The gentle hiss of a gas-fuelled lantern caresses my ears as my mind withdraws from its meditative state. Legs folded beneath me, I reach across the floral patterned rug and grip a moistened rag and plain white shirt. Dabbing the sweat from my face, bare chest, and wiping my back, I pull the shirt up the length of my arms and across my back. Button by button, the shirt fastens until my body is no longer exposed.

One week has passed since the final assessment. In that time, along with the rest of the new students of Sapphire Academy, I was given "the opportunity to acclimate." Doubtlessly, the academy was also given an opportunity. An opportunity to sort the slaughtered candidates by worth, return the ones of value to their Clans, and dispose of the rest.

In the gap between recruitment and commencement, we few who survived the academy's tests were separated into two groups. The upper-set for the mid-tier and high-tier Clansmen and the lower-set for low-tier and "stragglers".

That's what they call us. Stragglers.

Nameless bottom feeders whose only destiny is to be left behind. In a way, they're not wrong. As explained to me when first enrolled, the two sets "attract unequal privileges". While the academy provides room and board to all, the standard of said housing differs vastly between the groups.

A bed, lantern, desk and bathroom adorn my accommodation, whereas the upper-set housing is supplied with fully stocked kitchens, studies, lounges and more. Both groups are provided with laboratories equipped with an Omni-forge for basic crafting needs, but the quality of the equipment is as different as night and day.

Most egregiously, the lectures, resources and mentorship the academy affords to the lower-set, pales in comparison to that which they bestow upon the upper. For the upper-set, all lectures are free, their access to the academy's libraries are unrestricted. Their materials for crafting and advancement, available according to supply. The favoured bastards are even given a stipend to purchase from the academy shops anything the school doesn't provide them by virtue of breathing.

In contrast, while in theory every resource is available to the lower-set, they all must be paid for to access. Five silver an hour for use of the library, eight silver to access their restricted material, Twenty silver to attend premium lectures and all resources beyond food, shelter and fuel for our lamps must be purchased or gathered independently.

While the low-tier Clansmen share much of our burden, they at least might be able to supplement their opportunities through their clan's resources. The nameless, however, the stragglers have little possibility for growth. There's nothing false in proclaiming us destined for failure.

A knock on my door jolts me out of my thoughts. Before I'm able to reply, the squeak of twisting knob pierces through my dorm and the scent of soap and cherries wafts into my nose.

'Ugh, if you insist on holing yourself up in here all week, you could open a window. At the very least you should open the curtains.' Outfitted in a knee-length, form-fitting black dress, a petite, young, blonde girl infiltrates my room.

Rachel.

'I mean seriously, how can you expect me to clean this place when your whole room smells of boy?'

Sans invitation, Rachel walks across my room. Dislodging my chair from under my desk, she turns the back of the chair to face me, pulls her dress up to her thighs, manoeuvrers her legs to the side of the seat and sits.

'Please, have a seat', sarcasm dripping from every syllable, Rachel ignores my provocation.

'Why thank you, my lord.'

Bowing her head and waving her arm in a faux respectful manner, the girl bursts into fits of laughter. Her mirth contagious, I find myself suppressing a spasm of my lips.

'I'm serious you know, it cannot be healthy shutting yourself away like this. This academy is huge, so many things to do and people to see, so far the only person I've seen you talking to are the canteen workers when you go out to eat. Even then, your stomach has to literally pull you by the hair and drag you towards sustenance!'

'How I spend my time is none of your business. That being said, how do you even know how my time is spent?'

'Nameless boy kills the big bad Wolf, You can't really think people won't talk?'

She's right. Killing Wolf was short-sighted. At that moment, on that stage, I felt... nothing. I pulverised his head as casually as one would take in air. Unthinking, uncaring, it was little more than an indifferent reaction. Even now the full weight of my action rests lightly on my shoulders. Father reared a killer; what is more natural for a killer than to kill?

No, the magnitude of that day has not managed to penetrate my heart, and yet, cerebrally, I know the dangers I've invited into my life. For one of us to kill one of them, openly, brazenly, beneath the observance of so many people. I would be a fool to believe there would be no backlash.

'If you ask me, I think it's amazing! You showed all those high-born sons of bitches that a name doesn't mean anything! It's just a status, a badge they use to lord it over people like us. You showed them that talent and money, they're not mutually exclusive."

'Is that why you're so eager to extort me of my money?' Beaming like the sun in the sky, Rachel replies.

'I'd have you know that extorting money is my talent.' Dam bursting, she coaxes a smile from my lips. 'So you do have more expressions than brooding? In all the days I've been coming to see you, I never could have guessed.'

'Speaking of which, do you have what I asked for?'

'All work and no play, I see. Yeah, I have it, do you have my fee?' At a gesture towards my desk, the girl lifts herself from my seat, moves to my desk and collects the row of silver coins I had left there as payment. 'Everything seems to be in order', she says.

The soft clink of metal stinging metal rings out, and the girl returns to her perch on my seat. Pulling a cherry-scented envelope from her breasts, she extends her arm, handing to me the letter.

'It wasn't easy to get all of this, you know. Detailed information on upper-set students is hard enough to get my hands on, let alone former academy students.' She pauses. 'I can understand why you'd want to read up about Lord Yung…' Biting her lip, as if she catches herself saying what she ought not, she goes on.

'Sorry, force of habit, when you bow down daily, you get accustomed to bowing. Anyway, what was I saying? Oh yes! Why did you want the details on your fellow first years?'

'That isn't your concern', I reply flatly. 'You can see yourself out.' Pushing her lower lip forward, the girl expresses her annoyance at my remark.

'Rude!' Alighting my seat, Rachel makes her way to the exit, twisting the knob, she swings the door open. 'Just remember your promise.' At that, she leaves, crashing the door closed behind her.

Unsealing the envelope, I tug the papers inside loose and withdraw the content. Holding the documents in my right hand, unfolding with my left, I look down and read from the pages.

"Xan Yung: 29 Years old. Newly appointed leader of the mid-tier Yung Clan operating in the Griffon Region of Area III. True Rank 5 Tension Master confirmed…"

Leafing through the rest of the papers, I absorb the details pertinent to my continued survival. From the Clans associated with the Yung Clan, to the guilds, instructors, and bandits under their direct control. The information Rachel brought me is detailed beyond expectation.

She's useful, I need her, but I won't get attached, I can't get attached.

I can't get attached… Not again.

Never again.

Standing, I slide the sheets back into the envelope. Pulling a draw from below my desk, I deposit the letter atop a stack of similar white envelopes.

The tick and tock of the timepiece mounted on the wall triggers a surge of urgency inside me. I glance at the clock. It's time to go.

Left.

Forward.

Right.

Cut through the garden, turn northeast.

Follow the path then turn right.

I make it in time.

Pushing the doors back, I enter a farm-style building. Compared to the grand architecture of the rest of this academy, the barn is not much to look at. Its wooden frame and meagre size juxtapose with the splendour of its surroundings.

Passing the threshold, I enter the lecture hall. To the right, a row of tables and chairs, half of which are occupied by seated first years, the other half, vacant. To the left, a podium juts from the base of an elevated stage. A blackboard hangs suspend behind it.

Scrawled in chalk, concentric circles contain rudimentary runic symbols and characters. A sealed Art. By the pattern, I can tell its use. A formula for mildly warming soup.

Ignoring the mystified chatter of my peers as they ponder the possible meaning, and speculate on the potential power of the runes scrawled ahead, I find an empty seat and sit down.

The seconds turn to minutes. The minutes turn to tens of minutes. Just when I resolve to leave, the door to the barn fly open and the blue-haired man walks in.

Climbing the platform and reaching the podium, the lecturer scans the room before settling his eyes on me.

'Sixteen of you made it. There are even a few straggles here. Added up with the upper-set that makes for forty-seven first years all in all. That's more than there were last year.' All eyes lock firmly onto our teacher, and he continues.

'I'm not going to apologise for being late. Frankly, you should be grateful I turned up at all. I chose to give this free lecture because from what I saw, one or two of you actually show some promise.' Eyes once again fix on me.

'In the little hope there might actually be some talent in your group, I went out of my way to set this all up. Don't thank me though, because, truth be told, without question, almost everyone in this room will be dead before you ever get the chance to graduate. I don't accept gratitude from the dead.'

Silence.

The impact of his words is felt in the air. Nervous shuffles and gulps of saliva blend into a clamour of anxiety.

'We don't have much time so let's just begin.' Erasing the shapes on the blackboard, our instructor writes his name in bold.

"Lucas XI"

He's nameless…

'That's right, like some of you, I'm nameless. Unlike all of you…' shooting a further glance in my direction, he hesitates. 'Correction, most of you, I had the talent and luck necessary to survive this place.'

'By my third year here, I could have joined any Clan in the Area. By my sixth, there wasn't a Clan in Aspire that wasn't vying for my allegiance. So if you think you've drawn some short straw in having me as your professor, you couldn't be more wrong.'

'What I'm about to teach you, most of will think you already know, and if you were the upper-set, that would probably be true. But, for low-tier Clansmen and stragglers, this one lecture will save you months, possibly years of time and a whole lot of coins.'

Once again by the slate, Lucas carves out a word that instantly animates the class.

"Tension"

'Mastery over Tension is divided into two grading systems. Tension Control and Tension Resistance. While broadly speaking, Tension Control governs a Tension Master's ability to manipulate Tension and cast Arts, Tension Resistance regulates the strength of those Arts.

'For the benefit of this class, you can consider both Tension Control and Resistance to have five ranks. In terms of Control, the grading is quite simple. With each increase in rank, a Tension Master will find themselves able to perform a greater number of Arts at the same time. Most of you here are at the second rank so you'll find you're only capable of performing Set Arts.'

'No doubt you call these Set Arts, the "Common Arts", don't worry, I did too when I was your age. Despite the conflation, there is an actual distinction. While Common Arts at your stage are in fact Set Arts, they do not encompass the vast range of Set Arts that are theoretically possible.'

Pausing, Lucas weaves a stick of chalk between his fingers, as my peers scribble notes furiously onto paper.

'The idea of a Set Art is simple', Lucas begins. 'From the moment they're cast, their range, speed, direction and damage output is determined. Take the Common Art, Tension Spear…' Pointing at a bespectacled girl two seats to my left, Lucas asks, 'Tell me the stats when you cast it'

Eyes now on the girl, she stands to her feet.

'Sir, the Common Art Tension Spear travels ten metres forward in the direction you aim it. It exerts fourteen bars of energy and can pierce through the bodies of five armoured mortals in a row.'

'Please take your seat. What that girl said is probably what most of you would say. For True Rank-two Tension Masters, it would even be correct, however…' With no words and no movement, a pointed mass of swirling force forms above the professor. Shooting forward, it stops inches away from the bespectacled girl's face, before retreating in the direction it came and dissipating.

'That was the Common Art, Tension Spear you just saw, and yet the speed, range and even the direction was completely under my control. That's because once your Tension Control reaches rank-three, you'll be able to cast Fluid Arts.'