”Greetings to the shining future of our Empire.” A commanding voice echoed through the auditorium, silencing the last pockets of chattering students who hadn’t yet noticed that dozens of their professors had assembled onstage, standing shoulder to shoulder. ”I hope your first week at Miraval Academy has met your expectations. Now, however, your orientation is officially over, and you are all about to take the first step in paving the road to your future. But before that, my colleagues and I have a few words to share.” An elegant woman led the group, speaking into a microphone as her piercing gaze swept across both professors and students, inspecting the location to ensure everything was in order before the ceremony began.
Just one week has passed?! Holy shit, another twelve days like these and I’m gonna drop out.
Jacques complained. All the enthusiasm he’d nurtured for a year back home had totally evaporated, and now, his backup plan to fake his death—again—and escape to Naturia didn’t seem so far-fetched anymore.
”If any of you haven’t had the pleasure of meeting me yet, I am A-Class ’Scorching Duty’ Theodrada De Toulouse, the Academy’s Ombudsman,” she proudly declared, although, judging by the confused expressions in half the room, many had no idea what her title actually meant. ”I’ve been entrusted by the Academy’s board with the honor of serving as your guardian angel. But what does that mean, realistically? Well, teenagers are often known for their reckless behavior and poor judgment. Most of you act before considering the consequences of your actions, and cleaning up your messes falls on my shoulders. That being said, I also ensure your mistakes never happen again through culturally-enriching punishments.”
Mrs. Toulouse concluded with a cordial smile. Then she picked up a remote and pressed a button, causing three columns of steam to rise from beneath the stage while images got projected onto their surface. To her left, a map of an island appeared. To her right, many photos of the same military base. And above her head, various monsters and the eerie fate of their victims.
”We consider ourselves a very tolerant school. However, Essentias who hail from privileged backgrounds often make the grave mistake of believing they have some sort of divine right to stand above their less fortunate peers, violating the sacred principle upon which the Miraval Academy was founded—NEVER AGAIN!” Theodrada’s sudden shift in tone sent a chill through the students. ”Let this be your first and final warning. If any of you attempt to ’bully’ another student, there will be zero tolerance, and the offender will be expelled and sent for re-education at the 37th Fort.” The images on the vapor clouds changed, now displaying the brutal reality of that infamous facility. ”Imagine spending your best years thousands of kilometers from anything resembling civilization. Imagine waking up at four in the morning, training for more than thirty hours a day, and surviving on nothing but a single piece of bread—that’s just the start of your twelve-year-long punishment.” From the expressions on the students’ faces, it was clear that the intimidating montage would be engraved in their subconscious for a long time to come—Hunter’s Life wasn’t for everyone. Then, as if flipping a switch, her expression and tone softened into honeyed ones. ”So always remember to be nice to your classmates."
Casimir leaned rightward. ”Don’t worry, Jacques. I don’t care if you were an international drug lord. I’d never judge you for your past—a friend is a friend!” The ’Javelinist’ frowned at the ’Scarecrow’s’ innocent beam, wondering how the story had inflated so much.
”To conclude, my office is located at
π
6 of the 36th floor of this building. You are welcome to visit me anytime if you have a disagreement with a fellow student.” With a polite bow, Mrs. De Toulouse stepped aside, only to be replaced by what could only be described as a balding bear in an elegant yet ill-fitting suit.
”First of all, I believe my colleague deserves a well-earned round of applause.” A standing ovation followed, celebrating Mrs. Toulouse who, quite enjoyed it. In stark contrast, the next speaker’s appearance triggered a wave of silent disapproval. Deep eye bags betrayed a week without sleep, the few remaining strands of hair on his head were as wild and unkempt as the grass on a windy steppe, and his entire demeanor radiated the bitterness of an old man who resented the changing times. However, the audience got it it wrong. The speaker didn’t think himself superior to others. He simply believed that everyone else was inferior to him. ”My name is AA-Class ’Eclectic Dirigist’ Gauston De Miraval, and I am the head of the teaching department,” he stated flatly, his tone devoid of enthusiasm or charm. ”My role mirrors that of Mrs. Toulouse, but for the professors. You might think of me as the chief whip of a political party, tasked with the duty punishing abuses of power, rooting out corruption, and offering guidance to colleagues who lost their way, all while preserving their dignity and privacy. Nevertheless, I can still be of use to the students. For instance, should a dispute arise between you and a teacher, it is my duty to investigate with absolute impartiality, protecting the social cohesion of the greatest educational institution in the world—a legacy my family has upheld for nearly a thousand years.” Despite modern advancements in technology having made aesthetic operations accessible even to the plebeians, seeing a man of such prestigious lineage appear so disheveled felt like witnessing a living anachronism to the students.
He is literally me.
Jacques thought, overwhelmed by his Mario’s Syndrome. The stark contrast between the audience’s disdain and his indifference elevated his boss, in Jacques’s eyes, to the rank of a mythical hero. To him, the ’Eclectic Dirigist’ was a Condottiere, defiantly standing against the toxic social constructs imposed by the parasites known as nobility. Yet another reason fueled Jacques’s admiration—transparency. No plastic surgery, no artificial enhancements, not even concealing clothing—Dh. Miraval wasn’t afraid to be himself.
”My office is located at
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3
of the 36th floor, but I don’t receive anyone without an appointment. First, you must send a formal request to my official unofficial secretary—FFF-Class ’Javelinist’ Jacques Dreux.” Dr. Miraval gestured toward Jacques in the crowd, who promptly stood to make his face known to the students. ”Thank you for your time, and good luck selecting your cour—” Before Dr. Miraval could even prepare to leave, a short woman abruptly shoved him aside and seized the podium.
”Astary! Ragaire! I’ve missed you so much!” The speaker’s high-pitched voice overflowed with childlike enthusiasm as she waved at the girls with a liveliness seldom found in adults. SS-Class ’Shining Star’ Astary von Sternenstaub replied with a joyful wave, while AAA-Class ’Virgin Rose’ Ragaire Sinclair lowered her reddened face before offering an awkward salute.
Cringe.
The ’Javelinist’ felt repulsed by the woman for three distinct reasons. Firstly, with her meticulous care for her body, perfect posture, and heavy makeup, she embodied everything Dh. Miraval did not. Secondly, she was far too friendly—the more perfume you wear, the stronger the stench you’re trying to hide. And lastly, her uniform alone was a massive red flag.
”I’m so excited to be here today! Since I only joined the Academy last year, this is officially my first Future Assignment. Aaaah, watching the ceremony from this side of the auditorium is a completely different experience!” Her hyperactivity resulted in not-so-subtle tics, such as frequent blinking with fawn-like eyes. Yet, rather than making her seem weird, these quirks made her feel relatable, like a big sister or a childhood friend, effortlessly winning over the audience’s sympathy. ”Oh! I forgot to introduce myself! My name is A-Class ’Loving Sister’ Euphoria Von Sinclair, and, unlike my colleagues, I’m not a professor but an external observer, entrusted with the duty of monitoring the Academy’s staff—I’m an agent of the Stasi.” A gloomy murmur swept through Stoner’s Passion.
Another dangerous eye in this cage.
Jacques noticed a peculiar discrepancy—her sisterly warmth clashed with the sterile austerity of her uniform. It was a lifeless gray, embellished only by a few black-leather details—high-heeled boots, gloves, and a service cap. The only vivid color on that woman was her scarlet-gold hair, which looked as if a lazy painter had lazily swirled molten gold and crimson blood together. Even stranger was the three-headed phoenix—the Emblem of the Rolandsson Family—embroidered not over her heart like other government agents, but on her cap—above her brain.
”Aaaaa…your stares are hurting me deeply. Sadly, the stereotypes about the Stasi seem hard to eradicate.” The ’Javelinist’ thought it was almost unbelievable how her facial expressions alone could project emotion onto the audience better than any piece of media he had ever consumed. ”I do understand your reservations about my organization, truly, but try to open your minds for a moment and consider this simple fact—if something is so feared, it must be working!” Her sapphire eyes were so large that one could drown in them. ”I could spend hours telling you about the thousands of lives my organization has saved, but let’s not get sidetracked—today’s subject is far more important.” She gave the students a playful wink. ”My job here at Miraval Academy is to protect your constitutional rights from potential abuses, whether they come from the Miraval Family, corrupt officials, or any other members of the city’s privileged elite. If you ever witness such serious crimes, please don’t hesitate to visit me at my office, located at
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(5/6)
of the 36th floor. I’m always available for my dear students!”
”I want to add something,” Gus announced as he stepped into the spotlight. ”As a member of the Miraval Family, I’m personally asking you to report any irregularities without fear of consequences. We take great pride in our renowned integrity. Yet, perfection isn’t real, so your assistance will be crucial in preserving this institution’s glorious reputation.” Dh. Miraval’s words were clearly intended to support Miss Von Sinclair, but the way she looked at him was contradictory. Miss Von Sinclair was still smiling, but she also glared at him like Emperor Mario I Rolandsson in the famous painting—’Sir, Do You Want Any Sugar in Your Coffee?’
”Ahem…Gus, I think you shouldn’t interrupt people when they’re speaking,” she said, blinking three times before smacking her lips. ”Mmm, okay?” The ’Eclectic Dirigist’ raised both palms in apology and stepped back. ”To conclude, I’m not asking you to trust the Stasi. I’m asking you to trust me—together, we will bring justice to this academy!” The ending of her speech was met with a spontaneous standing ovation.
”I don’t trust the Stasi. They arrested my Uncle Niklot for paying a policeman to sell flour in Zavagrad. Still, I’m willing to make an exception for her.” Carmen fully agreed with Casimir’s words, both mesmerized by the woman’s charisma.
”Everyone hates the Stasi until they actually need them,” Connor added after a shrug.
Jacques, however, remained unconvinced, but he, too, had to admit that there was something respectable about them.
The Stasi hits you hard, but unlike the rest of our dogshit Imperial Agencies, at least they don’t waste your time with endless bureaucracy. A syringe is still painful, but it’s way better than a suppository.
Miss Von Sinclair returned to her seat as Mrs. Toulouse stepped forward again. “Before we begin, please check under your seats. You’ll find a pencil and a sheet of paper.” As students did so, three infocharts appeared above the columns of steam, and Carmen immediately began jotting everything down in her yellow notebook. “A day at Miraval Academy is divided into three twelve-hour blocks. Resting Hours—6 p.m. to 6 a.m.—no lessons, prohibition to leave the school’s perimeter, and it’s strongly advised to avoid staying up late. Training Hours—6 a.m. to 6 m.m.—lessons with your assigned classmates and mandatory courses. Study Hours—6 m.m. to 6 p.m.—your chosen courses, club activities, and sports or other extracurricular activities. Now, please review the paper in front of you.”
Math, History, Magic 101, Monster Hunting, Dungeon Programming, Music, Duelery, etc. Jacques scanned the list of available courses. Some looked genuinely interesting, but several made him grimace.
Magical Art? Political Science? Ethics of Governance? How many jobless parasites is this school trying to produce?
“Some courses meet three times per week, while others only once. Nevertheless, your total number of weekly lessons must fall between twenty-four and thirty-six. Additionally, certain courses will be mandatory based on your peculiarities. For example, Class F must take Magic 101, anyone with ‘Raging’ as a [Prefix] is required to attend Therapy—my course—and all Woodland Barbarians are assigned by default to Social Etiquette.” Mrs. Toulouse clicked her remote again, and a timer appeared above the steam clouds. ”I’m aware that forcing you all to make such an important decision in the next thirty-seven minutes may produce a chaotic outcome, but we are the Children of Chaos.”
