"That girl is seven," Start continued quietly. "She lived on the streets. Never went to school. I found her by chance. Remember when I came to the Holivan estate? That day, I was recruiting her. She has no family, no home—so she agreed immediately."
He shifted his gaze.
"And that man over there? He's forty-seven. Not many people are willing to change their lives at that age. But a year ago, his entire family died. He came to us out of desperation. I doubt he'll reach great heights—young people adapt more easily—but at least he'll make it into the lower ranks."
"So in a way… I got lucky," I said. "Even if I remember nothing, I can still learn everything here."
"Yes," Start nodded. "That part works in your favor. But your real problem isn't your memory."
He glanced toward the aristocrats.
"They don't have that problem."
"You know," I said, "I was more worried about my classmates. But maybe I shouldn't have been. Most of them probably don't even watch the news. They might not know who I am."
"That won't last," he said with a faint, sad smile.
We fell silent as the doors opened and a few more people entered.
Three new students—and someone accompanying them. Start exchanged a nod with the man.
One of the newcomers was a girl about my age.
Her face was covered in bruises. She looked at everyone around her with open hostility—especially toward the aristocrats.
For a moment, I thought I heard her growl.
Behind her stood two boys—twins, maybe twelve or thirteen.
They were so thin it made my chest tighten. Their eyes were fixed on the aristocrats' food with such raw hunger that I half expected them to collapse on the spot.
"Time's up," a hoarse male voice cut through the hall.
A man appeared at the top of the stairs.
He was so utterly unremarkable that even as I looked at him, I knew I wouldn't be able to remember his face later.
"First-year students of the gifted division, follow me."
A ripple of movement passed through our group—but no one stepped forward.
"Good luck, Alan," Start said quietly, squeezing my shoulder before heading toward the exit.
I took a deep breath.
Eighteen of us, including me.
A strange mix of ages, faces, lives.
I stepped forward.
No one moved.
For a second, I wondered if this was some kind of test.
Then the man spoke again.
"So, only one student this year?"
That did it.
Footsteps sounded behind me.
Relief washed over me as I continued toward the stairs.
We followed him down a long corridor until we reached a set of tall oak doors.
He stopped and turned to face us.
"Once you cross this threshold, you officially become students of the academy. If anyone has doubts, now is the time to turn back."
His gaze lingered on me for a brief moment.
A question in his eyes.
I didn't move.
"Good," he said. "Then welcome to your initiation ceremony."
He opened the doors.
We stepped inside.
The hall was divided again—just like everything else here.
On the right sat the aristocrats.
White uniforms. Immaculate. Against the brightness of their jackets, black ribbons stood out sharply. Their seating rose in tiers—the higher they sat, the more ribbons they wore. Five seemed to be the maximum.
Probably years of study.
I noticed something else.
No one had just one ribbon.
On the left stood the gifted.
Their formation was different—vertical ranks.
Six lines.
The number of students varied in each.
The last row had only two people.
Their uniforms were dark blue—almost black. Stricter. Simpler. Loose shirts, vests, wide trousers tucked into high boots.
Unlike the aristocrats, there was no distinction between male and female uniforms.
No ribbons either.
Instead, each student wore white circular badges on their chest.
The ones at the front had the most.
While I was taking it all in, our guide stopped in front of the first row.
"Line up."
We quickly formed a horizontal line.
Another set of doors opened—and the aristocrats entered, led by their own escort.
"Gentlemen," he said smoothly, "please take your seats in the front row."
I frowned.
This place was determined to emphasize class divisions in every possible way.
And it irritated me more than I cared to admit.
"First-year students, welcome to our academy," a woman's voice rang out.
I hadn't even noticed her at first.
She stood behind a podium—a small woman, well past fifty, dressed in a strict white gown. She was so short that only her eyes were visible above it.
"My name is Amalia Gordinstreet, and I am the headmistress of this academy. I am a descendant of its founder—and the ninth to lead Gordinstreet Academy."
"For nearly four hundred years, we have honored our traditions, producing the finest elite students—" she gestured toward the aristocrats "—and defenders." She motioned to us.
"As you know, each year we select only twenty elite students. You should be proud. You are the best of the best."
I glanced at the aristocrats.
Twenty in the front row.
Fewer in the rows above.
By the fifth row, there were only twelve.
Among them—
Theodore Holivan.
I quickly looked away.
The headmistress cleared her throat and turned toward us.
"And now, I welcome our new recruits—future defenders. This year, eighteen of you have joined us."
"We are proud to welcome those brave enough to face their fears. I have no doubt each of you experienced terror when your sight awakened. And yet—you chose to confront it. To learn. To fight the darkness that surrounds us."
Another figure stepped forward from the back.
A man in a dark gray uniform, similar to that of the gifted students.
"Deputy Headmaster and personal bodyguard—Pavel Rigor," he introduced himself.
"First-year elite students, follow your escort. A banquet awaits you. Senior students, welcome them properly. You are dismissed."
The aristocrats rose one by one and left the hall.
Rigor waited.
Only when the doors closed did he continue.
"Future defenders," he said, "I know you have questions. Most of them will be answered in time—starting with your first lesson."
"From today onward, Instructor Wong will be your supervisor."
He nodded toward our guide.
I glanced at Wong again.
Not ideal.
How was I supposed to remember a man with absolutely nothing memorable about him?
"I will now call your names," Rigor continued. "When you hear yours, step forward."
He gestured toward a man in black with a large cart—one I had somehow failed to notice until now.
My pulse quickened.
They were going to call my name.
Out loud.
The aristocrats were gone—but the senior students remained.
And I had no doubt at least one of them would recognize exactly who I was.
Or rather—
Who Alan Holivan was.