The First Day

The roaring bell this time wasn't the low, dull sound from the black stone chapel tower.

It was a harsh, metallic clanging echoing out from the vintage brass loudspeakers hanging all along the hallways.

Six o'clock sharp in the morning.

The morning light brought no warmth.

It crept through the narrow window of Room 104 like a thick stream of ash-gray fog, laying bare the grim reality of the dormitory.

No one said a word to anyone.

Ronald Fisk scrambled out from under his blanket, his hands shaking as he buttoned up his ash-gray cloak one button at a time.

Albert Sterling hurriedly put on his thick near-sighted glasses, muttering a few unfinished lines of prayer under his breath before rushing over to the washbasin.

Karl Brandt leisurely retied his dark gray tie, his arrogant face putting back on a fake, polished veneer.

Leo's bed by the window was already empty, the straw mattress smoothed out completely as if no one had ever slept there.

When Cassian Hale stepped out of the room, the ground-floor hallway was already packed with students.

Hundreds of male students dressed in the exact same ash-colored uniform, in absolute silence, moving in two parallel lines toward the main courtyard.

At the spacious courtyard covered in gray gravel, the silence in the air was bone-chilling.

Students stood lined up neatly by class.

Drawn along the strip of marble floor connecting to the main hallway was a bold, bright lemon-yellow painted line.

All teachers and staff members stood behind that painted line, maintaining a strict distance: exactly three paces back.

Ms. Dunmore stood at the front of the line, holding a stack of leather-bound documents printed with the title: Boundary Safety & Student Protection Policy.

She raised a metal megaphone, her flat voice echoing across the courtyard:

"I request that all new students read the rules carefully."

"All interactions between staff and students must strictly adhere to the non-physical contact principle."

"This is an advanced safety measure to protect psychological well-being, prevent the risk of contagious disease infection from the downstream regions, and ensure absolute respect for personal space according to state private education standards."

Cassian took a sheet of heavy paper passed down from an upperclassman and skimmed the sharp, printed text.

On the surface, this set of rules was drafted in extremely smooth, professional legal jargon.

Phrases like "psychological safety distance" or "standard epidemic prevention protocol" were so cleverly arranged that any parent reading them would nod in approval.

But the raw truth was unfolding right before his eyes.

Not a single teacher offered a smile or a word of greeting to the students.

The teachers' eyes didn't meet the students' eyes; instead, they skimmed over the tops of their heads or scrutinized their hands with a paranoid level of caution.

When a male student accidentally misstepped, placing his heel over the yellow line, the male teacher standing opposite him instantly recoiled a step back, his face turning pale as if the kid had just pointed a gun at him.

Cassian gripped the paper tight in his hand, realizing bitterly: they weren't protecting the students; they were protecting themselves from the students.

The first class of the day was Local History in Room 202, taught by Mr. Calloway.

The massive classroom featured a high vaulted stone ceiling, with rows of dark oak desks arranged in tiered steps from bottom to top.

The smell of old ink mixed with the musty stench of ancient books created a thick atmosphere that weighed heavy on the chest.

Mr. Calloway stood on the podium—separated from the first row of desks by a waist-high oak railing.

He read mechanically from a yellowed leather notebook, his eyes glued to the page, never once looking up:

"In 1893, the Blackthorne Valley experienced twelve weeks of the most severe freezing winter in state history."

"The entire Hollis Creek settlement was completely isolated under ten feet of snow. All outside food supplies were cut off."

"However, the residents of Hollis Creek and the predecessors of Blackthorne Academy survived without a single life lost."

He paused for a beat, his index finger tracing down the line on the paper before speaking in a raspy voice:

"They survived not through state aid, nor through stored rations."

"They survived... through grace. The ultimate favor bestowed by the valley upon those who know how to keep their proper boundaries."

Right at that moment, every student in the room bowed their head down to their desk in unison, holding the pose in submissive silence.

Cassian was the only one still sitting upright, an overwhelming sense of absurdity rising in his chest.

Albert Sterling suddenly stood up from the middle of the classroom, adjusting his thick glasses with undisguised pride:

"My family records note this very clearly, sir."

"The Sterling family—my mother's side—donated over fifty acres of land and the entire budget to build the central library and the chapel complex after that 1893 event."

"Thanks to the generosity of great families like the Sterlings, our school has maintained 'grace' and exclusive protection to this day."

Mr. Calloway froze, his fingers tightening slightly on the edge of the leather notebook.

The corner of the teacher's mouth twitched, his voice responding icy cold:

"Every contribution of the founding families is duly recorded."

"But mark my words, Sterling. Neither money nor family prestige is what protects you past the seventh bell."

"Sit down and keep quiet."

Albert flushed slightly with disappointment, but still let out a proud little huff before sitting down, shooting a look at Cassian as if showing off his lineage.

Lunchtime in the cafeteria took place in an uncomfortably forced silence.

The only sounds were the clinking of metal spoons against porcelain plates and the rustling footsteps of the kitchen staff.

Students quietly ate thin potato soup, rock-hard dark bread, and a cold slab of stewed meat.

However, the entire room's attention was drawn to a separate row of tables sitting right by the largest arched window on the east side of the cafeteria.

That was the dining table reserved for the group of students wearing gray cloaks embroidered with silver trim on the collar—the Prefects and elite students.

Standing out most was Silas Ward, with platinum blond hair, skin as pale as plaster, and cold, light blue eyes.

Beside him was Tessa Quill—a female student with black hair cropped close to her neck, her gaze sharp as a razor blade—along with a few other upperclassmen.

Around Silas's table, an open space at least fifteen feet wide was created.

Not a single regular student dared sit near that area.

Whenever someone accidentally walked past, they bowed their heads, their eyes darting away.

Cassian pushed his soup plate aside slightly and turned to ask Ronald Fisk in a low voice:

"Who are those kids wearing the silver-trimmed cloaks?"

Ronald jumped, hurriedly gesturing for Cassian to lower his voice.

He gulped down a mouthful of cold water, pointing with extremely covert movements:

"Keep it down! Do you want to die?"

"The one at the head is Silas Ward... He's the Student Council President."

"The people sitting at that table... they're 'The Chosen'."

Cassian frowned:

"The Chosen? Chosen for what?"

Ronald whispered, his voice trembling:

"They're the only ones allowed to move around certain restricted areas after curfew."

"They have the authority to monitor the dorm rooms. The teachers respect them, and the dean's office listens to them."

"Never cross Silas or Tessa... If you end up on their 'Red List', you won't survive the winter."

From across the table, Albert Sterling casually set his glass down, his eyes filled with contempt aimed directly at the two of them:

"Hey Fisk."

"Are you acting as an advisor to the son of a pig slaughterer from Iowa now?"

"Aren't you embarrassed to sit at the same table with a kid whose dad had to sign papers selling him off to pay his debts?"

Ronald's neck turned red, his face bowed low, his hands gripping the edge of the table tightly, but he didn't dare utter a single word in pushback.

Cassian froze, a flame suddenly igniting inside his brain.

The image of Edward slapping him down two days ago back at the house in Ottley flashed back in vivid detail.

He bolted up, his wooden stool sliding backward with a harsh scraping sound through the quiet room.

Cassian took a long stride across the table, growling out:

"What did you just say?"

He clenched his fists so hard his knuckles popped, preparing to lunge forward and grab Albert by the collar.

Albert flinched back, a flash of panic on his face, but he quickly regained his arrogance:

"What? Did I say something wrong?"

"Everyone in this school knows your family—"

Before Cassian could throw the punch, an iron-grip hand snatched his wrist, locking it down.

It was Karl Brandt.

Karl stood right beside him, his strength surprisingly formidable.

He looked at Cassian with cold gray eyes, shook his head slightly, and whispered under his breath:

"Are you crazy, Hale?"

"Look up."

Cassian froze, breathing heavily, his eyes following the direction Karl indicated.

At the table by the arched window, Silas Ward had stopped cutting his meat.

He rested both hands on the table, leaning slightly forward, his light blue eyes locked dead onto Cassian.

The corner of Silas's mouth curled into a smile as thin as a razor blade.

He showed no sign of anger or annoyance at the impending fight.

On the contrary, Silas's gaze was lingering, intent, measuring Cassian's every move—exactly like a human trafficker evaluating a newly arrived lamb.

Beside Silas, Tessa Quill tilted her head slightly, her fingers tapping a steady rhythm onto the wooden tabletop.

The scent of danger hit Cassian straight in the face.

He realized that if he threw this punch, he would officially fall into the crosshairs of the darkest power holders at this academy.

Cassian yanked his hand out of Karl's grip, gritting his teeth hard before slowly sitting back down in his chair.

Albert let out a triumphant scoff, but he didn't dare push it further once he saw Silas's eyes still sweeping over the whole area.

That night, the seventh bell rang on schedule once again.

DONG... DONG... DONG...

The murky darkness swallowed Room 104 whole once more.

The oil lamps in the hallway blew out.

The haunting hymn from the black stone chapel tower began to rise again, mournful and eerie as it echoed through the autumn fog.

Ronald had already pulled the blanket over his head.

Albert sat with his knees pulled up in the corner of his bed, holding tight to his ceramic jar.

Karl lay with his eyes closed, his face expressionless.

And by the window, Leo remained like a wooden statue, silently watching everything.

Cassian lay on the hard straw mattress, his mind strangely sharp.

He reached into his cloak pocket, pulling out a small notebook bound in gray canvas and a stubby pencil.

He propped the notebook on his lap, relying on the faint light filtering through the window bars.

Pulling out the crumpled slip of paper with the ICU number, Cassian tucked it carefully into the middle page of the notebook.

Then, pressing the pencil hard onto the paper, he wrote down three lines:

"Mom."

"Phone."

"Find a way."

Cassian closed the notebook, hiding it tight under the straw mattress right next to his chest.

He closed his eyes, listening to the hymn rising from deep beneath the earth, and began planning for tomorrow.