Chapter 4: A Warm Welcome

Azar stood at the front of the classroom, hands still lazily stuffed into his hoodie pockets. The overwhelming negative karma radiating from him made the room feel ten degrees colder.

The students, once rowdy and full of themselves, were now eerily silent. Some looked disgusted. Others clenched their fists, ready for a fight. And a few? A few just stared at him like he was some walking anomaly—which, to be fair, he was.

Azar tilted his head slightly, his mask shifting ever so slightly as if he were grinning beneath it.

"Yo," he greeted casually. "Name’s Azar. I like long walks, conversations with my friends, and chocolate ice cream. Looking forward to spending the next six years with you guys."

Silence.

Then—

SLAM.

The classroom door swung open violently, and a figure stepped in, radiating authority.

It was the Instructor of the Misfit Class—a towering man with gray-streaked black hair, sharp golden eyes, and a scar running down his left cheek. His long coat billowed behind him as he entered, arms crossed over his chest. His presence alone seemed to stabilize the energy in the room, making even the most unruly students sit up straight.

His gaze landed on Azar, and for a moment, the air tensed. Then, with a sigh, the instructor pinched the bridge of his nose.

"So it really is you," he muttered before turning to face the class. "Listen up, you degenerates. I’m only gonna say this once, so get it through your thick skulls."

He stepped forward, his boots echoing against the stone floor.

"This is Azar. Some of you might’ve heard the rumors. If not, let me give you a proper briefing on who you're dealing with."

A sharp wave of his hand, and a golden screen formed behind him, displaying images of devastated landscapes, drained corpses, and towns reduced to eerie, lifeless husks.

Murmurs erupted through the classroom.

"The so-called Cultist of Neferifa—a man responsible for thousands of sacrifices, one of the most notorious figures in the last century. Captured by two high-ranking saints and thrown into the most secure prison in our realm… only to somehow escape."

The murmurs turned to outright protests.

"How the hell is he even standing here?!" a student demanded.

"This is sacred land! He should be disintegrating just by breathing this air!" another shouted.

"He's a goddamn cultist, Instructor! You expect us to just sit here and pretend he's one of us?!"

The instructor let them voice their concerns for a few seconds before slamming his fist against the desk, causing it to splinter.

"Enough!"

The room fell silent once more.

"You think I don’t know what he is? You think the Academy is unaware?" The instructor’s voice was icy, his golden eyes gleaming. "This is not up for discussion. He’s here because the warden himself deemed it necessary. You don’t like it? Too bad."

The tension in the room was palpable. Some students still glared at Azar with open hostility, others looked uncomfortable, and a few were simply watching closely—analyzing him.

Azar, through all of this, just stood there, completely unbothered.

Then, without a care, he walked forward, his boots echoing in the silent classroom. He made his way to the desk in front of the two students by the window—the red-haired man and the black-haired woman in the puffy coat.

Stopping in front of them, he tilted his head slightly and pointed at them lazily.

"You two seem interesting," he mused. "Names?"

The red-haired man didn’t respond immediately, his sharp gaze narrowing as he scrutinized Azar. The woman, however, smiled, tilting her head playfully.

"Depends. You single?"

Azar chuckled. "Technically, I’m married to my work. But I’m open to discussions."

She laughed. "I like you already."

The red-haired man sighed and finally responded. "Dante. Dante Weiss." He pointed at the woman beside him. "And this one’s Iris."

Iris gave a small wave, resting her chin in her palm. "Iris Nacht. You’re a lot prettier than I expected for a cultist, you know."

Azar chuckled, reaching out his hand toward Dante for a handshake. "Nice to meet you."

Dante’s eyes flicked to the outstretched hand.

And without hesitation—

SHNK.

Dante’s dagger flashed.

A clean cut.

Azar’s hand fell to the floor.

Blood spilled, staining the stone beneath them.

The entire class went dead silent.

Azar simply stared at his severed hand, tilting his head slightly.

"Ohhh…" he murmured. "I kinda needed that."

The students watched in horrified fascination as Azar calmly bent down, picked up his severed hand, and placed it back on his wrist like it was a missing puzzle piece.

Then—

He muttered something.

An incomprehensible word that sent a shiver down everyone's spine.

From the wound, a purple thread emerged, almost like a living thing, and began to sew his hand back together. The stitches were precise, almost eerily delicate, as if unseen hands were weaving reality itself.

In mere seconds, his hand was fully reattached. Azar flexed his fingers experimentally.

"Huh. Good as new."

Dante’s expression hardened. He had seen a lot in his life, but that? That was not normal healing. That was something else entirely.

Iris, on the other hand, looked delighted.

"You’re fascinating," she purred, leaning forward.

Azar chuckled, rolling his wrist. "Glad you think so."

The instructor, watching this unfold, simply sighed.

"This is gonna be a long year."