​That morning, Seruni School finally breathed.

​It was no longer just a silent building adorned with ribbons and leftover flowers from yesterday’s inauguration. Today, the structure fulfilled its true destiny: becoming a vessel for dozens of souls—from various castes, ages, and scars—gathering for a single purpose.

​Sret... sret...

​The sound of wheelchair wheels gliding over wooden floors that still smelled of fresh varnish broke the classroom’s silence. Elara Sudrath stopped right in front of the chalkboard. Before her, forty-seven pairs of eyes watched without blinking. There was Mira, the nine-year-old who nervously clutched the hem of her shirt. Then there was Barret, a giant former infantryman with a jagged scar across his cheek, sitting stiffly in a wooden desk that felt far too small for his frame.

​Elara scanned the room, her hand gently stroking her knee hidden beneath the fabric of her gown. "My name is Elara Sudrath," her voice was calm, echoing clearly throughout the room. "I am the headmistress here. But today, hmm, just consider me your teacher."

​Silence. Several pairs of eyes drifted down, staring at Elara’s motionless legs resting on the wheelchair’s footrests. Elara gave a thin smile—a smile that had long ago memorized the direction of this conversation.

​"I cannot walk," she said bluntly, causing several students to flinch at her directness. "But, I can still think. And that is what I will teach you. How to use your heads. Because that—not the ability to run or swing a sword—is the most lethal weapon you will ever possess."

​Eh?

​A student in the back row raised his hand. It was Kell, the youth who had survived the darkness of Project Legion. "Forgive me, My Lady. But... can thinking stop the edge of a sword that’s about to cleave a neck?"

​Several students turned toward Kell. Elara took no offense. Instead, she turned her wheelchair slightly, looking Kell straight in the eye.

​"A sword does not stop just because you think about it, Kell. But by thinking, you know where the strike is coming from, when it will be swung, and where the opening to evade is before the steel touches your skin." Elara tapped her temple. "You are a soldier. You know that muscle without a brain is just meat waiting to be butchered."

​Kell fell silent for a moment, then lowered his head with a slow nod. "True, My Lady."

​"Very well. First lesson," Elara reached for a piece of chalk. Tack. The sound was crisp in the silence.

​In the middle of the class, Aldric Varn Junior sat with his back stiff and rigid. The shadow of his "defeat" by Raveena yesterday still felt like a pebble in his shoe—uncomfortable and annoying. He glanced at the girl beside him, Elodie, who wore shabby farming clothes. She brought nothing. No fancy books, no expensive pens. Only her hands folded neatly on the wooden desk.

​"Tsk, what are you looking at? Hoping for pity?" Junior whispered with a condescending tone.

​Elodie did not turn. Her eyes remained fixed on the chalkboard.

​"Hah, are you deaf? Or do you just have nothing to—"

​"I see you’re still busy licking your wounds from yesterday," Elodie cut him off softly, her voice barely a whisper, yet its sharpness pierced Junior’s ears. The noble youth was instantly silenced, his cheeks flushing crimson.

​At the front, Elara wrote several numbers. "A farmer has three baskets of apples. Each basket contains five apples. He gives two apples to his neighbor. How many apples are left?"

​The sound of fingers manually counting began to fill the air. Barret was even sweating, his brow furrowed as if he were facing an enemy ambush.

​Junior raised his hand in a flash. "Thirteen, My Lady."

​"Correct," Elara nodded. "But now, hmm, try to explain to your classmates who are still confused—how did you get that number?"

​Junior opened his mouth, then suddenly hesitated. "I... I added them up. Three times five, minus two."

​"Correct. But why did you use multiplication? Why not addition?"

​Junior gaped slightly. He knew how to calculate it because he had been programmed since childhood by private tutors, but explaining the logic behind it? That was another matter entirely.

​"Because every container has the same amount," Elodie’s voice broke the impasse. "Five apples. There are three baskets. So five is added three times. It’s faster if you just multiply it."

​Elara gave a wide, sincere smile. "Excellent, Elodie. You’ve just explained the basis of arithmetic without needing to memorize rigid formulas."

​Junior glanced at Elodie from the corner of his eye. The girl he had just insulted—the girl who had no books—turned out to have a mind far more organized than his. Something shifted in Junior’s chest; a tightness that didn’t stem from anger, but from recognition.

​At the back desk, creak... snap!

​"Ouch," Barret groaned. The pencil in his giant hand had snapped in two. "This thing is more fragile than a Basilisk’s neck."

​Kell, who was also struggling to hold his pencil stiffly, gave a dry chuckle. "Patience, Barret. Captain Thorne said we have to be ready for peacetime. Holding this pencil is part of mental training."

​"Peacetime, huh?" Barret stared at the broken pieces of his pencil with a hollow gaze. "I never thought I’d live to see the day where my enemy is just a sheet of paper."

​"You’re living it now," Kell replied, pointing at Barret’s paper. "Just write slowly."

​In the faculty room during recess, the aroma of herbal tea wafted gently. Raveena Sudrath sipped from her cup before looking at Elara.

​"Did you see Elodie earlier?" Raveena asked.

​"The girl with the root talent? Yes. Her logic is remarkably sharp for a child who has never been to school."

​"She has instinct, Elara. Not just with magic, but in how she processes information." Raveena set her cup down with a soft clink. "I want to pull her into the advanced Applied Magic class sooner. She’s too bright for just basic magic lessons."

​Elara nodded in agreement. "Do it. But ensure she doesn’t miss out on other fundamentals. I don’t want her becoming a mage who can’t read a map."

​Meanwhile, in the back field, Sergeant Garon—a former infantryman under Captain Thorne, now assigned as a physical instructor—stood tall before twenty students for physical training. Junior Varn was there, his face sour as sweat began to drench his neck.

​"Two laps! Remember, this isn’t about who gets there first," Garon barked, pointing at the dirt track ahead. "Maintain your breathing rhythm. Whoever gasps for air first adds an extra lap!"

​Thump, thump, thump...

​Junior shot forward like an arrow, wanting to prove that his physique was far above the commoners. He led by a wide margin in the first lap. However, as he entered the second lap, his chest began to burn. His breath grew shallow. His legs felt as if they were being dragged by lead.

​Beside him, Kell and Barret passed with steady strides. They weren’t running fast, but their breathing was rhythmic, in sync with their constant footfalls. Junior fell behind. He reached the finish line with a swaying body, leaning on his knees as he coughed.

​Garon approached and knelt beside him. "Do you know why they overtook you?"

​Junior could only shake his head weakly while wiping sweat from his eyes.

​"You flaunted your power at the start for useless praise. On the battlefield—or in this school—showing off will only get you killed. Save your energy for the hardest part at the end." Garon patted Junior’s shoulder.

​Junior looked up. There was no mockery on Garon’s face, only the sternness of an instructor. For the first time, Junior nodded with genuine respect.

​Toward evening, Elara closed the final lesson with a brief, lingering message.

​"In this school, gold cannot buy grades. Noble blood does not grant you privilege." She looked at Junior, then at Elodie, and finally at Barret. "You all start from the same point. What differentiates you is only what you do with your own heads."

​The classroom fell silent, until suddenly—

​"MY LADY! LOOK!"

​Mira, the little girl, stood up with a beaming face. She held up a sheet of paper with hands trembling from joy. On it were written large, slanted, messy letters: M-I-R-A.

​"I can write my own name! I can!" Mira cheered in delight.

​Warm laughter erupted in the class. Kell clapped softly, while Elodie gave a thin smile. Junior Varn remained silent, staring at Mira’s writing. That little girl had just achieved her greatest "victory" of the day with only four letters. Something that seemed trivial to Junior, but to Mira, it was a new world. Junior realized that here, every small bit of progress was an honor.

​As the final bell rang, students poured out with laughter and chatter. Elara remained in the now-silent classroom. The twilight sun streamed through the window, illuminating the chalk dust dancing in the air.

​She stared at the chalkboard covered in scribbled numbers and names.

​"This is only the first day," she whispered to herself. Her hand touched the smooth surface of the wooden desk. "There are still thousands of days to go."

​A smile bloomed on Elara’s lips—the smile of a woman who had finally found a way to "walk" beyond her physical limitations, through the steps of the students who had just begun their lives.