Max felt his heart beat faster as he trooped into a large auditorium with the rest of the first years, escorted by a contingent of servitors. The first day of class, and already Max felt like he was walking into the lion’s den.

The space, deep in the bowels of Prometheus Academy, looked nothing like a traditional classroom. The floor, despite being as spongy as a foam mat, had a glassy patina, looking like a massive computer screen. Unidentifiable pieces of high tech adorned the walls. The ceiling towered high above, giving the room a cathedral-like grandeur.

“Omigod, look who our professor is!” Gene whispered excitedly to Max. Ever since he had told her and Damian about Malik’s not-so-veiled threat against them, the three had been inseparable. Strength in numbers. Damian and Max shared a dorm room; if the dormitories weren’t segregated by gender, they would have requested that Gene be in the neighboring room.

Bastion, the head of the Henchman Division, stood at the front of the auditorium. He wore his iconic dark-blue costume, which was adorned with pieces of high-tech armor. He was the cynosure of every students’ eye as they assembled before him.

Even if he hadn’t been world-famous, the Villain would have stood out like a giant before pygmies. Bastion was at least a head taller than Carlos, the tallest student, and the weight of at least two or three of the beefiest students combined. If any of his bulk was fat, Max couldn’t spot it. He was a living caricature of an Unreal with super strength, muscles piled on muscles.

But his muscular frame was in stark contrast to the gentle timbre of his high-pitched voice as he addressed the first-year students.

“My name is Bastion. No ‘Mister.’ No ‘Professor.’ Simply call me Bastion. Sir, if you must, despite it making me feel older than I already am.”

Bastion’s slight smile made the deep lines of his face crinkle. He swept a lock of salt-and-pepper hair out of his face.

“Welcome to Combat 101. If you learn only one thing this semester, learn this: The best way to win a fight is to avoid it altogether. Unfortunately, despite your best efforts, some fights cannot be avoided. My job is to teach you how to win them.

“With that said, who here thinks they already know how to fight? Step forward.”

Bastion’s question echoed through the auditorium. His eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned the crowd of young people.

Max felt a ripple of unease pass through the students. No one volunteered. He glanced around, noticing the hesitant looks his peers exchanged. Some perverse impulse made him want to step forward, but his better judgment tamped the impulse down. His experience with Sheriff Barker had demonstrated he wasn’t up to fighting grown men. Kindergarteners were more his speed, and there wasn’t a single munchkin in sight. Maybe, if this class was effective, he could graduate to grappling with middle schoolers.

Bastion’s gaze lingered over them, a small smile playing on his lips.

“I’ve studied all your files,” he said. “I know some of you have martial arts training. Don’t be shy. I won’t bite. The same can’t be said about some of your fellow students, but at least you’re safe from my chompers.”

A nervous laugh ran through the first years.

Finally, breaking the tension, Malik stepped forward. A smattering of boos rose from his Anarchy Division peers. His and Carlos’ popularity had plummeted within their Division, a consequence of the hefty demerits they had accumulated due to the imp incident. Max had learned during orientation that these individual scores impacted each Division’s overall standing—credits and demerits from each student either added to or subtracted from their collective tally. The Division leading the scoreboard received rewards, while those lagging faced penalties. Max couldn’t help but admire the ingenuity of the system; it leveraged peer pressure to not only maintain discipline among the students, but also to spur a competitive drive for excellence.

“Very good, Mr. Washington,” Bastion said, nodding in approval at Malik stepping forward. “One credit to the Anarchy Division. Now, who would like to be Washington’s sparring partner for an exhibition match? Bear in mind you won’t be allowed to use your powers.”

The auditorium fell as silent as a tomb. Doctor Asclepius had declared Malik “as healthy as a Clydesdale” when he released him from the infirmary, and Malik certainly looked it now. Even if there had been no beef between them, there was no way Max would ever volunteer to spar someone as big and muscular as Malik. He liked his head right where it was, thanks very much. The rest of the first years apparently felt the same.

“Who’s that raising his hand?” Bastion squinted into the group of first years. “Ah, yes—Mr. Draconis. Thanks for volunteering. Step forward please.”

Damian, his arms limp at his sides, blinked at Bastion in surprise. “I didn’t volunteer, sir.”

Bastion looked like he couldn’t believe his ears. He gave Damian a flat look that Max thought might peel the paint off the back wall.

When Bastion finally spoke again, his tone and demeanor had completely changed. Incredulity bubbling with anger dripped from his voice.

“Need I remind you I am the man who single-handedly defeated Pinnacle? Are you—a wet-behind-the-ears first year—saying I’m wrong?”

Damian didn’t break eye contact with the Villain despite the hulking man’s intimidating glare.

“Yes, I am,” Damian said coolly.

Bastion’s thick eyebrows knitted together as he regarded Damian. The room held its breath, the tension palpable. Max halfway expected the Villain to leap into the crowd, grab Damian by the throat, and shake him like a terrier with a rat.

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

Unexpectedly, Bastion’s lips curled into a genuine smile, his demeanor softening.

“Excellent!” he boomed. “Honesty! A rare and valuable trait, especially in our line of work. One credit to the Apex Division. Congratulations, Draconis, on having the courage to speak the truth, even when it might be easier to just blindly go along with what an authority figure wants.”

Bastion addressed the rest of the students, his voice assuming a lecturing tone.

“Let this be a lesson to all of you. In combat, as in life, integrity and honesty are your allies. Deception has its place, of course, but never deceive yourselves. Acknowledge your limits, your fears, and your strengths.”

Max couldn’t believe what he was hearing. A Villain—and one of the most notorious ones—praising the virtues of integrity and honesty? Whatever else this school was, it was a nonstop surprise.

Bastion beckoned Damian forward. “Draconis, I’m well aware you did not volunteer. Consider yourself drafted. Like it or not, you’re going to be Washington’s sparring partner today.”

A malicious smile lit up Malik’s dark face at the news, gone as soon as it arrived, replaced by a look of studied indifference. Max and Damian exchanged a look. What each was thinking was clear: Would Malik try to carry out his threat to kill Damian here? In front of everyone?

“I’ll be fine,” Damian murmured. He moved to join Bastion and Malik.

At Bastion’s direction, Malik and Damian began strapping on protective equipment: padded gloves that left their fingers free for grappling, shin guards that clung tightly to their legs, and headgear that framed their faces while leaving their expressions visible. Each piece they donned seemed to add to the growing anticipation in the room.

“Ten bucks on Malik,” whispered a student behind Max.

“No bet. Malik’s gonna punch Damian into the afterlife.”

“You guys have sponges for brains,” Gene hissed tartly. “Damian’s about to put on a fight clinic.” But the anxious look on her face betrayed her bold words.

“Put your money where your mouth is, Gene. Ten bucks says your boy gets clobbered.”

“Bet!” Gene agreed fiercely. “I’ll even lay you two-to-one odds.”

She leaned over to Max and murmured, “You got twenty dollars I can borrow?”

Bastion, his arms crossed, watched the combatants prepare with an eagle eye. He said, “Between the protective nanotech of your jumpsuits and this gear you’re donning, you should avoid serious injury. But all the equipment in the world won’t protect someone whose opponent is really trying to hurt him.

“So remember,” he added in a tone that brooked no argument, “this is a sparring match, not a street fight. The goal is to not seriously harm each other. Control your strikes. I want technique, not brutality. And again—no powers.”

Directed by Bastion, the two students stepped into a glowing red circle that emerged from the floor. Its light cast an eerie glow on their faces. The almost bored look on Malik’s face was betrayed by an eager gleam in his eye. Damian, as always, looked serene as a lake. The two were a complete mismatch: Damian was in shape, but slim; Malik, who probably popped steroids with his morning vitamins, looked like a mountain compared to him.

“This isn’t fair!” Gene whined into Max’s ear. “Look how much bigger that galoot is next to Damian. Malik’s not even in the same freight class, much less weight class. Combat sports have weight classes for a reason. Malik’s gonna slaughter him!”

A few days ago, Max would have agreed with her. But now, Max wasn’t so sure. He still didn’t know who Damian’s father was, but the man seemed to have spared no expense in preparing Damian not only for Prometheus Academy, but life in general.

Damian’s calm demeanor confirmed Max’s suspicion his friend might have some tricks up his sleeve. He looked completely unbothered by the size disparity between him and Malik.

At Bastion’s signal, the match began.

Damian moved first, his strikes precise, aimed with a surgeon’s precision. Malik responded with a raw, almost primal power. His moves were less refined but carried the weight of a sledgehammer. Damian ducked and weaved, using his greater agility to avoid Malik’s heaviest blows, countering with rapid jabs and hooks.

Max’s gaze darted between the fight and Bastion, on the other side of the red circle from Max. The Villain was studying the fight intensely. Bastion soon began frowning. The frown deepened into a scowl the longer the fight lasted.

Malik’s strength and size slowly began to wear down Damian. Every blocked punch from Malik sent a shudder through Damian’s frame; every powerful kick was a reminder of the disaster he had narrowly avoided. To Max’s untrained eye, Damian was the more skilled fighter, but it was just a matter of time before Malik’s vastly superior size and strength carried the day.

The other students were silent, their eyes fixated on the two combatants. The Anarchy Division students, who had booed Malik earlier, were now leaning forward eagerly, eyes shining, their antipathy forgotten in the face of their representative’s prowess.

Finally, with a quick feint and jab that seemed to catch Damian off guard, Malik landed a solid punch to Damian’s head. Blood sprayed. Gene gasped and turned away, covering her eyes. Damian stumbled backward, seemingly disoriented.

Malik followed up with a series of forceful strikes to the body that rocked Damian. Damian tried to evade Malik without stepping outside the circle, but the shark had smelled blood, and wasn’t about to let his prey swim away.

With a lightning-quick move, Malik swept Damian’s legs from under him, sending him crashing to the spongy floor. Malik landed on top of him like a ton of bricks, landing blow after blow.

“Enough!” Bastion boomed, his voice cutting through the sudden eruption of cheers from the Anarchy Division.

Damian lay on the mat, breathing heavily, blood trickling from his nose and mouth. Malik extended a hand to help him up, a sporting gesture that surprised Max more than if Malik had kissed Damian on the lips.

Back on his feet, Damian thanked Malik for his sportsmanship. He and Malik touched gloves.

“Washington, step out of the circle. Draconis, stay where you are,” Bastion ordered in a clipped tone. He seemed annoyed, and Max didn’t understand why. “Mr. Soglo, come here, on the double.”

Wiping a startled look off his face, Koffi Soglo hustled over to Bastion. Koffi was the guy in the dashiki Max had landed on Villains Island with. Max had a few conversations with him during orientation week. He seemed a nice enough guy. A native of Benin, Koffi was the first person from Africa Max had ever met. Prometheus Academy was more diverse than the United Nations. If it weren’t for the kidnapping, being stalked by AARP members, and the death threats, Max might’ve enjoyed his time here.

Bastion stuck his hand out before Koffi, his scowling eyes still fixed on Damian.

“Soglo, make me a diamond. The largest you can manage.”

“Uh . . . certainly, sir.”

Koffi fell silent, then bent over and began retching, as if he would throw up. His cheeks suddenly bulged, and he spat into his hand a hunk of diamond bigger than a chicken egg.

“Eww! Gross!” Gene exclaimed. There were mumblings of agreement from other students.

Koffi wiped the saliva off on his jumpsuit before handing the diamond to Bastion. Holding it in his massive fist, Bastion stepped into the glowing circle where Damian still stood.

“To an Unreal like me, Draconis,” Bastion said as he strode casually toward Damian, “everything might as well be made of cardboard.” He squeezed the diamond in his fist. It cracked loudly as he ground the super-hard gemstone to powder, as easily as if crushing a styrofoam cup. Diamond dust trickled through Bastion’s thick fingers. “So believe me when I say that if I swing at you and so much as graze you, I’ll probably kill you. In the extremely unlikely event you don’t die, your bones will be pulverized and you’ll be crippled. You understand me?”

Damian looked puzzled.

“Yes, sir. But why—”

Moving impossibly fast for such a large man, Bastion’s fist rocketed toward Damian’s face.