Knock! Knock!
"Arkwright here."
"Oh, Lucien, you're finally here. Come in, come in."
Lucien opened the door.
His steps were firm, but in his heart, he was already prepared for a slaughter. Life experience had taught him one thing: when your superior calls you in, it's rarely for a raise.
And this wasn't an office—it was a guillotine draped in antique furniture and the faint scent of cinnamon.
The dean sat behind a polished oak desk, a mountain of flesh in academic robes. His hands were tearing into honey-glazed chicken with a savagery that would offend both dining etiquette and religion.
Lucien said nothing. No need. One look was enough to remind him that this man wanted him gone.
"Ah, I waited long enough. I thought Mireille might've gotten distracted and forgotten to tell you," the dean said, gesturing to the seat.
"She nearly did," Lucien replied, pulling out a guest chair that looked more expensive than everything in his office combined.
The dean chuckled. "Don't let it bother you, alright? The girl's a bit much, but she means well."
He wiped his mouth and hands with a napkin.
"So... how was your first day with Class 1-F? Ms. Crowne gave me her version. I must say, your new approach is... creative."
News really did travel fast, huh.
"Something wrong with my 'new' approach?"
"No, no," the dean raised his hands and shake his head. "St. Eliria cherishes methodological freedom. Even the royal family can't meddle with academics."
"But Crowne still counts as royalty, doesn't she?"
The dean shrugged. "Some people live in the past. We talk about the present here."
Lucien caught the scent in the air. And it didn't smell like diplomacy.
"Let's get to the point, Lucien," said the dean, leaning back with deliberate grandeur. "For the upcoming monthly evaluation, I want you to make sure Althea Crowne fails."
"Any reason for that?"
The dean chuckled. "Do you need one?"
"You're asking me to ruin a sixteen-year-old's life. A little clarity seems fair, don't you think?"
The dean burst out laughing. "Lucien, Lucien... the rumors about you and Celeste are entertaining, but if they're infecting your speech, I'll have to intervene."
"There's nothing going on between us."
"Shame," the dean sighed. "I do enjoy a tragic romance."
He leaned back, fingers steepled.
"How about this. I'll consider writing you a recommendation letter. Other institutions would be lucky to have you. Not St. Eliria, of course. But still, a career."
"So no matter what I do, I'm getting kicked out."
"You didn't actually think you still had a chance here, did you?"
Lucien exhaled. He had, unfortunately. Maybe he was too arrogant—thinking he could be the first to rebel and win.
"The evaluation is still seven days away."
"Only seven days away," the dean corrected. "Lucien, you're a smart man. But let's not kid ourselves—there's no magic in this world that turns a fool into a genius in a week. If there was, I'd have built an entire faculty around it."
His laughter was longer this time. Colder.
Then it faded, replaced by a much softer—and much more dangerous—tone.
"So. Be a good boy, and do what your old friend here asks, alright?"
Lucien said nothing.
He had faced death before. But dealing with men like this? Far more revolting.
*#*
Thanks to the dean (and Mireille), Lucien hadn't even had a sip of coffee.
Not because he forgot, but because someone—well, two actually—decided his life was going a bit too smoothly. Blonde hair and a bloated ego immediately came to mind.
Now, with a heavy head, stinging eyes, and time slipping away, he was already ten minutes late for class.
As he passed through the corridor, Lucien noticed students exchanging whispers.
"Another one bites the dust, huh?"
"Serves him right. Trying to act all smart."
"St. Eliria's never short on talent. If he gets canned, maybe he deserved it."
They snickered.
Lucien ignored them.
Until he heard a thud, followed by raised voices.
"Ugh!"
"Hey!"
"What?"
One student, clearly pissed, stood blocking a girl—Althea Crowne. Her face showed no guilt, no apology. Just that same empty look, as if the person in front of her wasn't worth her attention.
"You think you can bump into me and just walk away?"
"If I did it on purpose, you wouldn't be standing."
Lucien stepped out from behind a pillar. His voice flat.
"Althea Crowne."
Althea turned. Her tone was all bite. "What now, Professor? Here to tell me to apologize? Trying to earn pity points from the class in a desperate PR move?"
"You're over ten minutes late. Where were you going?"
"I could ask the same, Professor. Where were you?"
"I had something to do."
"So did I. Only I'm being honest here—skipping a useless class."
She turned to leave, but Lucien instinctively grabbed her wrist.
"Ms. Crowne—are you sure about this? Skipping class will only leave you further behind."
She slapped his hand away. Her eyes glared like he'd touched her with filth.
"Behind? Behind who? That funeral train you call a classroom? I'd rather walk to hell."
And off she went.
The students who'd been gossiping earlier bristled, unsure whether to chime in. One of them suddenly grew polite:
"Well, we'll get going now. Have a nice day, Professor."
Lucien wasn't sure if he should be irritated or impressed.
*#*
The classroom was empty.
Not just physically—but spiritually.
Lucien was beginning to understand what Althea meant.
This wasn't a funeral train—it was a train that had already crashed.
In other schools, a late teacher would find students waiting with books open.
Here? No one showed up.
Correction, there's one actually.
A girl with glasses and dark hair. Clarisse Vientrel, offering a wry little smile.
"I'm not in the wrong room, am I?" Lucien asked.
"Oh no, Professor. It's just that the others... well..."
"I understand," Lucien replied, placing his book on the desk.
Another student arrived.
A boy with messy silver hair and piercings. No tie, no ID badge.
Any other teacher might've struggled to identify him.
Lucien didn't.
Roy Bellvace.
"Wait, I'm not late, am I?"
"You're late, Mr. Bellvace. Now take a seat. We're starting."
"Seriously?" Roy looked around at the empty chairs.
Then he shrugged and sat.
Lucien rested his chin on his hand, his thoughts running wild.
The dean's warning echoed in his mind.
Lucien Arkwright, the useless professor of the most hopeless class in St. Eliria.
Welcome to the peak of your career.