Zephyr groggily woke up and stared at the glass ceiling of the dorm in silence. Back on Earth, he had a habit—every ti he woke, he’d lie there and stare blankly at the ceiling, letting his mind drift in silence. It was a strange comfort, a mont of stillness before facing the world. Now, it was the sa—but instead of plaster or concrete above, it was crystal-clear glass and a sky that bled purple.
He turned his head sideways and blinked slowly. The dorm, once filled with soft chatter and movent, was now noticeably quieter. Only boys remained. His confusion lasted just a second—until the large double doors at the far end of the dorm creaked open and out ca the girls, wet-haired, towels around their shoulders, chatting and giggling.
Realization hit—morning bath rotation.
Without another thought, Zephyr sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, only to pause. At the foot of his bed, marked clearly with the number 50, was a small black box. Sleek and almost reflective, it sat there quietly, unnoticed since last night. Curious, he reached out and placed his palm on the top.
Click.
The box gave a gentle chanical sound as it unlocked, followed by a faint hiss as cold air swept over his feet like a ghost. Inside was a neatly organized kit— a rolled towel, mint-green shampoo, sleek black toothbrush and toothpaste, soap in a hardened glass casing, and even small bottles of face and body wash. It was cold to the touch, likely refrigerated to keep it fresh.
Zephyr blinked in slight awe—this academy was still ridiculous.
Grabbing the essentials, he followed the sluggish trail of boys all making their way toward the bathhouse doors. Everyone looked half-awake, dragging feet and mumbling under their breaths. It wasn’t just him—morning fatigue had its grip on the whole dorm.
Behind the wide twin doors was the bathhouse.
Steam drifted lazily across the tiled floor like wandering spirits, and water rushed endlessly from stone dragon mouths sculpted into the walls. The place was huge—faintly echoing with the sound of falling water and tired conversation. So boys were already inside, shampooing their hair or leaning against the smooth walls of the communal bath, trying to wake up. The air was thick with warmth and lavender-like aroma, probably infused into the steam.
There was harmony here, red hair of Demios, dust gold hair of DuskFall clan, purple-black of UmbraFen, purple hair of boys in the royal family, vermilion clan murky yellow hair. They were no separation here, everybody were defined by one term— Boys.
Above them, through the translucent do of the dorm’s ceiling, the sky stretched in endless shades of hallowed purple. It wasn’t the deep purple of night nor the gentle blue of daybreak, but sothing in between—an hour where the stars were fading, but the sun hadn’t yet claid the sky. Soft glimrs of starlight still clung faintly to the glass surface, reflections dancing like whispers of dreams not yet gone.
Zephyr sighed under his breath.
For all the chaos, all the hate and the harshness this place had thrown at him, there were still these brief, quiet monts—fragile and untouched—where even a place like this felt almost... peaceful, like the guys forgot to hate.
Zephyr quickly found an empty spot on the bench, set down his toiletries, and squeezed a line of toothpaste onto his brush. He began scrubbing his teeth, half-listening to the groggy conversations around him. The warm steam clung to his skin, and despite the fatigue in his muscles, the bathhouse’s heat was slowly loosening his stiffness. When he finished brushing, he rinsed his mouth, placed his toothbrush back into his towel, and made his way toward the steaming pool of water.
Without ceremony, he slid into the water, still in his underwear—as did the other boys around him. No one spoke of it, but it was silently agreed upon. Even in a place like this, modesty was still a thing. The water was hot and welcoming, and the tension in his shoulders gradually faded. He sat for a while in silence, just breathing, allowing himself the luxury of warmth. It was one of the rare monts his mind wasn’t spinning with thoughts of betrayal or survival.
Once he’d soaked long enough, Zephyr stepped out, water dripping from his fra, and dried himself off quickly. Wrapping the towel around his waist, he left the bathhouse, body warm and senses awake.
Back in the dorm, the main sleeping hall was quieter now. So girls were gathered around the kitchen preparing sothing, while so were focused on their phone—probablywatching sothing funny as they released giggles once in a while. Only the boys remained, most of them still scattered or chatting in small groups. But Zephyr didn’t linger. He noticed a group heading through a labeled archway on the side—Dressing Wing—and silently followed.
He walked down the short corridor until he reached a row of numbered dressing rooms. His eyes scanned the doors until he found it —50
He stepped inside.
The room was modest but clean, softly lit by a rectangular ceiling light that gave off a white-blue glow. Three black cases rested neatly on a tal table near the wall. One looked like a normal chest, the second was shaped like a sleek guitar case, and the third resembled a long, ornate jewelry box.
Curious, Zephyr approached the largest one first. With a faint click, it opened, and inside, folded with care, was his uniform.
He peeled off his damp underwear, tossed it in a nearby chute, and reached for the dry pair neatly folded at the bottom of the box. Then, rembering the cooling lotion from his bedside kit, he retrieved it, applied it across his body, and began to dress.
First the black pants—slim-fitting, tailored to his build. Then ca the stark white shirt, crisp and cold to the touch. He buttoned it slowly, slipping the dark red tie into place with a tug. The boots were dark leather, polished to a dull shine and heavy when he stepped. The final piece was the trench coat—dark with crimson lining, slightly militaristic in style, and long enough to reach his calves. When he slid his arms through the sleeves and let it fall into place, he felt heavier, grounded. Then ca the final touch: the black hat with a silver insignia stitched into the front. He placed it on his head and stepped in front of the full-length mirror.
He stared at himself.
The boy in the reflection didn’t look broken or discarded. He looked like soone with weight. A quiet edge.
But it wasn’t over.
His eyes drifted to the guitar case. He unlatched it slowly, and as the lid opened, he felt sothing cold and reverent in the air. Nestled inside black foam was his weapon.
His scythe— Requiem.
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