Chapter 3: The Class of Misfits

Heavenly Pillar Academy.

A colossal structure standing at the edge of the abyss, its towering form stretching three miles into the sky. The academy was built upon sacred land, its foundations carved into the very cliffs that loomed over an infinite darkness—a reminder of what lay beneath those who strayed too far from the light.

At the academy’s peak, saints and scholars debated divine law. In its halls, warriors trained in the ways of celestial combat. And far, far below—carved into the very cliffside—was a classroom.

The Misfit Class.

The room was dimly lit, its walls lined with ancient inscriptions that pulsed faintly with energy. But the students inside? They were anything but sacred.

A group of hulking men in the corner were engaged in an all-out brawl, slamming each other into desks while roaring like wild beasts. A silver-haired woman with demonic horns sat on top of her desk, casually blowing cigarette smoke into the air. Several students lounged about, flipping through forbidden texts or adjusting their enchanted weapons.

And then, in the back—near the window—two figures sat side by side, completely unbothered by the madness around them.

The young man leaned back in his chair, his red hair catching the faint light as he absentmindedly spun a dagger between his fingers. His white uniform, resembling something from a military academy, was customized—the sleeves had been ripped off, exposing a muscular arm adorned with an intricate tattoo of an archangel wielding a flaming sword.

He sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Another transfer student? Seriously?” His voice was smooth but carried an edge of exhaustion. “This class is already a damn circus.”

The young woman beside him, by contrast, looked completely relaxed. She wasn’t wearing a uniform like the others. Instead, she was wrapped in a thick, puffy coat, her long black hair draping over her shoulders. Her expression was neutral, but her sharp features and piercing eyes gave her an undeniable beauty.

She yawned. “I just hope he’s hot.”

The red-haired man paused, looking at her with pure disbelief. “...That’s your priority?”

She shrugged. “What? We’re underground. It’s dark and depressing. I need something nice to look at.”

Before he could reply, the classroom door creaked open.

Instantly, the entire room froze.

A suffocating pressure flooded the space, sending a wave of nausea through the students. It wasn’t divine energy. It wasn’t battle aura.

It was negative karma.

The sheer weight of suffering pressed against their very souls, as if they were suddenly drowning in a sea of sins and whispers of the damned.

A slow, casual set of footsteps echoed against the stone floor.

And then—he walked in.

Azar.

His presence was effortless chaos. He wore a simple black hoodie and dark jeans, his hands shoved casually into his pockets. His white mask—marked by a single red line over the right eye and adorned with a single curved horn—concealed his face entirely. Long black hair with strands of silver swayed as he stepped forward, untouched by the eerie atmosphere he carried.

And trailing behind him was the faintest purple aura, curling in the air like smoke—whispers of the Judgment Robe’s power.

Silence.

No one moved.

No one spoke.

Even the fighting students stopped mid-punch, their instincts screaming at them to not get involved.

The red-haired young man furrowed his brows, instinctively gripping his dagger. He could tell, immediately, that Azar wasn’t normal.

The woman beside him, however, grinned.

“Oh. He’s hot.”