Chapter 51: Combat class
When Zephyr entered the combat class, it was not empty like the meditation class, though the room’s sheer size made it feel like it was. A few students were already scattered across the space, their conversations low, some stretching, others testing their weapons with quiet discipline. Their gazes shifted toward him as he stepped in—some indifferent, others hate—but one lingered longer than the rest.
Lunethra.
Her sharp purple eyes held his for a fraction too long before he adverted his gaze awkwardly.
"Zephyr!" Mr. Fisher’s cheerful voice cut through the ambient noise. "You’re late, but it’s fine—change out of that cloak and into the vest."
Zephyr nodded and slipped away to the changing corner. When he returned, now wearing the sleeveless training vest, Mr. Fisher clapped his hands together and grinned.
"Alright! Let’s not waste time. Bed number one and bed number fifteen—you’re up."
Two students stepped forward, both holding the standard-issue training dagger. One had a lean and somewhat short build with ash-blond hair, his expression wary. The other, stockier, cracked his knuckles before assuming a ready stance.
"Hold on," Mr. Fisher said, raising a hand. "You’re not allowed to use your Arts."
Murmuring filled the air, but non were bold enough to voice ot their opposition. All except the ash-blond boy who frowned and said. "Why not, sir?"
Mr. Fisher’s smile dimmed, his eyes glazing over with a memory only he could see. "Because I’m not about to be the instructor who gave kids a license to kill. Not happening."
For a moment, he stood still, lost in whatever bygone war or battlefield lived behind his eyes. Then he blinked it away and walked to the center.