Hex ignored them, his focus entirely on Omega. He'd heard such whispers his entire life—they meant nothing to him now. What mattered was helping his friend, not the opinions of those who saw him as a commodity rather than a person.

At the counter, the vendor sat behind a crystal scanner, looking thoroughly bored with his job, as if the parade of desperate students had long since ceased to interest him. A glowing list of rules hovered above him—registration required, family approval mandatory, unauthorized use punishable by death. The words seemed to pulse with menace, a constant reminder of the chains binding them all.

Omega placed his hand on the scanner, anxiety prickling at him like needles against his skin. His palm felt clammy, and he had to resist the urge to wipe it on his pants.

"Name, class, purpose of weapon," the vendor said without looking up, his tone suggesting he'd repeated these words a thousand times and would repeat them a thousand more.

"Omega… F-class… dagger for exploration," Omega replied quietly, hating how small his voice sounded, how powerless he felt in this moment.

The vendor finally looked up, his eyes scanning Omega with undisguised contempt, taking in his worn uniform and thin frame. He smirked, clearly enjoying what came next.

"Exploration? You?" he said, his voice dripping with mockery, each word designed to cut. "You can't even afford rations. Why not stick to wooden practice weapons?" He leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, savoring Omega's discomfort.

Nearby students snickered, the sound cutting into Omega like glass. He clenched his fists, nails digging into his palms hard enough to leave marks, using the pain to anchor himself against the rising tide of humiliation.

"Run the scan. Now," Hex said firmly, stepping forward with an authority that made the vendor's smirk falter. His voice carried the weight of someone accustomed to being obeyed.

The vendor sighed dramatically and activated the scanner, clearly annoyed at being challenged. Red light flashed across the display, harsh and unforgiving.

Insufficient credits. Weapon binding denied.

Omega's stomach sank, a hollow feeling spreading through his chest like ice water. Laughter echoed around him, each sound a fresh humiliation, a reminder of his place at the bottom of their world.

"Can't even bind a dagger? What a joke!" a nearby student jeered, his voice carrying across the hall, drawing more attention to Omega's failure.

"Next! Stop wasting time," the vendor barked, already dismissing Omega with a wave of his hand, as if he were nothing more than an inconvenience.

Omega turned away, his face burning with shame, eyes stinging with tears he refused to let fall—but Hex dropped his ID card on the counter with a sharp tap that silenced the nearby laughter. The sound rang out like a challenge.

"Bind it under my points," Hex said, his voice commanding and brooking no argument, his stance protective. "Issue him the dagger."

The vendor's eyes widened slightly, surprise breaking through his bored expression. "You're wasting your points on him?" he scoffed, though uncertainty crept into his voice as he reassessed the situation. "He's dead weight."

Hex's gaze hardened, his jaw set in a way that made clear he wouldn't be moved. "He's my dead weight. Now do it." The words carried both threat and loyalty, a declaration of friendship that transcended the cruel hierarchy of their world.

The scanner flashed green. A soft glow enveloped the dagger and formed a bond with Omega's palm, the sensation warm and electric, like lightning dancing across his skin. He gasped softly at the feeling, at the sudden connection between himself and the weapon.

Weapon Registered: Low-Rank Beast Weapon – Twin Fang Daggers. Bound to: Omega.

Omega's breath caught in his throat. The blades were light, perfectly balanced, and fit in his hands as if they'd been made for him. He turned them over, watching light dance along the edges, mesmerized by their beauty and the promise they represented.

"…They're perfect. Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with emotion he couldn't quite name—gratitude, certainly, but also hope, and something that felt dangerously like the possibility of a future.

Hex grinned, clapping him on the back with genuine affection. "Don't thank me yet," he said, though warmth filled his eyes. "You'll need them in the arena soon."

---

They headed to the training field, where Mr. Norway stood with arms crossed, watching the approaching students like a statue carved from stone. His presence alone commanded silence, an aura of competence and danger surrounding him that made even the rowdiest students fall quiet.

"The rank competition won't be decided by raw power alone," he said sternly, his voice carrying across the field with the weight of hard-won experience. "Technique decides survival. Master even one of these methods, and your chance of staying alive doubles." He let that sink in, watching their faces shift from curiosity to apprehension, making sure they understood the stakes.

The field fell silent, every student hanging on his words, recognizing that unlike some instructors, Norway spoke from genuine knowledge, not just theory.

"First: the Crimson Step. A movement technique that lets you dodge a beast's strike at the last second and counter from its blind spot." His eyes swept across them, assessing, calculating who might actually survive what was coming. "Speed without purpose is useless. This gives you both."

He dashed forward—the air barely rippled. In a blink, he appeared behind a training dummy and sliced its neck cleanly, the movement so fluid it seemed effortless, like watching water flow. Gasps followed, students stumbling backward in awe, some with mouths hanging open.

"Second: the Vein Strike. Target joints, soft tissue, veins—weak points," Norway continued, moving to another dummy with predatory grace. "A precise strike ends battles faster than brute strength. Learn where to hit, and size means nothing." He paused, letting them absorb the lesson. "The biggest beast falls if you know its vulnerabilities."

He struck another dummy with just two fingers. The wood split in half with a sharp crack, splinters flying like shrapnel. Several students flinched at the display of controlled power.

"Lastly: the Iron Wall Grip. Against full-charge beasts, never block head-on," he said, his expression grave, as if remembering students who'd learned this lesson too late. "Redirect their weight. Use their momentum against them. Strength isn't about how hard you can hit—it's about how smart you fight."

He summoned a hulking puppet, easily twice his size, its mechanical joints creaking ominously. As it charged with thunderous steps that shook the ground, he slipped aside at the last possible moment, grabbed its arm, and flipped it over his shoulder with practiced ease. The puppet slammed into the ground, the impact shaking the earth beneath their feet and sending up a cloud of dust.

The students whispered and gawked, some with excitement, others with barely concealed fear. A few looked ready to bolt, suddenly understanding the reality of what they'd signed up for.

"These are survival tools. Fail to learn them, and you'll die on the exploration," Norway said bluntly, his words cutting through their wonder like a knife through silk. "Now—pair up and practice. And I mean actually practice, not just go through the motions. Your life depends on this."

The field erupted with movement. Students stumbled over footwork, swung swords too wildly, and toppled over one another in their eagerness and nervousness. Kazeem attempted the Crimson Step and immediately fell on his back with a grunt, earning laughter from nearby classmates, though he grinned good-naturedly and tried again.

Sweat, grit, excitement, and fear mixed into the air as practice continued under the relentless sun. Muscles burned, lungs heaved, but no one dared stop under Norway's watchful eye. He moved among them, correcting stances, demonstrating techniques again, occasionally barking criticism that stung but improved their form.

Omega gripped his daggers tightly, feeling their weight, their promise, the way they seemed to become extensions of his arms. His heart pounded with something new—not just fear, but determination, fierce and bright.

I'll master this, he thought, watching Norway demonstrate the Crimson Step once more, his movements a blur of controlled precision. No matter what. I won't be their pawn. I'll carve my own path, even if I have to bleed for it. The daggers felt warm in his hands, as if responding to his resolve, and for the first time since arriving at this cursed academy, Omega allowed himself to believe he might actually survive what was coming.