The crowd of students stood still, breath held, as the male student introduced himself.
"...the student council president."
The title resounded in their mind like thunder, the student council president of such a school won't just be strong, but also dangerous. They instinctively took another step back.
A slight pause from the president, then.
"They call me the Smilingdeath."
With the name came a shift in the mood.
It wasn't just the name—it was the way he said it.
Casual. Cheerful. Like it wasn't a warning, but a joke only he got.
For the students, he just nailed the nail in the coffin.
Because no matter how calm he sounded, no matter how perfect his grin—
Their instincts screamed the truth:
The one standing before them wasn't just a student.
He was a monster wearing manners.
Just as the tension was about to take physical form, a voice cut through the weight.
"You don't have to piss yourself."
It came from the girl beside him. Her features as sharp as her voice, she stood upright, effortlessly radiating a ruler's aura.
The most distinct feature of hers was her hair. Silver in color, but not the normal dull hue, hers glistened like stars in the sky.
"Despite his name, his face, his... everything, he is quite an easy-going guy."
She continued.
"If you have to be scared of anyone, be scared of this guy here."
She pointed to the third student on the platform, the male.
He stood there motionless, hands akimbo at his back, his face was a brisk nature of force.
His face was carved from battlefield granite—handsome, but not inviting. His hair, a spiked tangle of gold and brown, looked less styled and more like it had frozen mid-explosion.
Meanwhile, at the back of the crowd—
Sion watched in silence.
He noticed Smilingdeath's expression didn't shift. Not even a twitch.
And the girl beside him? She noticed.
And clearly didn't like it.
"Is she trying to make him angry?" Dara whispered, hand cupped near her mouth.
"I think that's her version of flirting," Sion whispered back.
Dara blinked. "That's weird."
"Totally." Sion nodded.
Then they turned their attention back to the platform.
Smilingdeath's voice picked up again.
"As your welcome committee, I should probably tell you a little about how things work here."
He grinned wider—impossibly wider.
"Let's start with the rules."
A pause.
He gave them time to brace for some long, complex code of conduct.
"The Academy rules are pretty simple," he said, ticking his fingers.
"First: respect your superiors. That means tutors, teachers… the Academy staff in general."
His eyes swept the crowd—not to check if they were listening, but to see who was already regretting their life choices.
"Second: don't leave the Academy grounds without permission."
He rested his hand on his chin thoughtfully.
"Actually… those two are more like unspoken rules."
A beat.
"The real rule of the Academy?"
He chuckled.
"There isn't one."
"Huh?" a student blurted.
Smilingdeath lit up. "Exactly!"
His voice echoed unnaturally—just enough delay to twist reality.
"In this place, you can do anything you want. Anytime. However you want."
A beat.
"As long as you're strong enough to pull it off… there's no end."
"What the fuck?" someone cursed.
"Yes! Great question," Smilingdeath replied, genuinely thrilled. "Because here? There's no limit to the fuckery. If you can make it happen, no one's stopping you."
The crowd shifted uncomfortably.
They'd expected something extreme.
But this?
This was chaos, institutionalized.
"Oh? You don't believe me?"
Smilingdeath tilted his head, his grin still fixed in place.
"I mean it. If you hate your batch, you can literally wipe them all out."
The students froze.
No one laughed.
No one whispered.
But Smilingdeath took their terror for doubt.
"There was a guy who actually did that," he added cheerfully. "Back in the day. Killed everyone in his year."
A pause.
"Got all the way down to nine survivors before the Academy stepped in."
Murmurs returned—but this time, hushed. Horrified.
Still, Smilingdeath mistook the looks on their faces.
"Oh, don't worry," he reassured them. "The Academy only stepped in because he was a psycho."
He nodded solemnly. Like this was a perfectly valid administrative policy.
"Apparently, a psycho wasn't the best rep for a graduating class. But if you're not crazy? You're good."
He raised a finger.
"So yeah. If you wanna off your whole batch—go ahead. Just don't drool while doing it."
Silence.
Total silence.
Even breathing felt absent. The only sound was the soft, steady exhale of Anessa—still asleep on her bear like none of this concerned her.
Kale scanned the crowd.
The average students were visibly shaken. Fidgeting. Pale.
Only the top elites—noble heirs, royals—held their composure.
Even then, a flicker of caution danced in their eyes.
This is my opportunity.
The thought passed through Kale's mind like a spark. He stepped forward, breaking the stillness.
"Mr. President," he called out, voice calm—measured, not submissive.
Smilingdeath turned his head lazily. "Yes, fresher?"
"You have a question?"
"Yes, Mr. President." Kale gave a small, respectful nod. "With the way things are structured… it seems only those with great combat prowess can survive in the Academy."
He paused, watching the president closely.
No shift in expression.
Good.
He wasn't a brute. He was calculated.
"But that's detrimental, isn't it?"
Smilingdeath's grin didn't budge. "How so?"
"There are students here with support-based abilities. Powers that could benefit the Academy, the kingdom—even humanity."
Kale's voice held conviction now. Not theatrical—but principled.
"What are you driving at?" Smilingdeath asked.
Kale didn't flinch. "Surely the Academy doesn't intend to let them die at the hands of the strong simply because they lack destructive force."
A murmur rose from the students. Agreeing. Hoping.
But Smilingdeath didn't respond right away.
He just stared.
The grin never left his face.
But something beneath it shifted.
The air tensed. The pressure crawled.
One by one, the murmurs died.
Until only Kale remained speaking.
Or rather—standing.
Then, Smilingdeath exhaled lightly and gave a slight shake of his head.
Finally, he spoke.
"I don't have time for your little game, young prince."
A single line.
No venom.
Just fact.
Then, he turned back to the crowd.
"What the little prince here wants you all to know…"
He pointed lazily at the majority of the crowd.
"…is that you weaklings…"
His smile sharpened—dangerous now.
"…if you want to survive, you better find someone strong."
The sentence floated through the crowd, sinking them into their new reality.
Just then.
A student muttered.
"What if no one strong wants you?"
The few words sank the students further in their despair.
But not as much as the next words spoken by Smilingdeath.
"Then die quietly."