The sun rose on the day of the festival.
Birds chirped.
Banners fluttered.
Somewhere in the distance, someone screamed because a booth exploded.
In other words, it was a perfect morning at Noctis Ardentis Academy.
Class C gathered around me in our designated area. They wore their new uniforms—standard-issue academy tunics with a red sash that signified they were "official event participants."
They looked proud.
Or at least, they did until I opened my mouth.
"Alright, you collection of walking regrets," I said, hands behind my back like a commander about to lead his troops into a meat grinder. "Today is the day you shame yourselves on an international level."
Leo whimpered.
Good. He understood.
I started pacing in front of them like an angry drill sergeant whose coffee was two days late.
"You are the face of Class C. That means when—not if—you fail spectacularly, it will reflect poorly not just on yourselves, but on me."
I jabbed a thumb at my chest.
