The life of a state secret, Jonah decided, was mostly just a lot of sweating. Every morning, like clockwork, Seraph would drag him to one of the Academy's general training halls for his "physical conditioning," which was just a fancy term for "getting tortured."

Today's session was particularly brutal. He was running laps around the massive hall, his lungs burning, his legs feeling like overcooked noodles. Other students were scattered around the hall, practicing their own skills. Warriors clashed with blades that appeared out of thin air, while Mages threw spells like they were tossing lightning. And then there was Jonah, the weird kid in the plain uniform, just running in circles.

He was so focused on not collapsing that he didn't see the person step into his path until it was too late. He stumbled to a halt, nearly crashing into a chest that seemed as wide and solid as a brick wall.

Jonah looked up. And up.

The student was huge, at least a head taller than him and twice as broad. He was handsome in a brutish, arrogant way, with a square jaw and short-cropped blond hair. He wore a high-quality, customized uniform, and pinned to his collar was a Black Badge, the same as Seraph's. This guy was a senior, and a powerful one.

"Watch where you're going, rat," the big student sneered, his voice a low rumble.

"Sorry," Jonah mumbled, trying to step around him.

The student blocked his path again. "You're him, aren't you? The little Cinderfall scavenger. The Headmaster's Pet."

Jonah froze. He recognized the tone. It was the same one the wealthier kids in Cinderfall used right before they tried to shake you down for your scrap money.

"I don't know what you're talking about," Jonah said, keeping his eyes on the floor.

"Don't play dumb with me," the big student said, leaning in. His voice dropped to a mocking whisper. "The whole Academy is talking about it. The little White Badge Tamer who gets a private room with a zoo, a personal combat instructor, and sailed through the Preserve exam like it was a picnic. Some of us have to work for our privileges. Others just get them handed to them."

The guy's name was Draven, a name that was always spoken with a mixture of respect and fear in the first-year dorms. He was from a powerful noble family and his class, a 'Blademaster,' was known for its overwhelming offensive power. He was a classic, top-tier Warrior.

Draven looked down at Jonah with pure contempt. "I've seen your kind before. You rely on tricks and shortcuts. You hide behind your little pets while real Elites bleed on the front lines. You don't deserve the resources you're being given. Resources that should be going to real fighters. Like me."

The resentment in his voice was thick enough to taste. Draven, who had probably had everything handed to him on a silver platter his entire life, was jealous of a kid from the mines. The irony was so thick, Jonah almost laughed.

"So, what do you say, zookeeper?" Draven challenged, his voice rising so that other nearby students started to notice. "You think you're so special? Prove it. Spar with me. Right here, right now. No pets, no tricks. Just you and me. Let's see what a 'real' Elite can do."

He wanted to humiliate him. To crush him in front of everyone and prove that Jonah's success was luck, not skill. Panic seized Jonah. Draven could probably snap him in half without even manifesting his weapon.

Before Jonah could even respond, a cold voice sliced through the tension like a razor.

"He will do no such thing."

Sergeant Seraph walked up to them, her face calm but her eyes cold and sharp.

She stopped directly in front of Draven, who was a full head taller than her, Yet it felt like she was looking down on him, even if she wasn't.

Draven scoffed. "Stay out of this, Sergeant. This is between students."

"No," Seraph replied, her voice dangerously quiet. "This is you, a senior student, attempting to interfere with a classified training program under my direct supervision. Therefore, it is my business."

"Classified?" Draven laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. "What's so classified about teaching a glorified zookeeper how to run in circles?"

Seraph didn't even blink. "You are not cleared for that information, Cadet Draven. And if you interfere with my student or his training again, I will have you brought up on formal charges for insubordination and obstructing the duties of a special instructor. You really think your family's name is enough to save you from the Headmaster?

The moment the Headmaster's name came up, Draven's confidence cracked. For a moment, he looked less sure of himself. He was arrogant, but he wasn't stupid enough to openly defy an order that came from the very top of the Academy.

He shot a venomous glare at Jonah. "This isn't over, rat," he hissed. "Sooner or later, you'll have to stand on your own two feet without your guard dog here to protect you. And I'll be waiting to expose you for the fraud you are."

With a final, disgusted sneer, Draven turned and stormed away.

The small crowd of onlookers quickly dispersed, not wanting to be the focus of Seraph's icy attention.

Jonah was left standing there, his heart pounding, his hands shaking slightly. Seraph looked down at him, her expression unreadable.

"The world isn't fair, Jonah," she said, her voice back to its usual, stern tone. "Power attracts jealousy. Especially when that power is given to someone they see as unworthy. Draven is a product of his upbringing. He believes strength is something you swing like a club. He doesn't understand that a well-placed needle can be deadlier than a greatsword."

She pointed to the track. "The confrontation is over. Your laps are not. Get back to work."

Jonah nodded silently and started running again. But this time, his thoughts weren't on his burning lungs. They were on Draven. On his sneering face and his promise to expose him.

The confrontation had shaken him, but it had also ignited something else inside him: a cold, hard resolve. Seraph was right. A direct fight against someone like Draven was impossible for him right now. He was a creator, a strategist. Not a brawler.

But that didn't mean he was helpless. Draven wanted to see what a "real" Elite could do. Fine. Jonah would show him. He wouldn't do it with his own fists.

He would do it with a monster of his own making.