CHAPTER 773: NO MERCY FOR THE WEAKLINGS

After watching a flustered Desmond bolt out of the common hall, Adam grabbed a slice of bread slathered with red jam that smelled like strawberry, rhubarb, and currant. Then, he winked at Quintella, mouthing, "I’ll watch you train."

Now that she had left his side, students already surrounded her. With her cute naïveté, older students nodded with smiles as her eyes sometimes widened, or her cheeks puffed after a doubtful joke. They seemed to have already adopted her as a peer in the House of Exorcism, and she was slowly accepting them even though her eyes darted to him every few seconds. It warmed his heart.

Between two students’ questions, she gave him a quick nod, and he left the common hall for the training grounds.

Illuminated by the sun’s bright rays, the campus bustled with teenagers scurrying to different buildings. He saw students of the House of Invocation, their horned mask emblems shimmering on their uniforms, enter through a silver spire. The students of the House of Transmutation, with the serpent devouring its own tail drawing a golden circle on their chests, entered either labs or greenhouses. Finally, he noticed Trevor and the oldest students of the House of Exorcism heading to a somber building at the back.

Intrigued, he lingered for a moment to observe. From the outside, he could only describe the place as a haunted manor. It was isolated, the windows barred with planks that had once reflected sunlight but were now dull, cracked, and covered in green moss. But their oldness wasn’t what struck him. Instead, he felt as if whatever happened in this building was meant to remain inside, that the planks were tools to contain light and sounds.

Through the open door, dust billowed like a storm around a man taller than him. His blonde ponytail fluttered along with the sides of his dark scarf as his fiery green eyes settled on the approaching group.

Adam recognised the man. It all made sense if it was Salem Draal Zephros’s demonology and forbidden rituals classroom. For a moment, he wanted to scout the building, perhaps even sneak into class.

Before realising it, he was already walking toward the manor, but froze mid-step. Next year—Salem’s words. With a begrudging sigh, he turned and followed the sea of younger students headed to where grass faded into beaten earth.

Sitting at the edge, he surveyed the training devices and the youths wearing expressions too tense for their age. He understood why when a sharp noise burst from the college’s central building and Quintella, Sarah, and their new friends stepped onto the training grounds.

As soon as the alarm that signalled classes had started rang, a crystalline voice echoed from behind a row of pull-up bars. "Humph. I see the weaklings from last year need more of my training—or is it that you came to love it?"

Shadows squirmed upward, weaving themselves into a curvaceous silhouette. Boys gulped, and girls gasped, yet they all trembled the next second—a habit ingrained into their very bones by this lady.

Adam watched silvery plates shatter the shadows, each part glistening like a polished mirror, that covered a generous chest. He didn’t know if the lady considered armor a piece of fashion or had her own understanding of defense, but she wore no shoulder guards or bracers. Instead, the smooth skin of her arms lay bare beneath the sky as she raised them.

SLASH

Her dark purple hair fluttered as she smashed her arms down, two shadowy whips carving deep trenches into the ground.

Silence instantly descended amidst the students. They took a difficult gulp, knowing the torture would continue this year.

"I won’t tolerate latecomers, much less slackers." She adjusted the broad red frame of her extravagant glasses. "The only answer I await from you, weaklings, is ’Yes, teacher Grimhilde.’ If you understand, run twenty laps to warm up!"

She whipped the ground again, the shrill noise kicking off the panicked scrambling of the students.

Adam nodded at her educational style. After all, Julius and Arun could barely walk after he trained them years ago. Still, he couldn’t help but cast a worried glance at Quintella. Without prior training, two laps, three if Grimhilde pushed her, were her limits. Twenty? Not a chance.

That’s what he came to see, both as a big brother and the self-proclaimed best trainer. Would Grimhilde adapt her training to her students’ capabilities, or would she stick to her programme without caring about their health?

Fingers tucked around his chin, he watched Sarah drag Quintella, screaming in a strangled voice, "Run!"

Quintella’s pink eyes widened, hair whipping against her face as she began her first lap. "W-What? We’re starting already? I thought we would introduce ourselves to the scary lady—"

"Don’t waste energy talking." Sarah cut her off, releasing Quintella’s hand. "No matter what, don’t stop running. You hear me? Even if your legs ache and you feel like you’re breathing fire, don’t stop!"

"G-Got it." Quintella stuttered, confused, but trusting Sarah, whose speed began to pick up.

In less than a minute, she was already half a lap behind Sarah, which made her bite her lip. It felt humiliating, especially when a boy overtook her twice. Should she try to catch up? But Adam had told her that the most important part of training was to reach the end, even if it took time.

She shook her head and continued at her pace. Slowly, her lungs began to scream, each breath like swallowing knives, but she held on. One lap, two laps. On the third, her legs felt like jelly. She knew she would collapse soon, but she wanted to finish this one—to give her very best. To make Adam proud.

However, that’s when everything descended into chaos.

SLASH

"ARGH!"

A dull thud followed the wail from behind her. Someone sobbed, their knees grinding into the dirt. She slowed, hair sticking to her forehead, head snapping back.

"Don’t stop!" It wasn’t Sarah’s but Adam’s voice this time.

Without thinking, she picked up her pace—just as Grimhilde sneered.

"Recruits become weaker with each passing year." Her voice was like poison poured into a honey jar. She licked her lips. "That’s what I like most. Twenty-five laps for you. My whips will find your back if you walk or halt again."

’He’s barely eight or nine.’ Adam’s fingers tightened around his chin, his eyes narrowing past the bleeding back of the kid, on Grimhilde’s figure, verdict set in stone. Not a teacher. Not a trainer—a sadistic madwoman.

If she dared to raise her whips against Quintella... War braziers ignited in his eyes.