The lecture hall looked like it had survived several centuries out of pure stubbornness.
Dark wooden panels lined the walls, worn smooth in some places and scratched to hell in others, like generations of students had taken their academic frustrations out on them. The ceiling arched slightly, old beams stretching across it like they were personally making a noble sacrifice to hold the ceiling from collapsing on us.
And yet—
Someone had clearly tried to modernize it.
Sleek LED lights were fitted between the beams, casting a clean, artificial glow that clashed with the room's "ancient academic dungeon" aesthetic. A large digital screen sat at the front, mounted right above a chalkboard that looked like it had seen things. Real things. Possibly crimes.
The seats were arranged in tiers, each row slightly higher than the one in front, creating a gradual slope so everyone had a clear view of the front.
Or, more realistically, so everyone could see exactly how little the people in front of them were paying attention.
We stepped inside, the door shutting behind us with a dull thud as the noise from the hallway faded.
Mr. Cross stood at the front, still watching us.
He was an elderly man, very clearly past his prime. His head was completely bald, the overhead lights reflecting off it just enough to be distracting if you stared too long—which I unfortunately did. Deep wrinkles lined his face, the kind that didn't just suggest age, but long-term exposure to disappointment.
Probably from teaching.
"I said take your seats, are you guys deaf?" he rambled.
I thought about arguing.
Not because I had anything useful to say.
Just for the experience.
But as I walked towards him, I realized I couldn't bring myself to argue with the senile teacher.
Not worth the risk.
If he started a story, I'd lose half the lecture to something that began with "back in my day" and ended with me questioning my life choices.
Victor split off almost immediately, making his way toward the back like a man seeking spiritual safety.
Naturally.
Maximum distance from authority. Minimum accountability.
I, on the other hand, took a seat around the middle.
Close enough to exist.
Far enough not to matter.
I slid into a seat, dropped my bag beside me, and leaned back slightly.
Then I glanced to my right.
Amilia Vance.
Asleep.
Her head rested lightly against her arm, black hair spilling across the desk like a slow-moving waterfall. It caught the light in a way that felt unfair—soft, glossy, and completely unbothered by the concept of bad angles.
She was beautiful.
Not in a dramatic, over-the-top way.
Just… effortlessly.
The kind of person who didn't need to try.
Unfortunately, a faint line of drool at the corner of her mouth was currently doing its best to sabotage that image.
I shifted slightly and looked to my left.
Sebastian Carter.
Blonde hair, neatly styled. Blue eyes that carried the confidence of someone who had never once doubted himself. And a smug expression that suggested he owned the room and chair I was sitting in.
He glanced at me briefly, then looked away like the interaction had already been a waste of his time.
Right.
That told me everything I needed to know.
Honestly, he probably would've been popular with the ladies.
If he wasn't such a jerk.
I faced forward again as the lecture began.
Mr. Cross adjusted his glasses and started talking, seamlessly switching between the digital screen and the chalkboard like he refused to fully commit to either century.
I listened.
Or at least attempted to.
After a few minutes, I glanced back at Amilia.
Still asleep.
Completely dedicated.
I sighed quietly.
She let me copy her homework sometimes.
That alone made her more valuable than a majority of my other classmates.
So yeah, waking her up felt like basic decency.
I reached over and tapped her shoulder.
"Hey."
Nothing.
I tapped again, a little firmer.
"Amilia."
She stirred, barely.
Then slowly lifted her head.
A thin strand of drool stretched from her lip and almost hit the desk as she moved.
She blinked once. Then again, like her brain was loading the current scene in stages.
"Wha…?"
She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, completely unbothered.
"Lecture started," I said.
She stared at me for a second, processing, then gave a small nod.
"…Thanks."
Just like that, she straightened up, grabbed her pen, and looked forward like she had been awake the entire time.
A flawless recovery.
Mr. Cross continued speaking, his voice steady as he explained something about systems and historical frameworks.
The usual.
Then—
Something felt off.
At first, it was faint.
A slight pressure behind my eyes, like the beginning of a headache.
I shifted in my seat, frowning slightly.
Then my ears started ringing.
Alright, this definitely wasn't normal.
The sound grew sharper, cutting through the lecture, pulling my focus away from everything else.
I blinked, trying to refocus.
The room felt… distant.
Like I was sitting a few seconds behind reality.
The pressure increased.
Slowly at first.
Then steadily.
It spread from behind my eyes to my temples, tightening with each passing second.
My fingers curled slightly against the desk.
Well, I lived a good life, I suppose.
The ringing got louder.
The pressure deepened.
A dull, pulsing sensation began to form—heavy, rhythmic, and impossible to ignore.
I clenched my jaw.
The pulse hit again, stronger this time.
The sounds around me faded further, like someone was lowering the volume on the world.
Another pulse.
The sharp and suffocating pain felt like something was pressing inward, layer by layer.
My vision flickered at the edges.
Then my eyes started to roll back into my head.
Great.
This was how I died.
In class.
Truly a legacy worth remembering.
And then—
It stopped.
Not faded.
Not eased.
Stopped.
Like something had reached in and flipped a switch.
The pain vanished.
The pressure disappeared.
The ringing cut off so abruptly it left a hollow silence behind.
And into that silence—
A voice.
Soft.
Sweet.
Clear enough that it felt like it was right next to my ear.
"Congratulations, candidate…"
I didn't move.
Didn't breathe.
"…you have unlocked the skill [Subtle Manipulation]."