Michael arrived early to his ancient languages lesson, only to find several unfamiliar students already waiting inside. Judging by the azure markings stitched along the inner lining of their robes, they were second-years.

The moment he stepped in, conversations hushed. A few pairs of eyes followed him, and then came the whispers.

"That's the guy…"

"I heard he's a maniac."

Michael's brows furrowed, catching fragments of hushed voices—each one about him. His stomach sank. So the rumor's already spread.

At first, he assumed Braydon was behind it, but he quickly dismissed the thought. There was no way Braydon would admit to losing consciousness in front of his own cronies, not unless someone dragged it out of him under torture.

Was it Magnus? he wondered, sliding into a seat along the edge of the classroom, middle row. From there, he'd have a clear view of the room while keeping his back partially guarded. But what would he gain from spreading this?

The uncertainty gnawed at him, and with neither Rudy nor Melody at his side, the unease grew heavier. Surrounded by second-years—a year older, sharper, and armed with an entire extra year of Arcadia's elite education—he felt like prey in a den of predators.

Breathe.

He forced himself to settle, controlling his rhythm as more students trickled in. The room filled steadily, the scrape of chairs and quiet chatter blending into a low hum.

It wasn't long before he noticed the mix: first-years scattered between second-years, a sign this was a combined class. He spotted a few familiar faces among the first-years, though none he'd ever spoken to. None who would stand beside him if things turned ugly.

Still, luck—or something close to it—was on his side. No one approached. He sat alone at the edge of the class, the empty space around him almost comforting. Without distractions, he could focus on what mattered: understanding the ancient language curriculum… and, more importantly, discovering which language the mysterious items in his storage ring used.

But then the door creaked open.

A large figure stepped inside—a broad-shouldered teen whose frame stretched the seams of his azure-lined robe. Michael's gaze froze on the mop of curly brown hair atop his head, and a cold weight settled in his gut.

No… it can't be.

Even from across the room, the resemblance was unmistakable. Randolph Bishop's features were carved into this boy's face.

His brother?

Michael swallowed hard, tension prickling beneath his skin. The teen was massive, far too large for someone who was supposed to be fourteen. The kind of size born from both genetics and relentless training.

Then the boy's gaze swept the room, landing squarely on Michael.

Recognition flared.

Without hesitation, the burly second-year turned and strode directly toward him, his boots striking the stone floor in steady, deliberate beats. The air thickened as whispers rippled outward, growing louder until they filled the room.

By the time the teen stopped beside Michael, the chatter had swelled to a low crescendo. The boy's towering frame blocked out the light behind him, his sharp features cast into shadow. His eyes, cold and unblinking, bore down like slabs of stone.

"Are you Michael?" he asked, his voice deep and edged with frost, each word deliberate.

Michael tilted his chin up to meet the gaze, steadying his own breath. Against his expectations, his reply came out calmer than he'd thought possible.

"Who's asking?"

The teen sneered, thin lips curling as his white teeth flashed. "Quite arrogant for a commoner," he said coldly. "To speak so boldly to the heir of the Bishop family… it seems the rumors are true after all."

A heavy slam followed as his palm struck the table, the sharp crack reverberating off the stone walls. The sound silenced the room instantly, whispers dying mid-breath as every head turned toward them.

As I thought… Randolph's older brother, Michael concluded, his mind already racing. The resemblance was there—the same curly brown hair, the sharp features—but in every other way, the two were opposites. Randolph was lean and unremarkable; this one was built like a fortress.

"What do you want?" Michael asked, forcing the tension from his voice and swallowing the sharp retort that burned on his tongue.

He expected yelling, more intimidation, maybe even a direct threat. But instead, the burly teen leaned forward, lowering his voice until only Michael could hear.

"I'd be very careful from now on…" he murmured, a crooked smile ghosting his lips. "My family doesn't take insults lightly."

Michael met his gaze, unflinching. Then, loud enough for the entire class to hear, he said, "If you're going to hit me, I'd rather you get it over with. Smelling your breath up close is worse than torture."

Scattered laughter erupted from the crowd—short, nervous bursts quickly strangled by tension.

The second-year stiffened, his cold expression hardening further, like ice settling over his features. "Quite the mouth on you," he said, straightening to his full height. "Let's hope your body's as tough as your words."

The warning was thinly veiled but unmistakable. Even a casual onlooker could see it—this wasn't an idle threat. The Bishop family had just drawn a line in the sand.

The silence in the room stretched taut, heavy with unspoken challenges.

"And let's hope your threats are stronger than your brother's bladder," Michael shot back, a wicked grin pulling at his lips before he could stop himself.

This time, the tension snapped. Whispers surged through the students like wildfire, buzzing with disbelief and anticipation. The jab hit its mark—the boy's complexion darkened, his jaw clenched tight enough to grind stone.

"Absolute nonsense," the teen hissed, fists trembling as his knuckles whitened. "How dare you insinuate such a thing? I'll end your existence…"

The last words rumbled from his throat, low and guttural. Several nearby students actually flinched, a ripple of unease running through the room.

"Everyone, take your seats," a firm voice commanded from the front. The double doors swung shut with a deep thud. "Troy, that means you too."

The professor's arrival shifted the mood instantly, though Troy Bishop—Randolph's brother—barely reacted, his furious glare locked on Michael.

"Mr. Bishop," the professor said sharply, voice cutting through the murmurs, "if I have to ask again, I'll move you myself."

For a long moment, Troy didn't move, his breath coming in heavy, controlled bursts. Then, with one last icy glare, he turned on his heel and stalked toward the back of the class.

Michael exhaled slowly, shoulders easing only slightly. The whispers gradually died down, but the tension lingered like static in the air.

Me and my big mouth…

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