His hands trembled as he lifted the beaker, the liquid within swirling like a captive void. He stirred it slowly, eyes fixed on the way even light refused to pierce its surface. The potion drank in the glow around it, a darkness so complete it felt alive. Fascination bloomed in his chest—warm, startling—and before he realized it, a faint smile ghosted across his lips, touched by a strangely nostalgic ache, as though greeting something long forgotten.
( So... what does it do ) before Ms.Foxglove clapped once and all the students stoped moving and turned their attention to her
The sharp sound sliced through the air and every student froze mid-motion, attention snapping toward her like puppets pulled by a string.
"Now then, my pupils," she purred, eyes glittering with amusement, "show your own Mad Speculorum Elixir. Start with your name, your will… and how the Elixir bonds with your darling persona."
Her finger pointed lazily toward the bob-haired girl with silver highlights.
The girl moved.
Fast—almost too fast for the eye. In a breath, she was already standing before the class, heels silent against the marble floor. With chilling elegance, she plucked a needle from her hair and let it fall into the beaker.
Clink.
Then, without hesitation, she threw the beaker across the room.
The glass shattered on impact.
In an instant, a forest of silver-like spikes erupted from the ground, blooming like metallic thorns as the air rang with a cold, metallic shriek.
The girl stood amidst the gleaming spires, her voice flat and razor-sharp.
"I am Sylvette Quillon. My will—my persona—is called Spindlewright, some call it Acunokinesis. I command metallic objects… especially needles."
For a heartbeat, the room was held captive by the glitter of metal—Sylvette standing amidst the silver thorns like a cold-blooded ballerina of steel.
Then—fwip.
Ms. Foxglove flicked open her black lacquered fan with a crisp snap, the sound slicing through the silence like a guillotine. Her painted lips curved ever so slightly
"Sehr schön..." she breathed, the German soft and dangerously fond. "How lovely it is to see discipline instead of brutish display."
She glided forward, fan poised delicately between her fingers like a blade in disguise. With elegant precision, she let the edge of the fan trail along one of the metallic spikes, tracing it as though it were art in a museum.
"Most of you," she said, her eyes drifting lazily across her students, "treat your wills like toys. Loud. Messy. Pathetic."
Her fan snapped shut with a sharp clack
"But you, Fräulein Quillon… you did not unleash chaos."
A slow, approving smirk.
"You conducted it."
Ms. Foxglove turned, fan half-open now, casting a shadow across her sharp, fox-like grin.
"Remember this, Kinder—any fool can destroy. But only an artist…"
She narrowed her eyes, fanning herself once with chilling grace.
"Only an artist can make destruction beautiful."
Sylvette only bowed her head in silent acknowledgment, another needle glinting between her fingers like a quiet promise.
Ms. Foxglove's fan flicked outward, the black silk snapping open like the wings of a raven. Its pointed tip landed—deliberate, commanding—on the lad draped in living scales.
Two serpents coiled around him like royal adornments, their bodies moving in smooth, liquid rhythm. He did not walk—he slithered through the crowd, fluid and predatory, weaving between desks with a serpent's grace. In his hand, the beaker trembled ever so slightly.
Without a word, he dropped something into the Elixir—
—a scale, shimmering like oil on water.
The blue serpent wrapped around his neck moved first, its tongue tasting the air before it slid down his arm and lowered its head to the beaker. It drank.
The reaction was instant.
The serpent convulsed—then swelled, its bones cracking, length stretching into something monstrous and ancient, scales rising like jagged obsidian. The second serpent followed, but its transformation twisted further—limbs tearing through flesh, reptilian claws scraping against the floor as it stood, no longer a serpent but a thing that should not walk.
Gasps echoed. A few students stepped back, chairs scraping. The creatures hissed, tension coiling in their muscles—ready to strike.
The lad looked at them.
One look.
And the beasts froze, then slowly lowered their heads like knights before a king.
He lifted his gaze to the class. Though his stance was controlled and cold, his voice—when he spoke—was smooth, unexpectedly calm
"My name is Kaizer Ophion. My persona—Reptilion Dominion. Some refer to it as Ophidiokinesis."
A slow clap of silk and bones.
Ms. Foxglove closed her fan with a soft fwip.
"Ach… how enchanting," she cooed, German lacing her tone like velvet over poison. "Most who wield beasts become their victims. But you…"
Her smile sharpened.
"You do not tame, Herr Ophion. You rule."
Rai stood, calm as always, his posture perfect, demeanor unshaken, like the eye of a storm.
Ms. Foxglove's black fan flicked open with a sharp snap, casting a shadow over her face as she smirked.
"I didn't need to point at you," she said, the German rolling in her tongue with a sly elegance. "Your intuition is… scharf, as always, Mr. Gromov."
Rai lifted his beaker with a casual grace. Inside, sparks danced like trapped lightning, arcs crackling along the surface. Without any flourish, he set it down.
"I hope you all have your umbrellas," he murmured.
Then, the storm broke.
Water surged upward, twisting and curling in chaotic arcs, while blinding plasma ignited the air. Thunder rolled like a war drum, and the storm seemed to scream across the classroom, as if a Category 5 tempest had been unleashed on the very tiles themselves.
A snap of his fingers, and the storm withdrew—but the thunder still rumbled, echoing through the room like a warning.
Rai's gaze swept across his classmates, unflinching. His voice, calm and commanding, carried over the crackling echoes.
"I am Rainard Zoryan Gromov. My persona: Atmospheromancy and the manipulation of Electricity
Ms. Foxglove closed her fan slowly, letting the fwip punctuate the moment.
"Ah… wunderbar," she purred, a dangerous gleam in her eyes. "A storm contained, yet commanding the chaos. Very impressive, Herr Gromov."
Then she points the fan at Raj.
Raj Morayne moved with predatory grace, steps silent as a cat, eyes cold and calculating. Her beaker gleamed under the dim classroom light.
Without warning, she parkoured over a desk, flipping and landing perfectly on the other side of the room. Her movements were fluid, almost mesmerizing—like a dancer rehearsing with deadly intent.
She held her beaker aloft, and in a swift motion, sprayed its contents across the room. The liquid hissed as it left the glass, trailing through the air like venomous mist—a shimmering, toxic rainbow that clung to the walls.
"Everyone," she said, voice low but cutting through the tension, "gas masks, now."
Students scrambled, coughing, as the mist curled and settled like a living thing.
Ethan blinked—and the room warped ever so slightly. The edges of desks began to twist, faint, flickering shadows crawling along the walls. He caught glimpses of tiny figures that weren't there: whispering faces, slithering shapes, and silver needles dancing like fireflies in the periphery of his vision. Every inhale made them shimmer and shift, teasing the limits of his perception.
Raj's gaze swept the room, unflinching. Calmly, she flicked a finger, and the mist retracted like obedient serpents, coiling back into the beaker without a drop wasted.
"I am Raj Morayne. My persona… is called Toximancy. Control over toxins, venoms… the subtle art of silent devastation."
Ms. Foxglove flicked her fan open and closed, the motion sharp, deliberate, like a judge passing sentence.
"Ah… sehr beeindruckend," she purred, German flowing like silk over steel. "You do not merely wield poison, Fräulein Morayne… you compose it. Each movement, each spray… a quiet symphony of death. Most students fear chaos. You—you embrace it with grace."
Faint smile curled her lips as the class watched in awe, some trembling, some fascinated—no one daring to speak
"Remember, Kinder," she added softly, letting the words hang like a blade, "chaos is nothing without control. Precision is elegance… and death is merely the final note."
Ms. Foxglove's gaze flicked toward Ethan, sharp and calculating. The young lad almost stumbled forward, swaying under the lingering haze of Raj's toxic fumes. His hand trembled as he lifted his beaker, the weight of expectation—and of danger—pressing down on him.
He made his way to the front of the class, movements unsteady, the edges of the room warping slightly in his vision. Every inhale of the lingering fumes made the air shimmer; fleeting hallucinations danced at the periphery of his sight.
Reaching the center, he held the beaker aloft and shook it, waiting for a reaction. Seconds stretched. Minutes passed. Nothing. A bead of sweat slid down his temple, his knuckles white around the glass.
In a careless motion, his elbow knocked into a row of nearby beakers. The fluids inside sloshed violently, churning and spiraling as if stirred by some unseen force.
Then—it happened.
The energy from his Elixir stirred, unseen yet palpable, creeping outward in waves. Ethan's eyes widened as he saw the effect manifest: the beaker began to draw in energy from the surrounding Elixirs, small sparks and wisps of light from other students' creations bending and stretching toward it.
The classroom fell into stunned silence. Every student froze, watching with bated breath as Ethan's beaker continued to suck in energy, glowing brighter with every second, the air around it humming with raw, unpredictable power.
Ms. Foxglove's fan snapped open with a sharp fwip, her eyes glinting with a mixture of amusement and approval.
"I… I am Ethan Von Claude," he said finally, voice steadying despite the tremor in his hands. "For now… I don't know yet, but my persona… is energy absorption and manipulation."
"Ah… sehr faszinierend," she murmured, German lacing every word with elegance and danger. "Observe, Kinder—some channel energy, some absorb it entirely. Herr Von Claude, it seems your will does not merely manipulate… it devours."
The beaker swelled violently, glowing brighter with every passing second, absorbing energy from every corner of the classroom. Sparks and flickers of light danced across the walls, feeding into Ethan's Elixir like a storm in miniature.
Kai's eyes widened in alarm.
"How do you make it stop?" he asked, voice tight, worry etched across his face as the power spiraled out of control.
Ethan's hands shook violently as he gripped the beaker.
"I… I don't know!" he shouted, panic rising like a tidal wave.
Frantically, he tried to force the energy back, to squeeze it out—but the raw power resisted, writhing under his hands. Then, a calm, cold voice whispered directly into his mind
"Absorb it."
Zermorphosis.
Ethan's eyes widened as he felt his own arm twist beneath his skin, bones cracking with the strain, and realized that Zermorphosis had taken control, guiding his body to draw in the raw, uncontrolled energy.
The mist around him began to calm, the chaotic sparks of energy funneling neatly into the beaker. A strange, almost nauseating fullness washed over him. Then—a sudden, sharp burp of electricity flashed outward, making him stagger back as his left side erupted in metallic needles and toxic fumes, remnants of the energy he had absorbed.
The classroom descended into chaos—students coughing, ducking, wide-eyed, as sparks and mist swirled around them.
Ms. Foxglove's fan snapped open with an elegant fwip, her presence slicing through the bedlam. She waved it gracefully, and a sweet lavender-scented mist unfurled from the fan, wrapping around Ethan like a calm hand on a frantic shoulder.
Gradually, his breathing steadied, the sharp flashes and toxic tendrils receding as the lavender calm settled him.
Ethan blinked, chest heaving, still trembling from the experience, but now grounded, the hallucinatory chaos fading under the professor's control.
Ms. Foxglove smoothly shifted the conversation to another topic, her tone casual, but behind her composed demeanor, a flicker of curiosity about Ethan lingered. The other students, sensing the subtle tension, found themselves drawn in as well, their own interest piqued, eyes quietly following his every move.