A month slipped by like a fleeting dream. The short vacation ended, and once again the sprawling grounds of Zheno Academy stirred with renewed life.
This year, the academy seemed even more alive than before. The number of freshmen had nearly doubled compared to last year, and the air buzzed with a mix of emotions—excitement, nervousness, and arrogance dripping from those who carried themselves with noble pride.
The grand courtyard had transformed into a festival-like space for orientation. Rows of stalls lined the walkways—some selling skewered meats fresh from the fire, others colorful pastries dusted with sugar. Merchants had even set up stands with crests and emblems of various noble houses carved into trinkets, while more creative seniors sold charms and enchanted accessories promising "luck for exams" or "boosts for stamina."
The air carried a jumble of scents—grilled food, sweet bread, and the sharp tang of ink from fresh parchment scrolls. First-years wandered in groups, their chatter weaving into the lively hum of the day.
On the wide green field at the center of campus, however, the crowd's attention was fixed on a different spectacle entirely.
Two figures were locked in a heated contest.
Sweat dripped onto the grass as both struggled through a relentless set of push-ups, arms trembling, backs rigid with determination. Their faces strained with effort, but neither yielded.
Around them, laughter and cheers erupted. Dozens of students—mostly second-years—had gathered to watch the ridiculous duel. Some shouted counts to mock them, while others bet imaginary coins on who would collapse first.
"Oi! Faster, blondie! The quiet guy's catching up!"
"Waxzi looks like he's possessed! Look at that death glare!"
"They're seriously going to break their arms if they keep going—"
A few first-years, unfamiliar with the commotion, pushed through the crowd curiously.
"Who… are they?" one of them asked, a boy with a nervous expression, adjusting the straps of his satchel.
The sophomore beside him, lazily chewing on a meat skewer, leaned forward to answer. "Oh, them? The blonde idiot's Klyden. The dark-haired guy's Wyxro Waxzi."
Another first-year tilted his head, brow furrowed. "What are they even doing? They look like complete idiots…" His voice dripped with arrogance, his orange hair catching the sunlight as his sharp green eyes narrowed at the sight. Clearly noble-born, his tone carried the weight of someone not easily impressed.
The sophomore let out a hearty laugh at the remark. "Idiots? From the outside, sure. But don't underestimate them. They're both part of the top ten in our batch." He waved his skewer like a pointer before taking another bite.
The orange-haired noble sneered faintly, unconvinced, his eyes narrowing even further.
Beside him, another first-year suddenly perked up, recognition flashing in his face. "Wait, wait—are they the famous ones? The group that cleared the Forsaken Forest mission last year?" His voice rose with excitement, earning curious glances from nearby listeners.
The sophomore grinned, raising a thumb in approval. "Bingo."
Murmurs spread through the small group of freshmen, whispers filled with awe and skepticism alike.
The orange-haired noble, however, remained unimpressed, his gaze still fixed on the two boys sweating it out on the grass. To him, they looked nothing like the so-called heroes people whispered about—just stubborn fools, red-faced and determined over a childish contest.
Yet behind his squinting disdain, a flicker of irritation burned.
Meanwhile...
"Two hundred ninety-SEVEN—! Two hundred ninety-EIGHT—!"
Klyden's back was a broad, sun-browned plane, muscles roping and unroping as he drove through each push-up like the ground had personally offended him. Sweat tracked the line of his spine, caught the light, and fell in bright pinpricks to the dust. Blond hair—messy as ever—stuck to his forehead; the little scar that split his left eyebrow made every grimace look half like a grin.
Beside him, Wads moved with quiet precision. No theatrics. No grunting. Each descent identical, each rise measured. He looked carved from calm: leaner than Klyden but dense with wiry strength, breath steady, gaze fixed on the dirt as if counting grains.
A row of students lined the open space, whispering and squeaking behind their hands.
"Oh my gods, look at Klyden's back—" "Are we allowed to stare? We're definitely staring." "Wads looks like he's not even trying—why is that cooler?"
Liora had transformed a stray bucket into a drum and was tapping a triumphant rhythm with a stick, bouncing on her toes. "LET'S GOOOOO! PUSH-UP WAR! PLACE YOUR BETS! READ 'EM AND WEEP!"
Reiyell stood with arms crossed near a tree to get some shade, indicolite gaze flat. "You're all embarrassing."
"Embarrassingly entertained," Liora chirped, grinning.
Klyden pumped out three more reps, then twisted his neck just enough to heckle without breaking form. "Hey, Wads—" he huffed, "need me to—pff—slow down so you can—catch up?"
Wads didn't look over. "I could catch up if you stopped… narrating."
"I'm motivating the crowd," Klyden said, then pushed up high enough to clap midair. Smack. He landed, arms trembling, and cackled. "Two hundred NINETY-NINE!"
"Form," Wads said mildly, sinking into another perfect rep. "Chest to the ground. No bouncing."
"It's called power," Klyden shot back. He did another explosive clap, nearly over-rotated, saved it with a frantic splay of fingers, and broke into a sheepish laugh when the first-years gasped. "See? Style points."
"Style points don't count," Reiyell said, bone-dry.
"They do in my heart," Liora sang, drumming faster.
"Three hundred," Wads murmured, finishing a clean rep.
"Already beat you there," Klyden said, words ragged but smug, and hammered out three more to prove it. He tossed a look over his shoulder toward the fence where a pair of second-years had started tally marks in chalk. "Make sure you're writing my name big."
"You wrote your own name," one of them called back.
"Exactly," Klyden grinned, then bent to the next rep—
—and sensed a shadow cool across his shoulders.
He didn't have to look. The air itself seemed to straighten.
Keiya stepped into the circle of dust and heat like the one piece of marble in a gallery: composed, crimson hair drawn back, a slim wand tucked away beneath her sleeve, a small book in her hand. Her amethyst eyes flicked over the scene once—shirtless idiots on the ground, squealing spectators, Liora with a drum, Reiyell sacrificing her patience to the sun—and settled on Klyden with the heaviness of a verdict.
"What," she said, voice flat enough to quiet the yard, "are you doing."
Klyden propped himself at the top of a push-up and beamed up at her despite the sweat streaming down his face. "Keiyaa! Winning."
Wads, without pausing his cadence, said, "He is currently ahead by eight."
"Eight and a HALF," Klyden crowed, and did a half-gesture midair that cost him another wobble. He caught himself, wheezed a laugh. "See? Dominance."
Keiya's gaze traveled the dirt smears on his cheek, the reckless bounce in his elbows, the way he grinned even while he shook. It wasn't the shirtless bravado that made her jaw tick; it was that tilt, that near-fall he treated like a joke every single time.
"Form," she said, echoing Wads with a chillier edge. "Chest to the ground. No bouncing."
Klyden nodded solemnly, as if she'd ordained him. "Yes, ma'am—ah—yes, Keiya."
He went down clean. Came up. Down again. For three reps he behaved.
Then he couldn't help himself. "Hey, Wads," he panted, "want to borrow—one of my arms?"
Wads' mouth twitched. "Borrow your silence."
Keiya closed her book with a soft thup and, without breaking eye contact, stepped around behind Klyden. He blinked once, confused—and then she sat.
It wasn't a plop. It wasn't dramatic. She simply folded and settled on his back like a paperweight placed on a stack of unruly pages, one knee hooked neatly, ankles crossed, book reopening on her lap as if she'd claimed the most natural seat in the yard.
The second years, their batch collectively stopped breathing at the scene.
"KYAA—" "She—she's—" "Did she—did Keiya just sit on him—"
Klyden's arms jackknifed. "Ke—Keiya—!"
"Continue," she said, in the same tone she would use to request tea.
He made a sound between a laugh and a dying animal. "That's—okay—that's new—hah—okay—" He lowered, trembling so hard the chalk on the ground skittered. Nose a whisper from the dust, he pushed back up in an iron-stubborn grind. "Three hundred—uh—thirty-one—!"
Liora screamed, delighted, and beat her bucket drum so hard it spun. "ICONIC! LEGENDARY! I'm framing this in my mind!"
Reiyell didn't bother hiding her smirk. "Finally, consequences."
The crowd's squeals fractured into chatter.
"Look at his arms—" "He's actually doing it with her on top—" "Why is that—why is this so—oh my gods—"
Klyden, red-faced and somehow still smiling, glanced sideways at Wads between rep and rep. "Hah—hey—buddy—still—keeping up?"
Wads' rhythm never faltered. He turned just enough to send him a quiet, wicked grin. "I'm… right here."
"Oh, so now you're enjoying yourself," Klyden wheezed.
"Immensely."
Keiya shifted the tiniest fraction—redistributing pressure like a cat settling more comfortably—and Klyden's elbows shook as if struck by lightning. He bit a laugh, failed, laughed anyway.
"Don't move," he gasped.
"I'm perfectly still," Keiya said, turning a page.
"You're heavy," he blurted, then immediately realized the danger. "—in a respectful way!"
Keiya tipped her head, deadpan. "Do you want another hundred?"
"No! No no—we respect weight—we love weight—three hundred thirty-seven—!"
Liora threw both hands in the air. "HE LOVES WEIGHT! WRITE THAT DOWN."
Reiyell sighed. "Don't write that down."
Wads, low and smooth, murmured, "Three hundred thirty-eight."
Klyden shot back, "Thirty-nine—forty—forty-one—hng—" and nearly face-planted. Keiya, without looking up, steadied herself with two fingers against the back of his neck—a touch so light it was more instruction than help. It worked like a yoke; he aligned, breathed, found a new groove.
"Better," she said softly.
The word hit him like a reward. He grinned—bright, boyish, immediate—and dug in.
The yard found a rhythm around them: Wads' metronome-push-ups, Klyden's heroic suffering, Keiya's silent tyranny perched like a queen on a living bench, Liora's drum, Reiyell's barbed patience. The sun swung a little lower. Dust lifted and settled.
"Three hundred eighty," Wads announced quietly.
"Three hundred EIGHTY-TWO," Klyden countered, forcing the numbers out between clenched teeth. "I'm—still—ahead."
"You were born loud," Wads said.
"You were born boring," Klyden shot back.
A ripple of laughter went through the fence line. Keiya pressed her heel the slightest bit into his lower back—nonverbal mind your mouth—and he choked a grin.
"Sorry—Keiya says I'm—recalibrating," he panted.
"Keiya says nothing," Keiya said. "Keiya counts."
She angled her book, revealed a neat column of tiny tally marks she'd been making with the stub of a pencil tucked inside the binding.
Klyden's eyes went round. "You're—keeping score—"
"You begged for motivation." She made another mark without breaking stride. "Four hundred."
He laughed—helpless, delighted, incredulous all at once. "I love you—motivation—I love motivation—"
Liora exploded into laughter so hard she wheezed. "He's delirious! He's proposing to motivation!"
Reiyell let a sliver of a smile escape. "Let him. It's the only relationship he can maintain while doing this many push-ups."
Wads' shoulders glistened, the steady saw of muscle under skin never losing tempo. He glanced again—quick, clinical—at Klyden's hands. "Spread your fingers more. You'll get better support."
Klyden obeyed without thinking. The next descent felt cleaner. He breathed, found that tiny efficiency, and grinned through the burn. "Thanks—I'm—still beating you."
"Yes," Wads said neutrally. "You are."
That made the second-years fence line pop and fizz with whispers. He admitted it—he admitted it!
Klyden pushed three, four, five more with a stubborn joy that made no sense and perfect sense at once. Keiya remained a calm weight, an unyielding reminder on his back that if he wanted to show off, he'd do it with discipline or not at all.
"Four hundred thirty," she murmured, marking.
"Four thirty—one—two—" He broke, then laughed, head hanging. "Keiyaaa, my arms are noodles."
"Steel noodles," Liora corrected, solemn.
"Boiled steel noodles," Reiyell added.
"Keep going," Keiya said.
He did. He always did.
At four hundred sixty, his breath went ragged, that funny edge where laughter and pain pal together. At four hundred seventy, his triceps shook like plucked strings. At four hundred eighty, he made a terrible, triumphant sound and then—without warning—dropped to his knees.
The fence gasped. Liora choked. Wads paused for the first time.
But Klyden didn't stop; he just shook his hands out once, set them back, and forced himself up again. "Reset! Reset—okay—count me in—"
Keiya didn't scold him. She didn't move. Her voice came quiet, close to his ear. "Twenty left."
He nodded, eyes screwed shut, and climbed. Each one looked like a mountain. The yard fell silent except for the rasp of his breath and the chalk scratch of Keiya's pencil.
"Four ninety-one," she said.
"Four ninety—two," he croaked.
"Four ninety-three."
"Four—ninety—four—"
Wads rose from his last rep and sat back on his heels, sweat running clean lines through the dust on his neck, a small, private smile tucked into one corner of his mouth. He didn't say a word to the crowd. He only watched Klyden and Keiya—the ridiculous weight and the ridiculous will—and his smile deepened secretly.
"Four ninety-nine," Keiya said.
Klyden's elbows trembled so violently his shoulders fluttered. He bared his teeth, laughed through it, and pushed the world away one more time.
"Five hundred."
He locked out at the top. For a heartbeat, he held—arms shaking, eyes wide, grin wild. Then he collapsed flat like someone had cut his strings.
The yard erupted. Liora launched her bucket into the air and whooped. students squealed. Even Reiyell clapped once—once—like an aristocrat awarding a tolerable performance.
Keiya slid off his back at last, dusting her skirt. She stood over him with the faintest softened line at the corners of her mouth. "Hopeless," she said, and it sounded—just barely—like praise.
Face-down in the dirt, Klyden lifted one thumb. "Thriving," he mumbled into the ground, then turned his head so he could actually look at her. His eyes were bright, stupidly happy. "Did I win?"
Wads answered before Keiya could. "Yes," he said, deadpan and magnanimous all at once. "Physically."
Klyden squinted. "What does that mean."
"It means," Reiyell said, stepping forward to offer Keiya a handkerchief for the dust that wasn't on her at all, "you nearly died to entertain children."
Liora flopped down beside Klyden and fanned him with both hands. "And it was AMAZING," she declared. "Keiya, can I sit on him next time?"
Keiya sliced her a look. "Try it and you'll be carrying sandbags for a week."
Liora hugged her bucket like a shield. "Worth it," she whispered to Wads.
Wads' quiet grin lingered, a glint under calm. He stood, rolled his shoulders, and finally leaned down to tap Klyden's forearm with two fingers—an understated, I saw that. "Hydrate," he said.
Klyden beamed up at him, wrecked and radiant. "Race you to the well."
"You can't move," Wads said.
Klyden tried to push himself up and immediately flopped. "Details," he said into the dust, laughing.
Keiya nudged his shoulder with the toe of her boot. "Up."
He obeyed on reflex, groaning like an ancient door, then swayed and would've tipped if she hadn't reached, almost impatiently, and caught his wrist to steady him. It was nothing. It was everything. He straightened, grin tilting, eyes flicking to her hand and back to her face like a secret he wasn't allowed to keep. Then she let go.
"Keiya," he said, still breathless, "you make a terrible training weight."
"You make a worse student," she replied, but there was light in her eyes now, cold star turned warm ember.
"Next time," he puffed, throwing an arm around Wads' shoulders as if he had any balance left, "I'll do six hundred."
"Next time," Keiya said, already turning away, "you'll do ten correctly, and keep your mouth shut."
Liora cupped her hands around her mouth. "HE WON'T!"
Reiyell, walking past, murmured, "He can try."
Wads' quiet grin sharpened to the edge of a promise. "I'll count."
Klyden's laugh chased them all the way to the well, bright and stupid and indestructible, a golden sound rolling across the open yard where the chalk marks still gleamed: five hundred, and a little pencil star in Keiya's neat hand.