As they left the cafeteria, William's companions gathered around him, laughing, joking, their shoulders relaxing after a heavy meal. The tension of the past hours seemed, for a moment, forgotten.
"So, now what?" Thom asked, stretching with a satisfied groan. "Still a while before Language class."
"I had plans," Dixon said with a sly grin. "Those second-year sisters, the ones by the fountain this morning… one of them said she wanted to 'talk'. And you know what that means."
"Talk?" Theo barked a laugh. "If that blonde wants to 'talk' to you, then I'm the heir to the King of Drakenwald! You sure it wasn't the redhead? Now she's hot…"
"The redhead's mine," Cedric interrupted, crossing his arms. "She's got more curves than a serpent and a mouth that—"
"Can we stop thinking with our dicks for five minutes?" William's voice cut through like a blade—dry, direct.
The four of them fell silent. William stared at them. There was no mockery or anger in his eyes—only a cold warning.
"Do you really not get it? If we fail the exams—if we don't make it to the top ranks—it's not just expulsion. They'll execute us. Us. Our families. There are no second chances. The only reason the nobles haven't wiped us out already is because we're inside this damned school. But once we're out, if we don't make it into the army, if we don't serve… we're dead."
Silence. A gust of wind drifted between them, as if even the air had chosen to remain quiet.
William didn't wait for a reply. He turned and walked toward the training field, his steps firm and deliberate. The rest followed, wordless, as if their bodies understood what their minds hadn't quite processed yet.
At the field, William didn't head to the strength zone. Instead, he grabbed a longbow made of dark wood and several quivers filled with arrows. He stood before the firing line, took a deep breath, and aimed at a target fifty meters away. Five shots. Five misses. Not one arrow came close to the center.
"Angel," he muttered, closing his eyes. "Activate Eternal Mode."
"Activating," replied the voice in his mind, as calm as ever.
Immediately, William's posture changed. His body tightened, his gaze sharpened like a blade. The bow became a natural extension of his arm. He fired—once, twice, three times… over ten arrows in seconds. Each one split the previous. He shot two at once, then three. He spun the bow in mid-air, turning the strings into a blur, and still hit dead center. Each impact struck with a crisp, perfect thunk.
Around him, the other students had stopped training to watch. Some clenched their fists. Others bit their lips. Thom lowered his axe. Cedric let his spear drop. The gap in skill was… overwhelming.
But William didn't smile. He wasn't enjoying the display.
"Angel, play both recordings. I want a deep analysis."
"Comparing executions… Your right elbow angle was off by 17%. String tension was irregular. Foot posture deviation noted. Finger release flawed. In Eternal Mode, these errors are corrected automatically. Without assistance, your accuracy drops by 64%."
"It would be a waste not to use Angel's support just for pride's sake… Instead of activating Eternal, simulate the arrow and give me a visual approximation of impact. Call it… Eaglesight."
"Understood. Activating visual interface."
A small golden crosshair appeared in William's vision, floating in the air, marking the estimated point of impact. He resumed shooting—this time without Eternal Mode. With each arrow, he focused on finger position, draw tension, arm angle, breath control. Sometimes he hit. Sometimes he didn't. But each attempt was steadier, sharper.
Hours passed. He changed targets. Practiced in motion—rolling, spinning, firing from the ground. With every minute, his mistakes shrank. He didn't need to be a master. He needed to be lethally effective.
He thought of the army. If he ended up there, he couldn't always rely on close combat. He needed to strike from afar. Survive. And to survive, he had to kill before being reached.
By late afternoon, he lowered the bow. His fingers were raw. His shoulder muscles burned. But his gaze was calm.
The bell for the final period rang. They headed to the literature classroom. As always, Professor Aurus waited with his imposing presence. This time, no tension, no magical pressure—just the cold authority of someone who knew too many secrets.
"We begin with basic Ikaris grammar," he announced without raising his voice. "Present tense. Action verbs: to guard, to speak, to march. Conjugated forms: I, you, he."
"Velir, veles, velet," the students echoed, struggling to copy the symbols.
"Now nouns. Singular and plural. Tharn means sword. Plural: Tharnak."
William listened closely, taking notes rapidly. Ikaris was similar to old dialects he'd read in his grandfather's library… and Angel knew it.
"Log this lesson. Create a link to Remika," he whispered mentally.
"Done."
The class continued with written exercises, mostly focused on quick battlefield communication. Simple phrases: march south, regroup, attack. Some students handled it well. Others stumbled.
When class ended, they headed to the cafeteria in silence. Upon arrival, the cold war resumed. Some still exchanged distrustful glances. The tension hadn't left. Peace was just a thin layer.
William ignored it all. He ate like a machine, as if there were no tomorrow, not looking at anyone. When he finished, he stood and walked to the western tower, where Professor Aurus's office was located.
The professor was already waiting, surrounded by ancient books and unfurled scrolls on his desk. Some written in Remika. Others in Volgaris. The air in the room was dense—thick with knowledge that seemed to breathe on its own.
"Come in, William," Aurus said without looking up. "We have much to study tonight."