The eastern annex hadn't heard footsteps in years.
Now it heard them again — steady, unhurried, like someone walking through a graveyard that belonged to him.
Dust drifted through the dim corridor. The walls, once ivory, were blistered by dampness and time. Every few steps, Lucien Crowe's cane tapped the floor — not for support, but rhythm. His black coat swayed behind him, silent as smoke.
A brass plaque above the rusted door read:
> CLASS 9 — DISCONTINUED
Lucien smiled faintly. "Discontinued," he murmured. "How optimistic."
He pushed the door open.
---
The classroom smelled of mildew, old paper, and faint electricity.
Thirty desks stood in uneven rows. Only twelve were occupied. The students looked up as Lucien entered — a mosaic of exhaustion, suspicion, and quiet madness.
One girl had bandages wrapped around both eyes.
A boy in the corner was half-transparent, flickering between existence and shadow.
Another student chewed on a coin until it bent — his teeth glinting metallic.
Lucien stepped to the podium and placed his case on it with surgical precision.
The hinges creaked as he opened it, revealing an attendance sheet and a cracked hourglass.
"Good morning," he said softly. His voice carried easily, clear but detached.
"I am Instructor Crowe. You may call me 'sir,' 'professor,' or if you survive the semester, simply 'Lucien.'"
A few chuckles. One scoff. Mostly silence.
Lucien looked over the class, his pale eyes calm and analytical.
He counted the living. Then, the almost-living.
"Before we begin, I would like to establish expectations," he continued, flipping through the attendance sheet. "Your previous instructors likely taught you how to control your Sin. I do not intend to do that."
The boy with silver teeth raised an eyebrow. "Then what are you gonna teach, old man?"
Lucien adjusted his gloves. "How to weaponize it."
---
That caught their attention.
"Erebus pretends to produce heroes," he said, pacing slowly. "But the world does not need heroes. It needs instruments — efficient, obedient, and self-sustaining. You are Class 9, which means you've been written off as unusable. Congratulations. You're free from expectations."
A faint smile.
He turned to the board and began writing in precise, elegant strokes:
> LESSON ONE: YOU ARE ALREADY DEAD.
Murmurs rippled through the room.
"Is that supposed to be a joke?" someone muttered.
Lucien glanced back. "You misunderstand. This isn't metaphorical. According to Erebus's records, you were all declared terminated three months ago. The school simply hasn't informed you yet."
A few students laughed nervously.
One girl with trembling hands whispered, "That's not funny."
"It isn't a joke," Lucien said, still calm. "The Institute believes Class 9 is a waste of resources. My job is to prove them wrong before they dispose of you completely."
He set the hourglass on the desk. "We have six weeks."
---
A student in the back — a broad-shouldered boy with a scar running down his jaw — raised his hand lazily. "Six weeks for what?"
Lucien smiled thinly. "To die meaningfully. Or to live usefully. Either would make an excellent report."
A few of them stared. Others looked away.
Lucien snapped his fingers once.
The room darkened — the lights flickered and shadows deepened, responding to his command. The air thickened, humming with a low, unseen pulse.
A faint scent of ozone filled the room. The boy with the scar tensed, instinctively manifesting his Sin — a faint shimmer of Wrath, red veins crawling up his neck.
"Relax," Lucien said pleasantly. "That was a test of instinct. Five of you reacted. Seven didn't. That's roughly the survival rate I expected."
He closed his notebook and turned to the blackboard again. "Now then, introductions."
---
The first to speak was the transparent boy. His voice was hollow, like it came from somewhere distant. "Name's Riven. Sin of Envy. I copy things I touch."
Lucien nodded. "A common yet unstable variant. Have you copied anything human lately?"
Riven hesitated. "A few."
"And?"
"They… didn't stay human."
Lucien wrote "Unstable mimicry – progress potential" beside his name and gestured for the next.
"I'm Kora," said the blindfolded girl. "Sin of Sloth. I can stop things — like movement, sound, thought — if I'm touching them. But… it stops me too."
Lucien's gaze softened for a fraction of a second. "Mutual stasis. Interesting paradox."
He continued down the line — Greed that devoured memories, Pride that turned confidence into armor, Gluttony that absorbed pain instead of food. Every introduction was a study in tragedy disguised as power.
By the end, Lucien's board was covered in names and notes, a web of interlinked weaknesses and possibilities.
"Excellent," he said finally. "You're worse than I expected."
---
The class collectively exhaled — unsure whether it was an insult or approval.
Lucien placed the hourglass upright. "Let's begin the first exercise."
He pulled out a small obsidian shard and placed it on the desk. It pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat. "This is a residual fragment from a Wraithstorm. It reacts to emotional instability — particularly guilt."
He looked around. "Touch it."
No one moved.
Lucien raised an eyebrow. "Is there a volunteer, or shall I pick the least confident heartbeat?"
The scarred boy smirked. "I'll do it. Not scared of some rock."
He walked up, grabbed the shard — and screamed.
The room erupted in chaos. The boy's arm twisted backward, veins darkening as black smoke poured from his skin. His Sin of Wrath flared uncontrollably, flames licking his shoulders as if trying to escape him.
"Help him!" someone shouted.
Lucien didn't move. "Observe. This is what happens when your Sin owns you."
The boy convulsed, blood pouring from his eyes. The others panicked — desks scraping, powers flickering dangerously. The blindfolded girl reached forward blindly, trying to touch him.
Lucien's voice cut through the noise like a scalpel. "Stop."
He stepped forward, calm, precise. He placed a hand on the boy's chest.
A faint shimmer of blue light pulsed from his palm — quiet, elegant — and the boy froze mid-scream.
The light faded.
The boy collapsed.
Still.
The class went silent.
---
For a long moment, Lucien simply looked down at the corpse. Then, with a sigh, he straightened his tie.
"Remarkable," he murmured. "Full rejection in under twenty seconds. Faster than projected."
The blindfolded girl whispered, trembling, "You… killed him."
Lucien turned to face her, expression mild. "Incorrect. His Sin killed him. I merely recorded the data."
He glanced at the hourglass. Only a few grains had fallen.
Then, that faint, almost human smile returned to his lips.
"Lesson concluded," he said. "Tomorrow, we'll review causes of failure. Bring your corpses if you wish to participate."
He snapped his fingers. The lights dimmed completely.
And for an instant, every surviving student saw their reflections in his eyes —
not as humans, but as shadows already claimed by their Sins.
To be continued...