The third day of classes had arrived, bringing with it the first Monster Anatomy and Training lesson. This course focused on understanding, taming, and, if necessary, eliminating monsters. The instructor, Professor Elias Crombwell, wasted no time getting to the good part.

At the front of the classroom, laid out on a massive steel table, was the carcass of a Mad Wolf. Even in death, its sheer size was imposing. The beast’s nine-foot frame stretched across the surface, its jet-black fur matted with dried blood. Its muscles, even in their lifeless state, were thick and coiled, as if the beast might still spring to life at any moment.

Crombwell, his ever-present grin plastered on his face, ran a gloved hand along the creature’s side. "Take a good look, class! This is a Mad Wolf, one of the deadliest predators in the wild. Its predecessor, the common Gray Wolf, only stood about four feet tall. That’s a five-foot difference—enough to make you rethink calling this thing a 'wolf' at all."

He grabbed a hooked metal tool from the tray beside him and pried open the beast’s mouth, revealing rows of jagged, yellowed fangs. Even without movement, the jawline was terrifying, the canines thick enough to punch through bone.

"The Mad Wolf boasts a bite force of nearly ten tons per square inch. That means if one of these gets its teeth around you"—he abruptly snapped the jaw shut, the sound echoing through the silent classroom—"you won’t have time to scream."

Some students flinched at the sound. Others stared with wide eyes, taking notes. Max, however, just observed in silence. He didn’t need a demonstration to recognize the raw killing power in front of him.

"As tamers—or in some cases, future monster slayers—you need to understand their anatomy. If you can’t control a monster, you must learn how to kill it." Crombwell moved to the side, flipping through a thick manual before glancing back at the class. His eyes gleamed with anticipation.

"Humans have spent years researching why monsters mutated after the Break. Why did they grow in size? Why did they turn on their owners—on humans as a whole?"

Professor Cromwell’s voice carried through the lecture hall, his excitement barely contained. He adjusted his glasses, his sharp eyes scanning the students like a predator. "My team and I have cracked the answer. Now, can anyone tell me why?"

A few hands shot up.

Cromwell's gaze swept the room before zeroing in on Max. "How about… you on the right?"

Max blinked. Looked around. Then pointed to himself.

"Yes, you!"

"I uh… didn’t have my hand raised…"

"I know, I’m trying to keep you engaged in class," Cromwell said, lips curling in amusement.

‘He’s one of those teachers.’ Max thought bitterly.

Still, with the entire class now watching him, he sighed and forced an answer.

“So… um… monsters are called violent and um… unpredictable so…. well… I think we are looking at it wrong… Us and monsters are kinda like putting oil and water into a water bottle…. No matter how much we shake the bottle, it won’t mix until we force it to… so.. I uh… I think monsters operate on a different frequency of mana than we do… so we should try to understand their frequency of mana… If we were to use frequency techniques like the uh… three-star Mindwave Synchrony, we could understand th—"

"WAIT! GO BACK!"

Max flinched as Cromwell’s voice boomed through the room.

"Pardon…?" Max said, completely thrown off.

"REPEAT WHAT YOU SAID!" The professor’s eyes were practically glowing with excitement.

"Why are… why? What? What’s going on?" Max asked, glancing around in confusion.

"JUST REPEAT YOURSELF!"

Max hesitated, then cautiously started again.

"Well… I think that monsters are called violent—"

"NOT THAT PART!" Cromwell cut him off again, leaning forward like he was about to pounce.

Max threw his hands up. "What do you want from me…?"

The professor suddenly froze, as if just now realizing how he looked—a grown man practically lunging at a student mid-lecture.

A tense silence settled over the classroom. Students exchanged glances.

Clearing his throat, Cromwell forced himself to relax. His excitement hadn't faded, but he at least dialed it down a notch.

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"...Sorry about that," Cromwell muttered, adjusting his glasses. His previous outburst had rattled the room, but the excitement in his eyes hadn't dimmed in the slightest. "Continue."

"Continue what…?" Max asked, still wary.

"Student, please repeat what you said about frequencies," Cromwell pressed, his voice more measured now, but still intense.

Max hesitated. He already regretted speaking up in the first place, but now backing down would only make it weirder.

"...That monsters’ mana might be on different frequencies from what we know… so we should try to be on the same frequency as them…?"

For a second, Cromwell didn't even blink.

Then—

Ding dong. Ding dong.

The class bell rang.

Max practically bolted out of the classroom before the professor could even open his mouth again. His heart pounded as he made his way back to his dorm, moving so fast he barely registered his surroundings.

‘Why did he get so excited? It’s basic knowledge…’

He closed the door behind him, locked it, and leaned against the wall, catching his breath. His mind raced, piecing together the obvious answer.

‘Wait… what I said wasn’t discovered yet…’

Max groaned, rubbing his temple.

‘Son of a bitch.’

He had years of knowledge from the future, things that might seem like common sense later but were still undiscovered now. His slip-up had just hand-delivered groundbreaking research on a silver platter to a professor eager to claim it.

‘I need to be more careful…’

He ran his hands through his hair. How do I fix this? He needed a solution—fast.

Then it hit him.

Collin's notebook.

Max scrambled to his desk, flipping it open. His eyes scanned the pages until he found it:

‘Professor Cromwell will ask the students for the mysterious theory giver’s name until the second-lowest rank in the class tells him.’

Max narrowed his eyes.

Grabbing a pen, he crossed out the entry and replaced it with:

‘No student knew his name.’

As soon as he finished writing, a sudden, familiar drain spread through his body.

Max’s vision blurred. His limbs locked up. It felt like his mana was being yanked straight out of him.

He barely had time to process what was happening before his body went completely still—and he collapsed onto the floor.

…

Collin stepped out of the classroom, hands in his pockets, tuning out the professor’s frantic questioning behind him. Cromwell’s voice carried down the hall, desperate, relentless.

"Who was it? Someone in this class knows! Speak up!"

Not a single student answered.

Collin smiled.

It was funny.

He casually walked down the corridor, dodging a group of first-years chattering about their next class. The whole situation played back in his head.

‘I would’ve left in a hurry too if the professor was this crazy over a theory…’

Cromwell had looked possessed back there. But Collin wasn’t sure what intrigued him more—the professor’s obsession or the theory itself.

‘Who the hell even came up with that?’

He thought back to the moment it was said. The voice hadn’t been familiar, and whoever it was had barely spoken up before bolting.

‘That guy’s gotta be a ghost. No name, no presence, just dropping that insight and vanishing.’

Collin smirked.

‘Genius theory, though. Whoever came up with it has a smart way of thinking… and an even smarter way of hiding.’

…

‘Cromwell’s not an idiot. He’s probably just gonna check the student roster or registry or something like that…’

Max sighed, lying back on his bed, staring at the ceiling. At least he’d bought himself a day of peace.

‘I need to remember—I’m still in a book world. I can’t just slip up like that.’

He thought over his next move. How was he supposed to explain this?

‘Mana frequencies were covered just the class before… Maybe I can play it off as a lucky guess. A random thought. People get those all the time, right? And it’s not like I have a high talent rating or impressive stats. No one’s gonna suspect me of being some genius.’

It was flimsy, but it was a plan.

Max exhaled through his nose, dragging a hand down his face.

"This is so burdensome..." he muttered.

His eyes flickered toward the straw dummy propped up in the corner. His mind drifted to the Nightstalker manual—the technique he actually needed to be working on.

‘I should probably train Nightstalker instead of stressing over this.’

Max sat up, shaking off the lingering thoughts.

Max set up the dummy, rolling his shoulders before slipping into his stance. The dorm room was dimly lit, the setting sun casting long shadows across the floor. With each strike, each precise movement, he felt the rhythm of Nightstalker becoming more natural—sharper, faster, more seamless.

Time blurred. The only sounds in the room were the whispering air as his daggers cut through it and the faint rustle of the straw dummy.

Sweat clung to his skin, but he didn’t stop. Not yet.

‘I should probably stop… but—one last strike.’

Max steadied his breath and shifted his weight.

His footwork was flawless—his movement ghostly, soundless. In an instant, he appeared in front of the dummy, his blade slicing clean through a vital point.

And then—

A strange sensation rushed through his body. A pulse, a shift—like something had clicked into place.

Max froze. His breath caught in his throat. His body felt different. Lighter. Smoother. Like he’d unlocked something buried deep within his muscles.

His eyes widened.

“Mastery… Mastery!”

A rush of excitement surged through him as the realization hit.

“I mastered Nightstalker!”

He clenched his fists, feeling the energy humming beneath his skin. This was it. This was progress. And it was only the beginning.