The 70-hectare estate, with its six-story Art Deco-style central building, was the academic institute Stellarium. It had the distinction of being the most expensive school in the world, with a faculty so elite that it trained the future rulers of nations. The children of billionaires, tycoons, and various criminals seeking higher status enrolled their offspring to build personal networks.
The entrance exam and scholarship tests were nearly impossible—unless you paid the "extra" tuition fee. Not even presidents without shady dealings could enroll their children without raising suspicions of embezzling public funds to cover the exorbitant costs.
Still, tutors were plentiful for grooming prospective candidates. Entering at a young age gave students a shot at experience; enrolling late meant limited connections.
From the moment Vaneesha arrived, she spent months studying to fill her knowledge gaps and pass the admission exam. Scoring an 86—well above the minimum requirement of 72—she placed among the top 100 applicants.
The sheer volume of supplies needed just for the first year left me speechless. As Stellarium's primary patron, even I hadn't expected the director to turn the place into the deadliest survival camp in academic history.
The list of supplies and uniforms was overwhelming, but at the parents' orientation, the goal became clear: training future elites.
Each family received a notification notebook with schedules and the nine subjects students selected during the career fair. Some kids chose what interested them; others were pushed by their families—something that made me uneasy.
I knew first grade would be hell for Nisha if she didn't keep up with the subjects she picked: Classical Literature, Algebra, History & Geography, Arts, Economics, Foreign Language, Professional Ethics, and Biology—subjects I myself never had to face in seventh grade, now expected of a tiny child.
Extracurriculars included swimming, horseback riding, sport shooting, fencing, music, and home economics. With all that, she'd only be home on weekends—weekdays were for the dorms.
"The car line is long," I noted on her first day of class.
"Wow! So many fancy cars! Are those kids as rich as you?" Nisha trembled, watching students in navy uniforms step out of limousines.
"You're richer. I literally own half this place. Just don't tell anyone—it'd be a scandal."
I adjusted her bow and made sure she looked perfect. Grabbing her suitcases, we walked into the institute. She hugged me and whispered she'd return with top grades—her excitement filled me with pride.
"Sweetheart, be careful. Don't let anyone put you down—you're a Stern. And stars? They shine above for everyone to admire."
After our goodbye, I went to speak with the director.
Gabry Camacho, a dark-skinned and muscular man in his early forties, was a decorated former army lieutenant who had been dishonorably discharged over a false arms-dealing accusation. Exiled due to lack of evidence, he and his comrades were left jobless until we met 11 years ago.
Training youth was his passion. And rather than let a jealous rat ruin his dream of building the perfect soldier, my closest associates and I funded it in the form of a private school. Most of them had kids and wanted real education—something the existing schools failed miserably to provide.
"So she's your blood granddaughter? Ha! That Masantoni scum would've killed himself knowing you beat him to it," Camacho said gleefully, watching the students through the window.
"Who knows what those bastards would do to her if they ever found out? Whatever it is, it's tied to the grandfather of that snake who stole your position, Camacho," said Savage Hill, head of security and a former Republican mercenary, pouring himself a drink.
Jano Masantoni had access to weapons during the Republican invasion but was later convicted of trafficking women and children during the war. After forcing Camacho and Hill out, his cowardly son Luigi—Giuseppe Masantoni's grandson—took over.
Now there were three of us who had a bone to pick with the Masantoni family.
"I want Nisha watched. I know your institution is the safest out there, but I still don't trust anyone not to target her. Everyone's gunning for me, and once word gets out that I adopted her as my daughter, she'll become a target. So let's keep this quiet."
"No one touches my students. With what you've told me, I'll revamp the security protocols—mandatory ID passes and more guards. I appreciate your support, Savage."
Clinking brandy glasses, we agreed: the vermin would be exterminated.
After the welcome ceremony, we were given colored pins marking our dorm sectors. I received a green leaf for Economics, but a girl with a red hammer pin for Politics started fighting another with a blue swallow for Medicine.
The prefect quickly intervened and docked points. We all knew we were equals here—but those girls didn't get it.
They weren't just reprimanded; they were also banned from extracurriculars for two weeks, setting them back. After that show of control, no one dared start a fight again.
The first three lectures were Algebra introductions, followed by lunch at the cafeteria. It was tough—even after six months of prep—but I wasn't going to give up. I had to prove I was worthy of being a Stern.
"Let's go to the library later. I heard the History teacher gives oral exams every class," said my new friend, Jazmín Radcliffe, nervous about being humiliated.
"With Professor Miller, read the footnotes. That's where she pulls her trick questions," added Darko Verona, who had insider info for us all.
There were a bunch of us, and to stay ahead, we formed a study group.
School season had begun in the Republic, and among the so-called schools, Nazad Academy was the most infamous and respected.
Its sky-high tuition gave it a false air of prestige, despite its faculty lacking any real or practical knowledge. Parents bragged about enrolling their children there, as if just saying the name gave them power—but not education.
Not only was it elitist and racist, it was also notoriously corrupt. Its students bullied the underprivileged while teachers and the principal looked the other way.
Having become a wealthy widow at a young age, Carmen took the opportunity to marry her former lover and Jenna's biological father—Rivaldo Zippin.
A textile merchant prone to bipolar episodes, Rivaldo had been Louis Schultz's only—and worst—friend.
He envied Louis deeply and, out of spite, used their "friendship" to get Carmen pregnant after learning Louis was the infamous Lady Fortuna's son. But Louis wasn't stupid. Knowing Rivaldo well, he never revealed Vaneesha's origin, nor the deal his father and aunts had made with the Masantonis. That way, if they divorced, Carmen would be blamed for adultery.
Carmen and Rivaldo were a disgusting, greedy, ambitious couple—so naturally, their daughter reflected them.
With Rodrick Blake starting first grade at Nazad, Carmen spared no expense in sending Jenna to the same school.
A porcelain doll in a white-and-blue preschool uniform, Jenna received endless praise for her looks. Her golden pigtails and lapis eyes charmed onlookers—but inside, she was rotten to the core and made her classmates fear her from day one.
"If you copy my hairstyle again, I'll rip your hair out."
Bullying a classmate in the bathroom, Jenna smiled while holding a pair of scissors.
Several girls joined her gang to avoid being her next target. Instead of helping the girl on the floor, they turned on her too.
That twisted little blonde… was an angel straight out of hell.