maybe we can talk later about this," I say. I keep walking toward the Champion selection entrance because stopping would let nerves grow roots.

"Oh," Kai says, and he notices we both picked the same path.

"Jacob, are you sure?" He winces. "The Vice Principals don't love it when someone only wants to see how hard the selection is."

I look up at him and frown.

"Wait, you're trying the same?"

"Well," Kai scratches his head. "Grandmother would kill me if I didn't. So, yes."

"Huh, good for you," I say, and I clap his giant shoulder. "Don't worry about me, then."

Cloud, only the purest talents can show enough power to become Champions in the first year. Champions get special privileges, more points, access to secret courses, challenges, and quests that older students guard. You—

A voice cuts in from behind while I walk with a handful of people toward the gate that leads under the stands.

"Are you confident?" Fatty asks. He does not sound skeptical. He sounds calm.

"Pretty much so," I say, and I glance back at him. "Why?"

"Nothing," Fatty says.

He does not carry a turkey leg now. His hands sit empty and ready.

"You came to watch?" I say. "I could use some good company."

"Of course, boss," Fatty smirks. "Can we go to my favorite tavern to celebrate when you make it? Food and drinks on you?"

"When are the food and drinks not on me, you goddamn— but yes, it's fine."

Fatty pats my shoulder.

"You got this, boss."

"Please stop calling me that, Lancelot," I say. "But thank you."

He pats my back again, and he snorts.

"You got it, boss."

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