The days had moved by in a flash, with studying and going to regular classes.

Training in hand-to-hand combat in Mr. B’s classes, as well as supernatural knowledge that was just too much to take in. Things about Elven and the different vampire types was hard enough, but learning all about the supernatural world was getting overwhelming.

A weird lesson with Chikaze that involved ‘moving in real-time’ as she had called it. They learned this rolling motion where they had moved to the ground as slow as possible, going down on one leg, then to their butt, and rolling around on their shoulders and back, finally coming back up on a leg. All in this slow, difficult motion. They did it normally at first, getting used to the motion, then moved as slow as possible without falling. It was quite difficult and lead to frustrated sighs and noises as they were getting quite tired of these random and weird lessons.

Lucian Illustrious had explained some stuff about the Usages of Magic that was a bit boring at the beginning of the lesson, leading to being overloaded by the end. Vincent was exhausted and almost ended up snoozing in class again.

Tania Eln taught them more about knives. Throwing them, holding them, and sparring with them. Luckily, the sparring was with wooden knives that had dull edges, but she still threatened to do things to them if they didn’t learn faster.

Then there was Castile’s class.

“Keep your feet planted,” Castile said, whacking Vincent over the head with one of the wooden swords they often trained with.

While Alacard and Max had struggled with their footwork and sword swing, they hadn’t gotten thwacked over the head like Vincent had.

“You have to feel it out, hold the stance, plant your feet thusly and swing. Do that and you’ll have it.” Castile stepped back, looking from one end of the line to the other.

They all held their swords at the ready, feet spread and planted according, all swinging swords forward.

Vincent tightened his grip on his sword, nodded, and swung his sword forward. He tried to take what had been explained to him, even following the lead of Isabella and Mizuki, who both seemed to swing with perfection.

“Not like that,” Castile barked, stepping to Vincent and delivering two swift hits to his outer thoughts that stung from impact. He faced Vincent with fire in his eyes. “Stand strong, look forward, and swing swiftly.”

Vincent did, and still got hit again. It hurt each time. Vincent wondered why he was getting so much attention from this teacher. It had been like this for quite a while in Castile’s class, and he was beginning to get annoyed.

But what could he do? Tell the teacher to stop? Face him and fight him? There was nothing to do but try to understand the lesson and perform the stance and swing, or whatever asinine thing the crazy Castile wanted.

He felt a sense of relief when they shifted to disarming and fighting against someone that had a weapon while being unarmed, and tactics to employ that may take a sword wielder off balance.

His relief was short lived when Castile called him as a volunteer to demonstrate being disarmed properly. Castile disarmed him with ease, knocking him down and back – several times. It hurt, and not just his pride.

Insult was added to injury when he noticed that Alacard was thoroughly enjoying the show.

Still, Vincent held strong and got through, wondering why Castile treated him this way? It had to be because he was a newbie, for what else could it be? He’d never know. But perhaps he’d find out one day. Either way, he’d hold out till they moved on from him as a teacher. That would be a glorious day.

The regular classes were a blur too, especially math.

Vincent sucked at arithmetic, algorithms, and showing his work. How was he supposed to show work on something he didn’t understand? Still, he managed thanks to the help of a cute sophomore math whiz that Alexander happened to know. She had graciously offered her assistance, which made Vincent wonder what Alexander had promise to do for her?

It was all so overwhelming and hard to handle, as the homework was piling up and the scores were getting into dangerous territory. Through it all, though, he was anxious to master the Transformation at Will and face Alicia.

                                 .           .           .

When the day finally came, Vincent was exhausted and overloaded. The anxiety and anticipation of the moment to try the Transformation at Will had pushed him onward, kept him wide awake and alert.

It was the late afternoon after classes, and Vincent and Alacard were back at it again. The sun loomed over the horizon as they engaged in blows with one another. Charging and striking and tumbling and grabbing and pushing each other. Time and time again. Each time, Alacard getting the best of Vincent.

But there was something different in Vincent’s demeanor, in his eyes. He wasn’t going to give up, and Alacard was having a harder time taking him down. Vincent was even getting up faster, recovering quicker, and landing a few blows of his own.

Mr. B stood off to the side, as usual, with arms folded and a pleased smile across his face. “That’s enough, boys. I think it’s time we try again. Come with me.”

And so they followed him down into that room where the transformation into a werewolf was invoked.

Alacard shoved Vincent aside, wanting to take his chance first. Vincent let out a low growl, holding on to his animal instincts that made him want to pounce and destroy and rip and tear. He just shook his head and mumbled something incoherent under his breath as he glared at Alacard.

Alacard looked back at Vincent with a wry smile as the door closed behind him.

“Let the real pro show you how it’s done this time.” He spoke with authority, as if he had figured out the secret. As if he was going to master it this time, to take control, will it back and be the first.

After his transformation was induced, he couldn’t keep a grasp on it, but quickly lost himself to his Beast Mind, his werewolf form howling and rampaging inside the room.

Vincent looked anxious to go again, but Mr. B held an arm out to stop him, silently looking onward to the screen as he spoke into the microphone, watching Alacard shivering on the ground in the fetal position.

“It’s time to try again, son,” he said with a low and serious voice.

And he invoked a second transformation in a row.

“Are you sure that’s okay, sir?” Vincent asked with a bit of worry in his voice.

“It’s fine,” Mr. B said with a low growl, as if upset that Vincent was challenging him. “He needs this. You both do.” He turned to meet Vincent’s eyes, which made Vincent shudder. There was a distance in them, a cold fury. He looked back to the screen, hoping that everything would be all right, worrying about his own fate when he went in there. It didn’t feel right.

Alacard tried again, and the same thing happened. As he turned back, he was covered in sweat, kneeling and hugging himself. His eyes lost and confused and weary. He glossed over and fell forward then slapped his hand on the ground, pushing his face upward as he slowly stood with a growl.

“I want to go again.” He swayed on the spot, looking like he was going to fall over, but stopped himself with a palm against the wall.

After the third try, Mr. B let out a noise of derision as if disappointed in Alacard. Mr. B moved into the room with a tired and angry look in his eye. He pulled Alacard out and leaned him against the wall. No words of encouragement, no towel.

“I don’t get this at all,” Alacard said, a frustrated frown on his face. No jokes, no taunting, no acting better than anyone. Just defeated. He looked up at Mr. B, determined and wanting encouragement. “I want to go again.” There was a sadness in his voice, a yearning as if he was a little boy looking at his father. “Let me go again.”

“No,” Mr. B said flatly. “You’ve done enough today.” And he just looked forward and gave a slight nod of his head for Vincent to proceed.

“Go on, son. It’s your turn now. Don’t disappoint me.”

Vincent gave a quiet nod and shuffled into the room, worrying about the state of Alacard, as well as his teacher. Were they going too far? Were they not putting in enough? And what was going on with Mr. B? He was supposed to be their support, their rock, their encourager, but he just looked pissed off and fed up.

Vincent let out a little sigh, telling himself everything was all right, that the goal was still the same. Clenching his fists and tensing his body, he focused his thoughts on one thing. The mastering of the Transformation at Will, because he had no other choice.

He took another deep breath and looked up as he exhaled with confidence. “I’m ready.” He pushed it all aside. The disappointed look in Mr. B’s eyes, the defeated shift in Alacard, the difficulty with all his classes and this new world of his. Everything. There was just one thing he was going to do, one thing he had no choice but to gain.

Mr. B leaned into the microphone. “Remember your training. Focus on your humanity and you’ll have it.” The words weren’t encouraging, more like the droning of a soul-sucked worker.

Vincent didn’t care. He was going to do this. He was going to master the Transformation at Will, and he didn’t need anyone but himself to do it.

He slapped his chest, pumped himself up, and prepared himself for the inevitable.

Mr. B leaned forward and hit the switch on the screen, his eyes tired.

Vincent moved through the transformation, his body twisting and ripping and extending and doing things that were so painful that he groaned and cried out. Yet, it was a little less this time, even if it was agonizing. He fell to the ground, wrapping his arms around his body as he let out a groan and grunt and outcry of terror from the contorting pain. It was torment, plain and simple.

After what seemed like never-ending anguish, he had transformed.

He was still on the ground, two hairy arms outstretched with fingers spread apart. He examined the long, sharp fingernails, wondering what damage they could do if he inflicted them upon a human’s skin as he chased them down and tore them apart, making them feel pure agony, and him, pure delight. He smiled at that, drool from his snout drooping to the ground.

He stood and grasped his head, body banging against the wall, then fell to his knees, growling and shaking in a furious motion. While on the ground, he continued to grip the sides of his head for a moment, then leaned back, stretching his arms toward the ceiling as if cursing the synthetic moonlight. He let out a drawn-out howl before falling forward and expelling all the air in his lungs as he sprawled against the ground.

A moment later, he blinked. What was this feeling?

He unfurled and stretched, his snout opening in a wide yawn with a soft yelp and whine at the end. He felt as if he had just woken from a dog nap. He shook his body, much like a dog shaking off water, then looked forward, smacking his chops together. This feeling was much like waking up after a night’s rest, yet he had just transformed into a werewolf, so how was he doing this, thinking this, keeping control?

He looked around, noticing the details of the room. The previous damage from all their other attempts. Claw marks on the walls, broken pieces of concrete on the ground, and other parts untouched as he stepped forward and moved along in a circular motion, his furry hand sliding against the smooth cement.

His tailed swished. How was this happening?

It was hard to describe the details, the sharp senses and sensations and smells, and the feeling… Yet, he knew what was happening while at the same time feeling a sense of confusion, like a distant traveler finally coming home from an extended trip abroad – walking into his room, noticing the details, the smells and sounds, the feel of the bed, things like this. A loss of control of his mind and body.

A moment later, he was looking straight again, staring at a point in the room for some reason, blinking and looking down at his body. He flexed his arms at the elbow and extended them, twisting his forearms this way and that. He moved wrists, wriggling his fingers, a sly smile on his face because he just knew that he had finally grasped it. He wasn’t sure if it was because of the training, his mindset, the timing, or something random. Perhaps that Ginga being they all worshiped blessed him with something.

It didn’t matter, because he had it. He really had it.

He looked up and let out a chuckle. Granted, it was guttural and bestial, just like when Mr. B had originally spoken in his werewolf form, then he spoke.

“This is so crazy.”

He blinked, incredulous at the outcome, then looked up as if being able to sense where the camera was watching him, and he smiled wider. He gave a lame thumbs up, which was a weird werewolf sight. Then raised his hands up and jumped in place as if gaining the gold at some highly competitive event.

“Woo-hoo. I did it. I freaking did it!”

Alacard was on his feet, leaning forward with palms slammed down on the desk, his eyes wide and incredulous. An envy lingered on his lips.

“Impossible.” He griped his fingers into fists and stepped back, shaking his head at this blasphemous sight. “No way. It’s not true, it just ain’t.”

While Mr. B’s energy had dropped, gone dark and dangerous, it suddenly was lifted as he gave a relieved smile. “Ginga, the boy did it.”

“Did you not hear me?” Alacard snarled, slapping his own chest with a furious swipe. “I wanna go in there and do it again.” He stomped to the place where the door opened into the other room and slammed his hand against the wall.

On the other side, Vincent could feel the tension, could sense the slight shake from Alacard slapping the door. But how? The wall was reinforced, and thick. He snarled, a little growl escaping his lips as a furious and wild feeling moved over him that made him want to break through the wall and engage Alacard.

Back in the other room, Mr. B shook his head. “No, not right now.”

Alacard stared at him with murderous intent. “Why?”

Mr. B felt a sense of sorrow move over him for letting himself become angry and agitated at the boy’s lack of being able to master the Transformation at Will. He couldn’t fault him, though. It was a terribly difficult thing to master, so he leveled his eyes and let Alacard know the truth.

“You’ll get another chance, son.” At the same time, he was agitated with Alacard, so he spoke with a flicker of danger in his voice as he motioned to the other side of the room. “Now, sit down.”

Alacard plopped down, folding his arms in an angry huff.

Mr. B sighed, then leaned back into the microphone. “Great job, Vincent.”

                                                                 .           .           .