Location — Glory Academy, Main Hall.
The Main Hall was massive, yet cleanly designed. Wide, polished marble floors stretched from wall to wall, reflecting the soft morning light pouring through tall glass windows. Smooth stone columns lined the sides, holding up a ceiling so high it seemed to vanish into mist.
Holographic banners hung overhead, each one depicting the name of one of the Ten Great Heavens. At the front of the hall, a giant holographic crest of Glory Academy floated in the air, rotating slowly.
The hall smelled faintly of fresh stone and cold air.
Giuseppe stood in the front row, tapping his foot impatiently. Beside him were Marcus, Arthur, Tandav and Daniel.
He turned and glanced back at the crowd gathering behind them—around eighty first-years, still filing in. Some whispered quietly to each other, others stood stiff and silent, heads snapping toward every new noise.
The air was restless, heavy with nerves and excitement.
Giuseppe saw a familiar figure approaching and gestured for her to come towards him.
Evelynne wore a crisp white blouse, neatly buttoned up to her throat and adorned with a slim black ribbon tie. Over it, she layered a high-waisted black corset, cinching her waist dramatically and emphasising her figure.
Her black gloves added a touch of old-world elegance, matched by the sleek, thigh-high stockings fastened with slender garters. A long, flowing black coat trailed behind her like a shadow, the tailored fabric parting slightly at her hips to reveal her shapely legs.
Her black heels clicked softly against the floor with each step. Her dark hair cascaded in loose, glossy waves around her shoulders, and a pair of golden earrings glinted beneath her locks.
Giuseppe gave her a slight nod of acknowledgement as she slipped into place beside him.
A low chime rang out through the hall, cutting through the restless murmurs. Instantly, the students straightened, conversations dying mid-sentence.
From a set of grand doors at the far end of the hall, a procession of figures began to emerge. Their steps were measured, precise, almost ritualistic. Each one wore the black and gold regalia of the Academy—these are the Professors of Glory Academy.
Leading them was a woman with medium-length white hair with black highlights. Wearing a black dress and high heels.
Vice-Principal Orelia.
She strode to the centre of the stage beneath the great crest and raised her hand.
"Welcome," her voice rang throughout the hall. "First-years of Glory Academy."
A hush settled like a blanket over the Main Hall.
Vice-Principal Orelia let the silence linger, her sharp gaze sweeping across the room, weighing each student without a word.
"You stand at the beginning of your journey," she said, her heels clicking softly as she paced the stage. "In your hands, you will soon hold the Aetherlink Core—what most of you know simply as the Mythlink."
A subtle ripple passed through the crowd at the mention of the word.
"You have been taught the theory. You have heard the rumours, the stories, the myths. But know this—Warcraft Online is not a game. It is a proving ground. A place where your choices will ripple across far more than just your own lives."
She paused, letting the words hang heavy.
"As students of Glory Academy," Orelia said, her voice dropping into a deeper tone, "you are expected to rise above the ordinary. Failure will not be punished—but mediocrity will."
Giuseppe smirked under his bucket hat.
Orelia turned slightly, and from the side of the stage, attendants wheeled out a long glass case. Inside, resting on black velvet, were dozens of Mythlinks—each one a small, sleek device, shaped like a small key.
"You will step forward when your name is called. You will be called based on your ranking," she said. "Now is the time to leave if you are not ready. Because, from the moment you touch it, there is no turning back."
She swept her gaze across the gathered students. None moved.
"Then, let the Ceremony commence."
The hall erupted into a soft buzz of whispers, excitement crackling in the air like static.
Beep. Beep.
A small holographic screen materialised above the stage, displaying the first name.
[#1 – Giuseppe V. Castellano]
Without hesitation, Giuseppe stepped forward.
He ascended the short set of stairs to the stage. Vice-Principal Orelia watched his approach with a neutral expression.
Giuseppe came to a stop in front of the glass case.
Mavena—dressed in a black-and-gold robe, for the ceremony—stepped forward and unlatched the case with a flick of her hand. The Aetherlink Cores inside responded immediately, a low, musical hum vibrating in the air.
Without pausing, Giuseppe reached in and plucked one from the velvet bed.
The moment his fingers closed around the black key, it flared with a deep, resonant glow. A soft, tangible thrum of energy pulsed between him and the device, as if recognising him.
The Mythlink floated from his hand, almost reverently, before slotting itself into the black Connector cuffed to his wrist. The two pieces fused together with a soft click, like the two had been finally unified after a long period of separation.
Giuseppe looked down at his wrist silently. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop the face-splitting grin that grew on his face.
Without taking his eyes off his wrist, he descended the stairs, returning to his place.
Beep. Beep.
The holographic screen shifted.
[#2 — Marcus K. Vathen]
"Guess it's my turn," Marcus muttered, flashing a quick grin at Arthur, Tandav, and Daniel before stepping forward.
He made his way to the stage with an easy, unhurried stride. Reaching the glass case, he paused. Mavena, standing at attention beside it, gave him a brief, unreadable nod and opened it once again.
Marcus scanned the Mythlinks with a serious glance, then plucked one from the velvet with two fingers.
The moment he touched it, the black key vibrated faintly, resonating with a subtle pulse of energy. Without hesitation, it floated up and snapped into his Connector with a clean, mechanical click.
Marcus smiled faintly, turned, and made his way back to the front row.
Beep. Beep.
The holographic screen flickered as the next name appeared.
[#3 — Arthur W. Rain]
By now, Giuseppe had stopped paying attention.
The names continued to roll by, but his gaze remained locked on his Connector, feeling the faint, rhythmic pulse of the Mythlink as it synchronised with him.
Beep. Beep.
[#4 – Tandav D. Soman]
Beep. Beep.
[#5 – Evelynne S. Pahket]
Beep. Beep.
[#6 – Rachel D. Frankenstern]
Beep. Beep.
[#7 – Maya B. Merin]
Beep. Beep.
[#8 – Daniel E. Gonzales]
The hall continued to buzz with barely-contained excitement, the ceremony unfolding in a steady, almost dreamlike rhythm.
***
"...Absolutely. And it's a rather disconcerting, befuddling, bamboozling question you've asked there," Mr. Grey declared, pacing in front of the holographic screen like a man possessed. His arms flailed with grand, almost heroic gestures. "To get to the nucleus of the matter, we must inquire: what is the crux—the crucifix—th-the croutons of this postmodern, pre-colonial, post-Renaissance piece of English literature?"
Giuseppe stared blankly at the man, his eyelids twitching with the desperate tremor of someone fighting for his life.
'He's my most formidable opponent yet,' he thought, suppressing a groan. 'I don't think I can last much longer.'
Unbothered by the suffering of his students, Mr. Grey charged onward, voice growing even more impassioned. "Which, naturally, brings us to the foundation-the substratum, if you will—of the gerrymandering, the circular reasoning, the gesticulation, prostate examination, Californication, and inquisitional conflagration that was, of course, popularised by the late Duke of Red—"
At this point, Giuseppe's vision blurred at the edges. His body remained upright through sheer stubbornness alone. Across the aisle, Marcus caught his friend's dazed expression and struggled—truly struggled—not to laugh.
'Is this punishment for something I did? Why did we not have classes yesterday, but we have to do this shit on the most important day ever.'
Trying to stay conscious, Giuseppe dropped his gaze to his desk, pulled up a holographic screen, and began sketching whatever his hand could manage. When he finished, he nudged Marcus's shoulder and proudly displayed his work as if it were a masterpiece: a pathetically uneven watermelon.
Marcus snorted under his breath, then casually turned his own screen to show a different drawing—a strikingly detailed tree, its branches breaking through the clouds, leaves trembling with the illusion of motion.
The difference was catastrophic.
Giuseppe's eyes widened. "You did that?" he whispered, half-impressed, half-offended.
Marcus gave a humble shrug. "Yeah. Just now."
Giuseppe's face twisted into theatrical betrayal. "Fuck off."
"What?" Marcus said, feigning innocence.
"You did not draw that just now."
"I literally just did."
"No, you didn't."
"Yes. I did."
"I don't believe you!" Giuseppe hissed, pointing at his screen. "This is real effort. I'm fighting for my life, here."
Marcus bit back a grin. "It's not that bad. You know, shading and colours are really everything when it comes to art."
"Oh, shut up," Giuseppe snapped. "When did you even learn how to draw?!"
"Are you mad at me for... having a hobby?" Marcus said, lips twitching.
"Evidently!" Giuseppe barked, crossing his arms with wounded pride.
Meanwhile, at the front of the classroom. Mr. Grey remained blissfully unaware, lost in his own monologue.
"...thus bringing us to the greater metatextual conundrum of self-referential, neo-Gothic epistemological frameworks that shaped the entire post-Terran literary response!"
Giuseppe slumped deeper into his chair, raising his hand weakly.
"I'm going to die here, aren't I?" he whispered hoarsely.
Finally, Mr. Grey turned back to his students, his lecture concluded.
What he found were rows of half-dead faces—slack-jawed, glassy-eyed, barely clinging to consciousness.
He sighed, loosening his tie with one hand and pulling off his glasses with the other, rubbing the bridge of his nose as if trying to massage away the collective despair hanging in the room.
"Alright," he said at last, his voice quieter, more grounded—different enough to snap a few students to attention.
"I know how you're feeling right now," Mr. Grey continued, voice steady, almost sympathetic. "You're tired of this ordinary work. You're restless. You're excited. You're just counting down the minutes until you can leave this place behind and dive into your Foundational Scripts."
For the first time all day, the room was completely still—everyone listening.
Mr. Grey's voice softened.
"I don't care if you remember my lectures or anything I said today." He gave a small, wry smile. "Honestly, I wouldn't blame you if you forgot all of it the second you walk out that door."
He straightened, a weary pride in his eyes.
"I just want you to live. I want all of you to come back."
The words, simple as they were, hit harder than any lecture ever could.
Mr. Grey gave one last tired smile, full of something between hope and sorrow.
"Class dismissed."
___________________________________________
Author Note: ;)