Vonjo's gaze locked on Crizz like a predator sizing up an unworthy rival. Crizz's breathing was shallow, his shoulders tense, eyes darting to the ground as though searching for a hole to crawl into.

The air in the gate entrance was thick with awkward silence, the kind that seemed to press down on everyone's chests.

Then, without warning, Vonjo's voice cut through the stillness—confident, resonant, and carrying that unshakable cadence of someone who knew they owned the room.

"You all want to know why I should be the one teaching here?" Vonjo's tone wasn't pleading—it was declarative, like he was already delivering the verdict and they were simply catching up.

He jabbed a finger toward Crizz without even looking at him, as though the man wasn't worth his full attention.

"That? That trembling excuse for a teacher? He couldn't even tell you the safe routes through this territory if his life depended on it. Me? I know everything about it.

"Every river crossing, every hidden ravine, every patch of ground that'll swallow your leg if you're stupid enough to step there. I know which valleys echo with the howl of creatures you should never wake, and which hills hide herbs that could save your life in an emergency."

His words began to pick up speed, like the growing rumble of an oncoming storm. "I know where the curse energy flows are strongest for training, where the beasts are just challenging enough to push you without killing you, and where the shadows stretch too long because something older is lurking there.

"I know the places you can hide if a mission goes wrong, and I know how to get there before your blood has time to hit the dirt. Every shortcut, every hazard, every sanctuary—mapped in my head as clearly as the lines on my own palm."

Vonjo's grin widened, but there was no humor in it—it was the smile of someone who knew their value and was done pretending otherwise. "And most of all… I'm strong." He said it simply, but the weight behind the words was heavy, like a promise and a threat intertwined.

"You might think that's just ego talking, but strength matters. Out there, when the sun dips below the horizon and the night creatures start hunting… do you want a teacher who hides behind students when things get bad? Or do you want someone who can stand in front of them, take the hit, and still have the strength to drag them home?"

His voice deepened, sharp as steel cutting through fog. "When you face a mishap—because you will—you won't have time to run for help. If you're unlucky enough to stumble into something beyond your level, you won't survive on empty theory or textbook techniques.

"You'll need someone who can shield you, counterattack, and finish the fight before you're even bleeding. That's why being strong matters—it's not for pride, it's not for prestige, it's for the guarantee that every single one of you will walk back alive. If you're in trouble, I will be there. For sure. That's the difference between me and him."

Vonjo turned suddenly toward Eugene, his eyes narrowing with that subtle, unspoken command. Eugene froze for a heartbeat, his chest tightening under the pressure of that gaze. "S–Sir Vonjo is…" Eugene's voice cracked, but he swallowed and forced it out, "Sir Vonjo is strong. Stronger than anyone here gives him credit for."

Eugene took a deep breath, his words gathering momentum now, fueled by a mixture of admiration and the unshakable presence radiating from Vonjo.

"He's the kind of strong that doesn't need to brag about it. The kind you only see when things go bad—when it matters. I've seen him move, seen him react before anyone else even realizes there's danger. It's not luck.

"It's not coincidence. It's… absolute capability. I wouldn't just trust him to teach me—I'd trust him with my life. And if any of you actually cared about these students making it back in one piece, you'd trust him too."

The boy hesitated then, his gaze flicking nervously to Vonjo. His lips parted, and there was the faintest stutter in his voice. "…He's also… from one of the strongest families."

That single statement hit the gate entrance like a silent shockwave.

Several teachers blinked in confusion.

The principal's brow furrowed slightly, like he wasn't sure he'd heard correctly. Eugene's eyes darted to Vonjo, silently asking if he was allowed to say more. The tension hung in the air, the pause stretching, heavy with implication.

Vonjo's smirk returned, lazy but laced with sharp edges. "Go on," he said casually, and then turned to face them all. "Yes. I'm from one of the strongest Family."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. The name carried weight—it was like someone had dropped a stone into a still pond and the ripples were touching everyone's face.

Shock widened eyes, tightened jaws, and drew whispered questions between the teachers.

"My case," Vonjo continued, "is special. I didn't want their name, their politics, their strings tied around my neck. So I walked away. Pretended to be useless. Pretended to be the kind of man you wouldn't notice in a crowd. It made my life easier… until now."

He lifted his hand slowly, fingers uncurling as though revealing something sacred.

A faint hum filled the air, subtle but undeniable, and then it appeared—a red glow, deep and vivid like molten metal.

It pulsed once, then twice, the light rippling across his skin in patterns that seemed almost alive.

The principal's eyes went wide, the color draining from his face.

The breath caught in his throat, audible even from a distance.

Around him, the other teachers shifted uncertainly, glancing between the glow and the principal's reaction.

"What… what is that?" one of them asked, voice wavering. Another leaned toward the principal, confusion etched across her features. "Sir, you know what this means, don't you? What is it?"

The principal didn't answer at first. His eyes were locked on Vonjo's hand, the red glow reflected in the sheen of sweat on his brow.

When he finally spoke, it was a whisper—hoarse, trembling, as if naming it aloud might somehow make it more real.

"…No way."

The teachers' eyes followed the principal like hawks, their expressions a mix of disbelief and curiosity. The tense silence in the staff room stretched, thick enough to choke on. Several of them exchanged glances, silently daring someone else to speak first. Finally, one of the older teachers cleared his throat and asked, voice low but cutting through the heavy air,

"…Principal, what was that?"

The others immediately leaned in, their faces taut with expectation.

The principal, however, didn't answer. He stood rooted to the spot, his hands trembling faintly against the papers he was holding. His gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the present, eyes clouded as if staring into a memory he didn't want to revisit. His lips parted, but no words came out.

One of the younger teachers stepped forward, impatience creeping into his voice. "Sir? You clearly recognized what he did out there. Was it some kind of forbidden magic? Or… or a curse?"

Still no reply.

The principal's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard. His knuckles whitened on the edge of his desk, and only after several long, tense seconds did he finally speak—his tone slow, deliberate, and laden with weight.

"When I was young…" he began, his voice carrying a raw edge of something that made the room still even further, "…I saw that same thing once. Just once. And it's haunted me every day since."

The teachers glanced at each other uneasily, sensing this was no ordinary recollection. The principal took a deep breath, then continued.

"I was a soldier back then—not a principal, not a scholar, not a man who spent his days behind a desk. I was stationed on the front lines of the Eastern War. We were young, untested, and stupid enough to believe we were invincible."

His eyes grew distant, as if he was watching that scene replay before him.

"It was the night of the Black Siege. Thousands of us… surrounded. The enemy wasn't human. They were something else—an endless tide of crimson-scaled fiends, their claws cutting through steel like paper, their breath melting the very air. We fought for hours, our morale crumbling with every life lost. And when dawn should have come, it didn't. The sky stayed black, heavy with a storm that never broke. Our commander was dead. Our lines were broken. We… we were finished."

He paused, wetting his lips.

"That's when he arrived."

A ripple went through the room, the teachers leaning in.

"He wasn't dressed like a soldier. No armor, no insignia. Just a long, tattered coat, boots caked in mud, and eyes so cold they made the battlefield seem warm in comparison. I don't even remember seeing him walk into our camp—one moment he wasn't there, and the next he stood among us, looking at the carnage like it was nothing more than an inconvenience."

The principal's voice lowered, every word deliberate.

"I watched as the enemy struck him. Spears of molten rock, waves of poison, claws that could split the ground itself. He didn't move. He didn't block. He let every attack hit him. Over and over, until the air reeked of burning flesh and the ground beneath him was cratered from the force."

One of the teachers whispered, "He… endured all of it?"

The principal nodded slowly.

"And then… he raised his hand."

The room seemed to grow colder.

"A red light bloomed in his palm. At first, I thought it was fire. But it wasn't heat I felt—it was pressure. Weight. The air thickened until we couldn't breathe. And then, without a word, he unleashed it. A blast. Not just an explosion—an eruption of pure, condensed vengeance.

"Everything they had thrown at him, every ounce of pain, every scrap of killing intent… it all came back to them, multiplied a thousandfold. The earth split. The sky turned red. When it was over, the enemy was gone. Not dead—erased. Their bodies, their weapons, even the ground they stood on had ceased to exist."

The teachers sat in stunned silence.

"That," the principal said finally, his voice a hoarse whisper, "…was Crimson Doom."

He let the words hang in the air.

"It's a counter technique," he explained after a moment. "It doesn't just absorb an attack—it weaponizes everything the user has endured. All the force, all the energy, all the intent… converted into a catastrophic red explosion carrying the very properties of what was inflicted. The more they suffer, the worse the backlash becomes. I saw it level an army. I never saw it again—until today."

His gaze shifted toward the hallway where Vonjo had gone, and for the first time, genuine fear flickered in his eyes.

"That power… belongs only to the direct descendants and strongest members of the House of Sutterfouse."

The teachers stiffened at the name. The Sutterfouse Family—whispered in taverns and history books alike, a clan that ruled battlefields like gods, leaving nothing but ash behind.

But the principal didn't dare utter Vonjo's connection to them aloud. Instead, he swallowed hard and turned to the doorway.

"…I apologize for not recognizing you sooner, sir," he said, his voice unsteady. "You may do whatever you like."

The teachers blinked, stunned.

"What the hell was that reaction?" one of them hissed under their breath.

At that moment, Vonjo strode back into the room with an easy, unhurried gait, as though none of this mattered to him in the slightest. "Come on," he said casually. "Give me my schedule."

The principal instantly straightened, forcing a smile that was more nervous than warm. "Yes, sir. This way, sir." His tone dripped with deference.

From the side, Crizz—who had been silently fuming—finally spoke up. "Uh… what about me?"

The principal glanced at him with all the warmth of a winter grave. "You're fired."

"What?!" Crizz's voice spiked. "You can't just—! I've been here for years! I've trained more recruits than anyone in this room! You think just because this guy walks in and—"

The principal raised a hand, but Crizz barrelled on, his voice growing louder, his face red with fury. "—you're gonna toss me out like garbage? Who the hell even is he? And what about my contract? My rank? I've bled for this academy, damn it!"

Vonjo didn't even glance at him until he'd finished his rant. Then, with a faint curl of his lip, he said, "You might want to test him for demonoid corruption."

The room went still.

"…What did you just say?" Crizz spat.

Vonjo's eyes locked onto him, cold and sharp. "Your smell stinks. That's why I took your Fallen Curse energy."

The words hit like a blade to the gut. The principal paled, then turned to one of the staff. "We… we must do that, sir. Right away."

Vonjo gave a faint, almost dismissive nod, and the principal gestured toward the corridor. "This way, sir. Let's get you settled."

And just like that, the scene shifted—the staff murmuring, the principal hurrying to please—and Vonjo, with the faintest trace of a smirk, was now officially a teacher.