The area behind the Academy library was a graveyard for forgotten wheelbarrows and stacks of weathered bricks. It was the only place where the grass grew long enough to hide a sitting person, and where Instructor Kael's "assessments" couldn't reach.
The moment they crossed the threshold of the building's shadow, the change was instantaneous.
Arin stopped his "uncoordinated calf" routine. He stood up straight, his shoulders square, and he wiped the fake "clumsiness" from his face. His eyes, usually wide and vacant for the teachers, sharpened into the gaze of someone who could see every moving part in a room.
"Finally," Arin exhaled, his voice dropping an octave. "If I had to stumble one more time, I was going to actually break my own ankle just for the consistency."
Cyrus stopped his frantic twitching. He didn't lean against the wall; he stood precisely two inches away from it, checking the mortar. "Your acting is a 4 out of 10, Verne. You're over-selling the 'clueless boy' trope. It's statistically offensive."
"And you," Lysa said, stepping toward Mira. Lysa didn't look like a bored student anymore; she looked like a predator assessing a rival. "You're too good at being a ghost. In a village this small, someone who can't be remembered stands out more than someone who can."
Mira leaned against a stack of bricks. For the first time, her face had definition. She looked tired. "I'm not trying to stand out. I'm trying to survive. The North doesn't keep 'pebbles' like me. They turn us into glass so they can see through us."
The four of them stood in a loose circle. No one was smiling.
"The Principal thinks he's hoarding 'assets,'" Cyrus said, cleaning his glasses with a piece of silk. "He's been falsifying the intake reports from our previous school to hide us from the Regional Audit. He wants us to be his secret 'Prodigy Squad' so he can secure a governorship in the capital."
"He's a greedy idiot," Arin said.
"Greedy idiots are useful," Lysa countered. "They provide cover. But the man in the grey cloak? He isn't an idiot. He's counting. And he's noticed that the 'Verne' family doesn't add up."
Arin looked at Cyrus and Mira. "So. Are we going to keep sabotaging each other's boringness, or are we going to coordinate?"
Cyrus looked at the ground, his mind clearly running a thousand permutations. "If we act as a group, the probability of discovery drops by 60%. We can mask each other's anomalies. If Arin 'accidently' breaks something, I provide a mathematical distraction. If someone looks too closely at me, Mira... makes them forget they were looking."
"And what do we do about my father?" Arin asked, a bit sheepishly. "He's... he's very helpful. He'll probably try to invite you all for tea and discuss the history of the shovel."
Mira actually let out a small, dry ghost of a laugh. "Your father is the most convincing person I've ever met. He's so genuinely dull that he creates a field of 'Normalcy' around your entire house. He's the best shield we have."
"He's not a shield," Lysa said defensively. "He's just... Dad."
"Exactly," Mira said. "The perfect cover."
Lysa looked at Mira, then at Cyrus. She held out a hand—not for a handshake, but like a commander sealing a pact.
"Half-friends," Lysa stated. "We don't tell each other our real secrets. We don't ask where the 'Northern' skills came from. But we make sure that when the Empire looks at this Academy, all they see are four very disappointing, very average children."
Cyrus nodded once. "I can calculate 'average.' I've been studying 'C-minus' students for years. It's a fascinatingly mediocre demographic."
Arin grinned, his first real smile of the day. "Great. Then let's go back out there and be the worst students this school has ever seen."
The "League of Anomalies" Pact:
The Agreement: They will use their powers to protect their mediocrity.
The Shared Secret: They all know the Principal is trying to "own" them.
The Dynamic: Arin and Cyrus are the "Physical/Logic" duo; Lysa and Mira are the "Detection/Invisibility" duo.
The Academy cafeteria was a cavernous hall that smelled of boiled cabbage and the dampened spirits of five hundred students. For most, it was a place to eat; for the newly formed "League of Anomalies," it was a tactical minefield.
The "Lunch Test" was simple: Sit together, eat the mystery stew, and interact like four children who have nothing to hide.
"Posture, Arin," Lysa hissed as they carried their wooden trays toward a central table. "You're walking with too much purpose. Slouch. Look like you're contemplating the pointlessness of geometry."
"I am contemplating the pointlessness of this stew," Arin muttered, eyeing the grey lumps in his bowl. He sat down with a deliberate, loud clatter, making sure to spill a little water on the table. "Look at me. I'm a mess. I'm a disaster. I'm—"
"You're overacting again," Cyrus said, sliding into the bench opposite him. He didn't spill a drop. He sat with his tray exactly 3.2 centimeters from the edge of the table. "An average student doesn't 'contemplate' their mess. They ignore it. Just eat the cabbage, Arin."
Mira was already there. Nobody had seen her sit down. She was just... present, staring at her bread as if she were trying to become the same color as the crust.
"We are being watched," Mira said, her lips barely moving.
Arin glanced up. On the far side of the hall, the Imperial Courier (the man in the grey cloak) was standing by the door, pretending to read a notice board. Near him, Principal Albrecht was "casually" strolling through the aisles, patting students on the back while keeping a sharp, greedy eye on the four of them.
"Probability of a 'Spontaneous Inspection' within the next five minutes: 82%," Cyrus whispered, taking a bite of a potato. "Arin, do something normal. Ask me about a hobby. Something boring."
Arin scrambled his brain for a 'normal' topic. "So... Cyrus. Do you... uh... like... dirt?"
Cyrus paused, his spoon halfway to his mouth. "Dirt?"
"You know. Soil? The stuff my dad talks about? Silt? Drainage?"
"I find the composition of loam to be statistically consistent," Cyrus replied dryly. "It is a 3 out of 10 on the interest scale. Perfect. Let us discuss the various shades of brown for the next ten minutes."
"I like the brown that is slightly grey," Mira added, her voice so flat it almost disappeared into the ambient noise of the room.
Suddenly, a group of "regular" older students walked by. One of them, a boisterous boy named Leo, slammed a hand down on their table.
"Hey! You're the new weirdos from the North, right?" Leo grinned, looking at Cyrus and Mira. "And you're the 'clumsy' Verne kids. Why are you all sitting together? Is this the 'Special Needs' table?"
Lysa felt Arin's grip tighten on his spoon. She knew that if Leo pushed too hard, Arin might accidentally "flick" a pea with enough kinetic force to put a hole through Leo's shoulder.
"We were just discussing the thrill of archival filing," Lysa said, her voice dripping with artificial boredom. "Cyrus here was explaining why alphabetical order is superior to chronological. Would you like to join us? He's only on 'Letter B'."
Leo blinked, his grin faltering. "Letter... B? You guys are actually talking about filing?"
"B is for Bitumen," Cyrus said, leaning forward with a terrifyingly dull intensity. "A fascinating substance used in road construction. Did you know that the viscosity varies depending on the ambient temperature? If we look at the 232 tax ledgers—"
"Okay, okay! Shut up!" Leo held up his hands, looking genuinely disturbed. "Stay weird, losers. Let's go, guys. These four are too boring to even bully."
As Leo's group hurried away, Arin let out a breath he'd been holding. "That was... actually brilliant. Boring them into retreat."
"The 'Bore-and-Shield' technique," Mira noted. "Effective. But look."
Principal Albrecht was approaching. He had a look of "Proud Father" plastered over his face—the look of a man who sees his winning racehorses finally gathering in one stable.
"Ah! Our new transfers and our local stars!" Albrecht boomed, his voice carrying toward the Grey Cloak. "Getting along, I see? Developing that... special synergy?"
He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper meant only for them. "Don't overdo the 'dirt' talk, boys. I need you to look sharp for the afternoon evaluations. I've told the Courier you are the brightest minds in the district. Don't make me a liar."
"But sir," Arin said, putting on his best 'dumb' face. "Cyrus was just telling me about Bitumen. It's very... sticky."
Albrecht's eye twitched. "Yes. Sticky. Wonderful. Just... keep the 'stickiness' to yourself, Verne."
As the Principal walked away, the four "half-friends" looked at each other. The test wasn't over. The Grey Cloak was still watching.
"He wants us to be 'Bright,'" Lysa whispered. "Which means we have to be the exact opposite."
"Agreed," Cyrus said, finally finishing his potato. "Next period is 'Applied History.' I propose we all fail the quiz by exactly three points. Not enough to get in trouble, but enough to be forgotten."
"I can do that," Arin grinned. "Failing is my best subject."