The silence in the S-Class homeroom was absolute.
Suffocating.
Normally, the moments before the instructor arrived buzzed with the chaotic, arrogant hum of academy life. Nobles boasting about their weekends, mages comparing elemental output, and the constant, underlying hum of petty political maneuvering.
Not today.
The guillotine of Principal Aryana's speech still hung over their necks. The reality of the Hunting Field disaster had finally breached their thick, aristocratic skulls. They weren't untouchable. The Black Hand had slipped through the academy's vaunted defenses, weaponized the golems, and slaughtered students in the mud.
Arthur Ludwig lounged at his desk near the back. His posture was entirely relaxed, an alpha at rest, providing a glaring contrast to the pale, rigid statues filling the room.
