The blonde and the green-haired guy, members of Arthur’s old team, catch up with me on my way to the French class.

“Hey, Arthur, wait.” The green-haired one puts his hand on my shoulder. “You really stirred things up back there with Gruson. Be careful with the nobles. They’re like a powder keg, just waiting for a spark to ignite.”

“Kyle,” I say and pause. That is his name, isn’t it? If I remember correctly. Judging by the expectant look on his face, I’m right, so I continue, “A nuclear bomb is scarier.”

“You’re the bomb, you mean?” Kyle looks at me skeptically.

I grin — of course I am. I’m a genuine tactical nuclear device, designed to take out large targets like the Great Worm Aba, or clusters of smaller enemies like swarms of Tyrannazes. The detonator is currently disabled, but that’s only temporary. The fractals of all the High Demons I’ve killed are imprinted in my astral body, just disassembled for now. Once I regain my Thunder Claws, the local Kmets and Warriors will be no more threatening than kittens. I’m not sure yet about Warlords, Berserker and Absolutes: the information about their powers online is too vague and mystical.

The blond boy chuckles hoarsely. His name is Michael, if I remember correctly. His voice is as deep as a bear’s roar.

“I recognize our Imp,” he rasps, rubbing his palms together. “So you’re rejoining the team?”

Damn, I didn’t consider that. What soldier wouldn’t want powerful weapons? And these guys play soldiers in their Military Games.

“Nope, guys.” I try to look disappointed. “My energy centers just ignore Prana. The doctors told me not to get my hopes up.”

“"But if you got back into training,” Kyle’s eyes flash with hope, “adrenaline, stress... maybe they’d act as a catalyst?”

I feel guilty. Damn, these guys really love Imp like a brother. I can’t honestly tell them that after French class I’m going to sign up for the jazz club. Sorry, guys, I’ve had enough of fighting.

“Or more likely, I’d get hurt without any mental armor,” I object.

“Sorry, I didn’t think of that.” Kyle looks dejected.

“We’ll hope for the best,” Michael grumbles. “Screw the doctors.”

“Screw the doctors,” Kyle repeats.

I repeat it too, just to keep them company. We reach the classroom just as the bell rings.

During the lesson I find myself distracted again by my attractive female classmates — innocent youthful faces and mature bodies in formal blazers, white blouses, and blue skirts. The more I see, the more I’m convinced I’ve gotten into paradise.

“Arthur, comment trouves-tu notre académie?” My train of thoughts is interrupted by the teacher.

“Bien, j'ai rencontré des gens formidables!” I answer, staring at Victoria Gruson.

Her cheeks instantly flush. Yeah, you’re my sugar babe.

The other noble classmates give me haughty looks, making me feel that I’m a nuisance to them. Oh yes, commoners like me aren’t supposed to be fluent in French. We’re merely expected to lace our conversations with slang and let out the occasional burp.

I spent the last night on the internet trying to understand the roots of this archaic system. The local hierarchy actually makes sense. What I mean is that the nobles are at the top of the food chain in this world. The core military strength of the local realms comes from users of Prana. Interestingly, in the Eastern Empire, the mightiest MWS fighters — Warlords and Berserkers — are born of noble blood. At the more junior levels, like Disciple and Warrior, talented commoners from groups like Imp's and Kali's can still shine and even outdo their noble counterparts. However, as one ages, ascending the ranks becomes a steep climb for three primary reasons: secret family meditations, concealed techniques, and ancestral genomes. Without consistent spiritual practice, it is impossible to reach the Kmet level.

Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

But even if a commoner can break through, a commoner at the Kmet level and a noble at the Kmet level are worlds apart. At the Disciple and Warrior tiers, the scope of abilities is limited: you have your standard mental armor suitable for all styles, enhancements to Prana-boosted strikes, punches, and holds, and a bit of speed acceleration. There are also specialized telekinetic attacks like Air Fist or Energy Hand. Essentially, it’s predominantly physical, with the exception of telekinesis. The flexibility in Prana manipulation is rather limited — you can either focus it on defense or channel it into offense. Any determined individual can achieve significant results. That’s why tenacious commoners often outperform nobles. For instance, Imp emerged as the national champion, and Kali secured bronze in a regional tournament.

Starting at the Kmet level, however, the control over Prana becomes much more nuanced. You can execute Jedi-like feats including fire whirlwinds, controlled explosions, and freezing techniques. Each ancient noble lineage has its own set of secret practices that would utterly overshadow even the most brilliant commoner. Plus, let’s not forget about the ancestral genome — unique abilities passed down through family lines via their genetic code. In essence, it’s a blueprint for creating the perfect soldier.

We have a break. As if sensing it, my phone buzzes in my pocket. I put it to my ear.

“Hello?”

“Demont?” A familiar voice comes through.

“It’s me, Olivia.”

“How did you know?”

Ah, Kali, I’d recognize you among thousands by your eyes and your voice. It’s not that I’m sentimental; we’ve just spent a lot of time side by side in danger.

“How did you get my number?” I ask instead of answering.

“Well…” She hesitates. Does she like me? Cool. “I met your sister by chance. I asked her for it.”

By the way, Helen isn’t bullied by the blonde Kate any more. It seems that her beaten brother told her something, triggering her self-preservation instinct.

“The break is almost over,” I say, glancing at the wall clock. “What did you want?”

“Demont,” she says and pauses, “are you free this weekend?”

Yes! But something is wrong. Maybe I just don’t understand girls, given my limited experience, but her tone sounds like she’s giving me a job to do.

“Olivia, when you ask a guy out, you should use his first name, not just his surname.”

“Listen, Demont!” she snaps. “This is hard enough for me. Just say it — yes or no?”

“Sorry,” I reply, my tone icy because I feel like telling her off. “Maybe I misunderstood? Are you asking me out just to start another fight? Because if so, I am sorry — I have more important things to do.”

“No! Not to fight!” She sighs heavily. “Let’s just hang out... Arthur.”

That’s much better.

“How about Saturday?”

“Yeah, that works.”

“Great. And Olivia...”

“Yes?”

“Don’t expect another kiss from me. You have to earn it.”

I immediately pull the phone away from my ear so as not to go deaf from her shouting.

“Demont! Who do you think you are? You—”

“Sorry, gotta go,” I interrupt hastily. “We’ll sort this out later.”

I end the call and dart into the hall. About ten minutes remain in the lengthy break between classes. Eager to check out the club notices on the bulletin board, I weave my way through the crowd, but halfway there, I come to an abrupt halt. Or rather, something stops me — another hello from the Terryfing World. A shiver runs down my spine. I know this girl very well, but I’ve never seen her in person.

Tall and elegant, she has a cascade of snow-white hair that tumbles down to her curvaceous hips. She stands encircled by a gaggle of giggling girls, each vying for her captivating amber gaze. Her eyes are nothing short of mesmerizing; crescent-shaped black pupils surrounded by strange patterns that clearly denote the imprint of a family genome.

Her name comes to me — Lana Barrow. She bestows her friends with subtle smiles, and every so often graces a comment with a benevolent flutter of her eyelashes. She's the queen of this realm, a fact known to all and palpable even to me. Then it hits me like a ton of bricks, and I'm tempted to smack myself on the forehead. Lana Barrow must be the daughter or granddaughter of Prince Alexander Barrow, the man after whom this school is named. Even this little kingdom bears her name.

Though it’s none of my business, I find myself entranced, simply wanting to admire her pale finely chiseled face and the graceful lines of her shapely hips. I hadn’t realized she'd blossomed into such a stunning beauty. I remember her as a mere child.

She seems to sense my lingering gaze. Tilting her head ever so slightly in my direction, her magical eyes pose an unspoken question. Just then, a voice from behind interrupts my reverie.

“What are you staring at, commoner?”

Great, looks like another test of my mettle is on the way.