CHAPTER 38: FIRST CLASS (4)

Chapter 38: First Class (4)

The tension of my affinity reveal hadn’t even cooled yet. Whispers still buzzed like insects in the corners of the room.

Evelyn raised her hand, about to continue, her voice smooth as silk—

"Every one of you now understands the uniqueness you each carry within. Affinities are—"

✨ BOOOOM!

The classroom door didn’t just open. It detonated.

A thunderous bang rattled the walls as the double doors slammed against the sides with enough force to make the chandeliers overhead sway violently. Dust fell from the ceiling. Papers went flying again.

An aura surged through the breach.

It wasn’t mana in the delicate, flowing sense. No—this was pressure, raw and primal. Like the sky itself had bent, ready to crush us.

It weighed on my chest instantly. My heart lurched. My lungs compressed, refusing air. My skin prickled with the burn of static.

Some cadets let out strangled gasps. Others gripped their desks white-knuckled, trying not to collapse.

The sound of boots followed, slow, deliberate.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

A man strode through the doors.

He looked middle-aged, though the lines on his face spoke of battlefields rather than years. Sharp, wolf-like eyes burned beneath thick brows, a scar cutting down his left cheek. His hair was a silver-gray, not of age but of steel—short, rough, practical.

Across his back hung a sword. Not polished for show. Not jeweled or ornate. Just a long, weathered blade, wrapped in leather at the hilt, scabbard scarred and beaten. A weapon that had killed more monsters than anyone here could count.

The man’s gaze swept the room once, and it was like a guillotine passing over our necks.

"Little punks," he said, his voice a gravelly rumble that filled every corner of the hall. "I was waiting for you brats at the combat hall. You’re five minutes late."

The room was silent. Utterly, utterly silent.

No one even twitched at the insult.

Not because they didn’t want to—but because they couldn’t. His aura had crushed defiance right out of us.

Even Eric, who always had a grin plastered across his smug face, sat stiff-backed, lips clamped shut. Ren was trembling beside him, knuckles white. Leon’s gaze sharpened, his jaw tense, though he didn’t move an inch.

Evelyn? She simply tilted her head, smiling faintly, like this was a show she’d seen before.

And me?

World’s Greatest Swordsman. SS+ Rank. Alastor Greythorn. Sword Hero.

The name blazed in my mind. My spine prickled.

Of course. Of course it’s him. The living legend. The man every commoner worships. And the man who, in the original story, would one day take Leon as his disciple...

My pulse hammered.

In the game, seeing Alastor meant the plot had reached a pivotal moment. The man was a symbol, a beacon for the idea that birth didn’t define destiny. That even without a name, without noble blood, one could still cut their way to the top.

To me, though? Right now, standing beneath that crushing aura, all I could think was—

—damn, he’s terrifying.

---

Evelyn finally broke the silence with a polite smile, bowing her head faintly.

"My apologies, Sword Hero Greythorn. I took a little longer than expected with the introductions."

Her tone was smooth, gracious, like she was addressing royalty. But the twinkle in her eyes betrayed amusement.

Alastor grunted. Then he laughed—a sharp, booming sound that cut through the tension.

"Hah! Little girl, don’t worry. It’s fine. I’m just eager."

He turned, scanning the students again. His gaze stopped on me.

For a fraction of a second, our eyes met.

The weight of his aura doubled, hammering into me. My throat dried instantly. Every instinct screamed at me to look away.

My fingers curled tightly around the desk, forcing myself to hold his gaze.

Alastor’s lips curled, revealing the faintest grin.

"So... this is the brat who caused a ruckus at the entrance ceremony."

Every hair on my body stood on end. Goosebumps raced down my arms.

The entire class turned toward me. The whispers started again.

"That commoner again..."

"Of course it’d be him."

"Does Greythorn know him?"

I clenched my jaw, fighting to keep my expression flat. Inside? My stomach had dropped through the floor.

Fantastic. Just what I needed. Attention from the Sword Hero. As if I didn’t have a giant target painted on my back already.

---

Alastor straightened, addressing the class.

"All right, brats. Enough sitting around. You’ve wasted enough time staring at shiny orbs and blowing hot air. Get up."

His voice boomed like thunder.

"Follow me to the Training Hall. Now."

Not a single student hesitated.

Chairs scraped back in unison, a clatter of boots echoing against marble floors as we all rose. Even those who had been sneering minutes ago moved like obedient soldiers.

Evelyn smiled knowingly, gathering her laptop and papers with graceful movements.

"Very well," she said warmly. "Students, follow Mr. Sword Hero. Tomorrow, we will continue our lessons."

She turned, offering Alastor a soft bow. "The floor is yours."

Alastor chuckled, scratching the back of his neck. "Heh. You’re too polite, little girl."

Then he looked back at us, sharp grin flashing. "Well, brats? What are you waiting for? An invitation?"

The air vibrated with his presence.

Almost unconsciously, every single one of us straightened and barked out in unison:

"No, sir!"

Even me. The words spilled from my throat before my brain could react, like his aura had hijacked my body.

And then, like a tide pulling us forward, we marched.

The whispers were gone. The defiance was gone.

Every cadet moved in silent lockstep, trailing after the Sword Hero toward the Training Hall.

I followed too, my thoughts a storm.

Ice and space affinity. Full affinity revealed. Orb shattered. Now the Sword Hero’s interest?

The story isn’t just diverging anymore.

It’s spiraling.

-----

The moment we stepped out of Class A’s lecture hall and followed Alastor Greythorn, the atmosphere shifted.

The corridors were quiet, cadets marching in a half-formed line behind the man, yet every step felt like a test. Nobody dared whisper. Nobody dared fall behind.

It wasn’t that Alastor barked orders or glared at us. No, it was the opposite. His mere presence was enough.

Each footfall of his heavy boots against the marble floor carried a weight, like the echo of a blade being drawn.

Every cadet knew, without being told, that the man in front of us was no mere instructor. He was a storm wearing human skin.

And when we arrived at the Training Hall, my first thought was that it looked more like a colosseum than a classroom.

---

The ceiling arched high overhead, enchanted skylights letting in warm golden rays though the sun was hidden behind the academy walls.

Weapons lined the walls in neat racks—swords, spears, halberds, bows—all shimmering faintly from enchantments that made them training-safe... or rather, safe enough.

At the far end stood a dozen mana-dummies, humanoid shapes reinforced with mithril cores to withstand mana-infused strikes.

And across the floor, faint glowing lines of runes marked sparring zones, their enchantments humming like a living heartbeat.

The air itself smelled faintly of steel, sweat, and the charred scent of burned mana.

Several cadets muttered under their breath:

"T-this place is massive..."

"They say the last batch of graduates sparred against wyverns here..."

"No wonder Alastor trains here. Feels like a battlefield already."

I let my gaze sweep across the space, memory flickering.

In the game’s version, this hall existed. But it never felt this... real.

The air had a heaviness to it, a constant reminder: if you slip up here, even practice could kill you.

I exhaled slowly.

’So this is where Leon trained under him. No wonder he grew so fast.’

---

The man in question strode to the center of the floor, back straight, sword hanging across his back. His voice, when it came, wasn’t shouted yet every syllable struck like iron against stone.

"Listen well, brats. Out there, beyond these walls, monsters don’t care whose son you are. A goblin won’t bow to your crest. A wyvern won’t spare you because you’re royal. And the dungeon’s maw sure as hell won’t close just because you cry ’unfair.’"

Silence. Every cadet’s face stiffened.

Alastor let his gaze roam. It lingered deliberately on a cluster of nobles, their jeweled pins glinting in the light. Then shifted toward the common-born cadets, just as mercilessly.

"Titles mean nothing. Family names mean nothing. Even talent means nothing if you don’t bleed for it."

His eyes, sharp as blades, finally found me. For a single heartbeat, his smirk twitched into existence.

I felt a bead of sweat trail down my neck.

’ Why does it always feel like these monsters can see straight through me?’

---

"Drop your bags. Line up. Warm-ups, now."

Nobody questioned him. We moved instinctively, lining shoulder to shoulder.

Then the hell began.

"Fifty push-ups. Don’t stop until I say. GO!"

The air filled with groans, thuds, and sharp breaths as cadets dropped to the floor. Arms trembled. Some nobles, unused to physical hardship, collapsed before even reaching twenty.

"Pathetic!" Alastor barked, pacing between us.

"If you can’t hold your own body weight, how the hell do you expect to hold a blade?!"

I lowered myself steadily, focusing on controlled rhythm. Not too fast. Not too slow.

Every push-up burned, but I endured. Years of adapting to survive had forged some resilience into me, even before mana was involved.

"Up! Laps around the hall! Move!"

The cadets scrambled to their feet, some nearly tripping as they stumbled into a jog. A few nobles were red-faced, gasping like fish. Lyra ran effortlessly, her golden hair trailing like fire. Leon ran with steady determination. Eric muttered complaints, but his strides didn’t falter.

As for me, I kept to the middle of the pack, conserving energy. My breathing was calm, deliberate.

’Let them burn themselves out now. I’ll save my strength for when it matters.’

When the third lap ended, half the students were already collapsing against the walls, sweat soaking their uniforms. Alastor crossed his arms, unimpressed.

"Barely a jog and you look like corpses. Hmph. If you can’t survive three laps, you’ll be eaten before you see your first dungeon core."

The silence that followed was crushing. Nobody dared argue.

---

Finally, Alastor jerked his chin toward the racks of weapons.

"Choose."

The single word carried an order like a commandment.

The cadets moved, drawn as if by instinct.

Leon walked straight to the swords, fingers curling around one as if greeting an old friend. Selena chose a slender rapier, elegant as her every motion. Lyra took a staff, her touch igniting faint sparks of fire at its tip. Eric selected a spear with practiced familiarity, Ren stumbling after him to grab a shorter version. Aiden hefted a greatsword almost as tall as himself, grin wide. Aurelia silently strapped twin daggers at her hips.

And me?

I stood before the racks, scanning.

Daggers, spears, swords, axes. Each whispered promises of strength. Each had history etched into their blades.

But my hand, almost against my will, reached for the simple sword.

The balance was plain. The weight—manageable. Nothing fancy. Just a blade, nothing more.

I heard Alastor’s voice then, low but sharp.

"Interesting choice, boy."

My grip tightened around the hilt. I didn’t answer.

---

Alastor clapped once, the sound echoing like a whip-crack.

"Now that you’ve got your toys—time to see if any of you know how to use them."

He raised his own sword. Not a training weapon. His actual blade, scarred from countless battles. The weight of it pressed against the hall as he held it effortlessly in one hand.

"Watch closely."

Mana flared across the steel, a steady glow wrapping the blade. He swung.

FWOOOSH—!

The training dummy before him split in two with a clean diagonal cut.

"That," he said, voice flat, "is Mana Infusion. The foundation of every battle you will ever fight. Without this, you’re just swinging sticks. With it—you can cut steel, burn through hide, shatter bone. Learn it. Breathe it."

He lowered the blade, his eyes sharp as ever.

"Your turn."!