I stood at the window of my dormitory room, watching the moonlight cast long shadows across the Academy's courtyard. The night air carried the distant sounds of the city beyond the walls.

A familiar blue window materialized before my eyes:

Name change authorized. Because the teachers, staff, and students of the Kaldos Academy of War have taken to calling you "Widow," You are now permitted to alter your name.

Would you like to change your name to "Widow"?

[Yes] [No]

I paused, considering the implications. Harke's words to Mallie echoed in my fragmented memories, about how names could be changed when someone became known by a different title. The speed of this development surprised me. I'd only arrived at the Academy today. Was this because "No Eyes" wasn't my true name to begin with?

My mechanical fingers tapped against the windowsill as I weighed the decision. "No Eyes" had served its purpose, but now it was a liability. Duke Redflight's men would be searching for a monster by that name. Every notice, every wanted poster, every messenger would spread word about No Eyes, the creature that killed Kolin.

But Widow? A quiet figure in mourning clothes, keeping to themselves? That was different. That was safer.

I selected [Yes].

Name changed successfully. You have been granted the name Widow.

The blue window faded away. Nothing else changed; my mechanical body still whirred softly with each movement, my damaged flesh still ached where it met metal and gears. But somehow, I felt more secure. One more layer between me and those who hunted me. One more step toward my goal of confronting Duke Redflight and avenging Mallie.

I turned from the window, my new name settling over me like the black veil I had worn.

The first rays of sunlight pierced through my window, painting the stone walls in pale orange. I had spent the night performing maintenance on my chassis, the familiar routine of checking gears and joints keeping my thoughts occupied.

A sharp knock interrupted my work.

"Uniforms for you." A short woman with graying hair held out a large wrapped bundle. Her eyes fixed on the wall behind me, avoiding my porcelain mask. Not Lyta; this maid's movements were stiff with age, mechanical in a way mine could never truly match. I thought she was a woman in her 70's, but her pointed ears made me realize my mistake.

"Classroom one-oh-eight, first floor of the main tower. One hour. Don't be late." She thrust the package into my hands and hurried away, her footsteps echoing down the hall.

I unfolded the bundle on my bed, laying out each piece of the uniform. Black jacket with silver buttons, crisp white blouse, knee-length skirt, red cravat, and polished ankle boots. My fingers traced the Academy's crest embroidered on the jacket pocket: two crossed swords below a bull's head.

The maid had given me the female uniform. My first instinct was to chase after her, request the male version with its practical trousers. But I paused, staring at my reflection in the room's small mirror. The porcelain mask stared back, my mechanical parts visible beneath my black mourning dress.

What did gender matter to a being like me? I had no true form beyond what remained of my original body, which was just a head, partial torso, and one arm. The rest was crafted metal and gears.

I lifted the skirt, examining its hem. The package included three pairs of thick black tights that would adequately conceal my mechanical legs. The jacket's long sleeves would hide my metal arm well enough.

My remaining organic hand ran across the fabric. The uniform's quality surprised me. Fine wool for the jacket and skirt, silk for the blouse. Even the cravat was made of expensive material, dyed a deep crimson that matched the Academy's colors.

The skirt would actually make maintenance easier than trousers. I could access my leg joints without removing the entire garment. Perhaps this was for the best.

I questioned the short length of the skirts, though. My memories made it clear that fashion showing off too much leg, whether male or female, was seen as vulgar and obscene. Yet in this school no one seemed to bat an eye. I had spotted numerous female students yesterday and they all wore the uniforms without shame. This was yet another example of my fractured memories not matching current reality.

I slipped into the uniform piece by piece, starting with the white blouse. The silk felt strange against my organic flesh, yet familiar. The skirt settled at my waist, falling just above my knees. The thick black tights concealed the mechanical nature of my legs perfectly, with not a glint of metal showing through the fabric.

The jacket fit snugly across my shoulders, its long sleeves covering most of my mechanical arm. Only my right hand remained exposed, gleaming silver steel and white porcelain against the dark wool. The red cravat proved tricky to tie, but after several attempts I managed a passable knot.

I stepped back from the mirror, taking in my reflection. The uniform transformed me. Gone was the widow in mourning black, replaced by what appeared to be a tall young woman in academic dress. My pale white skin stood out starkly against the dark fabric, almost luminescent in the morning light. The porcelain mask covering my missing eyes gave me an ethereal quality, like a doll come to life.

My height would draw attention. I stood well over six feet tall. But as I'd heard whispered conversations in the marketplace, the people of the southern kingdoms often reached such heights.

I turned slowly, examining how the uniform moved with my mechanical parts. The skirt swished pleasantly, hiding the unnatural smoothness of my leg movements. The jacket's tailoring was impeccable, disguising the seams where flesh met metal at my shoulder.

My long black hair fell past my shoulders, framing the porcelain mask. With my mechanical right hand, I gathered it back and twisted it into a simple knot at my nape. The severe style emphasized my sharp features, making me look more like a stern teacher than a student. I untied it, letting the dark strands fall naturally. There. It looked much more natural that way.

The overall effect was... unsettling. I looked almost human. Almost normal. If not for the mask, the metal hand, and my unnaturally pale complexion, I could have passed for any other Academy student.

I stepped into the common area, my new boots clicking against the polished wooden floor. The chatter died instantly. Twenty pairs of eyes locked onto me, conversations freezing mid-sentence.

A group of sapien girls huddled around a plush couch stopped braiding each other's hair. Two elven students paused their card game, cards hovering inches above the table. Near the window, a dwarf girl's teacup clinked against its saucer as her hand trembled.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the soft ticking of a grandfather clock in the corner. I kept my pace steady, mechanical legs carrying me smoothly across the room. My skirt swished with each step, the sound impossibly loud in the stillness.

"Is that... a monster?" One girl whispered, not quite soft enough.

"In our dorm?" Another replied.

"Look at its hand!"

I reached up to adjust my cravat, deliberately letting my porcelain fingers catch the morning light. Several girls gasped. A few shifted away as I passed, pressing themselves against the walls.

The common room seemed to stretch endlessly, though I knew it was only thirty feet across. Each step felt like walking through mud, the weight of their stares making my joints stick.

When I finally reached the door, giggles erupted behind me. Sharp, mocking laughter that reminded me of marketplace children pointing at beggars. I paused, my organic hand resting on the doorknob.

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"Did you see its mask?"

"Like a creepy doll!"

"Can't believe they're letting things like that in here."

My fingers tightened on the knob, the metal groaning under my grip. I forced myself to relax, remembering the innkeeper's words about controlling my strength. Without turning around, I opened the door and stepped through.

Their laughter followed me down the stairs, echoing off the stone walls. I frowned behind my mask, but kept walking. Their mockery meant nothing. I was here to learn, to grow stronger. To avenge Mallie.

I stopped at the bottom of the flight, the realization hitting me. The dormitory that I had been assigned to; it was meant for female students. Lyta had placed me here assuming I was a woman, likely due to my widow's disguise.

My organic hand touched the porcelain mask covering my ruined eyes. Gender meant nothing to me; I was neither male nor female. But the other students wouldn't understand that. To them, I was an oddity, a monster trying to pass as human. My presence in their dormitory would only cause more tension.

A group of students descended the stairs behind me, their voices dropping to whispers as they spotted me. They gave me a wide berth, pressing against the wall to avoid brushing against my mechanical parts. Their fear and disgust were palpable.

I wondered if I should ask Lyta to be switched to a male dormitory. Would I be treated better there? Somehow, I doubted it. From my experience, at least since I crawled out of the ground, despite their differences, men and women were mostly the same. They could be cruel if they wanted, or be kind as they needed.

I took a deep breath (though I did not need to breathe) and continued down the stairs. Those girls' behavior hurt, but it was no different from my first day with the villagers of Weath. When I had first arrived at the village, they had hated and distrusted me. But after time and some work, I managed to win them over, so much so that they considered me one of their own now. It would be the same here. I would show the students and faculty of this Academy that I wasn't just some monster; I was as human as any of them.

No. I would be more human than they were. That would be the best way for me to gain their acceptance.

I entered Room 108, my boots silent against the stone floor. The classroom was smaller than expected, with rows of wooden desks crammed together facing a large chalkboard. Morning light streamed through tall windows, casting long shadows across the room.

Bethani Morne sat near one of those windows, her silver hair gleaming. A cluster of students surrounded her desk, hanging on her every word. Their excited chatter filled the air with talk of her home and magical abilities. She smiled and nodded, but I noticed tension in her shoulders, a hint of strain around her eyes.

Barkatus occupied a desk in the front row, his muscular frame barely contained by the Academy uniform. The former mercenary tugged at his collar, clearly unused to such formal attire. His scarred hands looked strange gripping a quill instead of a sword.

At the back of the room stood Arctur, the massive lizardman's head nearly brushing the ceiling. He'd managed to get the uniform on somehow, though the buttons strained across his chest and the sleeves ended well above his wrists. No desk could accommodate his size, so he simply stood, arms crossed, watching the other students with unblinking reptilian eyes.

I chose a desk near the back doors, positioning myself where I could observe everyone while maintaining a clear path to exit if needed. My mechanical parts whirred softly as I sat, the sound drawing a few curious glances. I ignored them, laying my hands to rest atop the desk. My porcelain and steel right hand earned a lot of curious glances. Let them look. Let them wonder.

The classroom filled with the rustle of papers and quiet conversations. Some students cast furtive glances at the three of us: the two monsters and the old man in his thirties. We were outsiders here, each in our own way. But we had earned our places through combat, just as the Academy demanded.

Twenty minutes crawled by as students trickled in. The room filled with chatter and the scrape of chairs against stone floors. Even with thirty-seven of us, the classroom felt cramped, especially with Arctur's towering presence in the back.

Professor Shawe strode through the door, his scarlet robes swishing. Behind him walked a tall, rail-thin man in dark blue robes. I activated Analyze.

Milton Haynes

Level 20 Bookman

Sapien (Human)

Male

Age: 45

"Quiet down," Shawe's voice cut through the noise. He gestured to the man beside him. "This is Milton Haynes. He'll be recording your information for Academy records. Have your invitations ready."

Haynes settled himself at the front desk, opening an enormous leather-bound ledger. His long fingers arranged ink pots and quills with methodical precision.

"When I call your name, present your invitation and state your information clearly," Shawe said, producing a list. "Antonius Souls the Third..." He paused, his lip curling. "Strike that. Barkatus of Vokkheim."

Barkatus rose from his seat, his chair scraping loudly. He approached the desk with the invitation he'd claimed from the prince's dismembered body. As Haynes scratched away in his ledger, recording Barkatus's details, I traced my fingers along Mallie's invitation in my pocket. The parchment felt worn, its edges softened from frequent handling during my journey here.

The process continued methodically. Bethani Morne floated up when called, her every movement graceful. Even Haynes paused in his writing to stare as she presented a royal seal along with her invitation. Apparently, Antonius Souls wasn't the only member of royalty in attendance at the entrance ceremony.

Arctur's turn came, his massive form casting a shadow over Haynes's desk as he carefully handed over his documents.

I watched each student's interaction, noting how Haynes recorded their information with varying degrees of interest. The scratching of his quill against parchment became a constant backdrop to the morning, punctuated only by Shawe's sharp voice calling the next name.

"Malladay of Weath."

I rose from my desk, the mechanical joints in my legs whirring softly. The invitation felt heavy in my hand as I approached the front desk. Haynes held out his hand expectantly, but Shawe's eyes narrowed behind his spectacles.

"This is preposterous." Shawe's lip curled as he looked me up and down. My uniform and porcelain mask reflected in his glasses. "You expect us to believe you're Malladay of Weath?"

I placed the invitation on Haynes's desk. The bookkeeper's quill hovered over the ledger, uncertain.

"Obviously, you're not her." Shawe snatched up the invitation before Haynes could take it. "What did you do, kill the poor common girl to steal her place here?"

My porcelain hand clenched into a fist. The gears in my arm ground together as rage built inside me. Memories of Mallie's bright smile flashed through my mind, of her gap-toothed grin as she showed me her archery, of her optimism even in chains, and her final moments in Weath.

The classroom had gone silent. Every eye was on us, watching this confrontation between professor and student. I forced my mechanical fingers to unclench, one by one.

No.

My mental voice felt cold as ice as it settled into their minds.

I didn't kill Mallie. I killed the bastards who murdered her.

Gasps echoed through the room, gasps of both shock and dread. Whether that was from the words I spoke or the Mind Speech being used, I did not know. Shawe's face drained of color as he took an involuntary step back. Even Haynes's quill stopped scratching.

There was a moment of tense silence before the Bookman spoke up. "Well, to the victor go the spoils, as they say," the thin man said with a smile. "Killing the original owner of the invitation isn't without precedence, nor is killing the killer, as you did, miss. I see nothing wrong with this admittance."

Haynes smiled at me and I felt somewhat ill. He spoke so casually of murder, as it were a common, every day occurrence for him. Perhaps it was.

"Now, would you mind if I used Analyze to fill out your record?" He asked me, as he did so for the other students before me. I nodded.

I stood before Haynes's desk as his eyes flickered with the telltale glow of Analyze. His quill scratched against the parchment, recording my information.

"Widow... level 12... Dirtborn..." He paused, his eyebrows rising slightly. "Interesting. Your age reads as... zero years?"

Shawe's head snapped up at that, but Haynes continued writing without missing a beat.

"Gender: None." He frowned. "How peculiar."

The scratching of his quill filled the silence as he documented every detail from my status screen. Each word he wrote made Shawe's face darken further.

"And where do you hail from originally?" Haynes asked, dipping his quill in fresh ink.

I froze. I couldn't mention Weath or the Lodrik Hellzone, not with Duke Redflight's men hunting for Kolin's killer. My mechanical fingers twitched as I considered my options.

The Central Hellzone, I projected into their minds.

A soft, sharp hiss cut through the air behind me. I turned slightly, catching Arctur's reptilian eyes fixed on me. His scaled face had twisted into a glare, claws digging into his palms as he made a fist.

"Very well." Haynes added this final detail to his ledger. "You may return to your seat."

I walked back to my desk, feeling Arctur's gaze burning into my back. Shawe called the next student forward, his voice tight with barely contained disgust.

Haynes gathered his papers and quills, nodding to each of us before departing. The door clicked shut behind him, leaving us with Professor Shawe's imposing presence.

"Now then." Shawe's boots clicked against the stone floor as he moved to the front of the room. "It's time for your first test."

My mechanical fingers flexed beneath my desk. Around me, students shifted in their seats.

"The Academy requires an evaluation of your combat abilities." Shawe's eyes swept across the room, lingering a moment longer on me. "This assessment determines your educational path here."

He turned and drew three letters on the blackboard: A, B, and C.

"You will be sorted into these ranks based on your performance. B rank represents our standard curriculum." The chalk tapped against the middle letter. "These students follow the traditional course of study."

Barkatus leaned forward in his seat, his scarred hands clasped before him.

"A rank students." Shawe's voice carried a note of reverence. "These exceptional few receive advanced, accelerated instruction. They are our elite."

Several noble-born students straightened their backs, already certain of their placement.

"And C rank." His lip curled slightly. "These students require remedial training in basic combat fundamentals. They must prove themselves worthy of advancement."

The chalk scraped against the board as he underlined each letter. "You will be reassessed every four months. Your rank can change based on your progress, or lack thereof."

I analyzed the implications. Regular testing meant regular opportunities to advance, but also the risk of demotion. The system seemed designed to keep students constantly striving, constantly competing.

My Assembly ability had proven useful in combat before, but would it be enough here? I thought of the mechanical upgrades I'd made to my chassis, the careful integration of mana channels. Everything would be tested soon.

"The combat evaluation begins in one hour," Shawe announced. "Report to the training grounds. Dismissed."

Students rose from their desks, some hurrying to prepare while others moved with confident swagger. I stood more slowly, my joints whirring softly as I contemplated what lay ahead.

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