Three Ways to Die

The cafeteria at lunchtime always felt like a mass grave of noise—clattering trays, overlapping conversations, chairs scraping against the tiled floor. It was one of the few places in the Academy where all the Class B cohorts crossed paths, from freshmen to seniors, crammed into the same massive room.

I had just sat down with my tray when I noticed Rafe was missing.

He should have been ahead of me in line, like every other day. I scanned the room and finally spotted him—near the vending machine in the back, standing still, circled by three older students. One of them was holding his tray at arm's length, just out of reach.

"Come on, ask nicely again," said the tallest of the three, a massive guy with a square jaw I vaguely recognized—a senior, the kind who had ruled the cafeteria for years without ever being challenged. Kade. I had heard his name whispered with a distinct nervousness more than once in the hallways.

"Give it back," Rafe replied, his voice strained but not pleading. I knew Rafe well enough by now to know he refused to show his fear, even if it had to be there, somewhere beneath that facade.

"Say 'please'." Kade twirled the tray, letting a few drops of soup spill onto the floor. "First-years here learn their manners."

I set my own tray down without another thought and crossed the room.

No rage. Just clarity.

"Give him his tray back."

The three of them turned to face me. Kade looked me up and down, an amused smile stretching across his lips.

"Well look, it's the hero of the failed simulation." He let out a short laugh, echoed by his two sidekicks. "You guys lasted two hours for nothing, right?"

"Give him his tray back," I repeated, without raising my voice, without moving an inch.

Kade stepped closer, closing the distance between us with a slow, almost theatrical pace, as if testing my resolve.

"And if I don't?"

He's looking for an excuse to hit me. He wants me to make the first move.

I stayed motionless, my gaze locked on his, neither provoking nor backing down.

"Then you're going to have to explain to me, in front of everyone, why a senior needs three people to bully a freshman."

A silence fell around us. A few heads had turned toward the scene, curious, cautious. I felt the weight of all those stares, but I kept my eyes on Kade.

His jaw clenched. Public humiliation, apparently, wasn't part of his original plan.

"You've got nerve, new kid." He tossed the tray back at Rafe, a bit too hard, forcing him to scramble to catch it against his chest. "Next time, I won't be in the mood to talk."

He walked away with his two cronies, deliberately bumping my shoulder as he passed—a minimal, final gesture of defiance so he wouldn't look completely defeated in front of his audience.

I stood still for a moment, letting the adrenaline slowly recede.

"You okay?" I asked Rafe.

He nodded, still a bit shaken, tightening his grip on his half-spilled tray.

"Thanks." He lowered his eyes, a hint of shame piercing through the relief. "I should have handled that myself."

"You were alone against three of them. It has nothing to do with not knowing how to handle it."

Doran, whom I hadn't noticed, appeared beside us carrying his own tray, a faint smile on his lips.

"Kade has been messing with the freshmen for three years." He sat down with us, as if nothing had happened. "No one had ever stood up to him publicly."

"He'll be back," I said.

"Probably." Doran shrugged, biting into his bread without losing his usual calm. "But now he knows someone will push back. That's something."

I looked around the room—a few students were still watching us, a curiosity mixed with something I couldn't completely define. Respect, maybe. Or just surprise.

The school only steps in if a life is in danger. Rafe's words from a few weeks earlier echoed in my head. So we have to protect ourselves.

That afternoon, Vann was waiting for us in the theory classroom, a dragon's anatomical chart unrolled behind him—a detailed diagram showing the successive layers of scales, muscle, and in the center, marked with a red circle: the core.

"Today," he began without preamble, "we are talking about the only thing that truly matters when you face a dragon. How to kill it."

He pointed to the red circle on the diagram.

"The core. It's the true heart of the dragon—the source of its power, its life, of everything that keeps it in one piece. It is literally unbreakable by conventional means. No weapon, no physical force, no explosion can shatter it."

A studious silence settled over the room.

"Except," Vann continued, "upon direct contact with mental energy. The second mental energy touches the core, it explodes instantly. Always. Without exception."

He turned toward us, clasping his hands behind his back.

"There are three recognized methods to achieve this."

He held up one finger.

"Method one: the Spade."

A murmur of excitement rippled quietly through the room—that word always had that effect, like a promise of near-mythical power.

"The Spade grants total dominance over a dragon for a limited time. It is the most effective, the fastest, the most decisive method." He swept his gaze across the room, pausing for a moment on each face. "But it is reserved for a tiny minority. None of you in this class has awakened a Spade yet. That's normal. Even among elite slayers, it's rare."

Joe has it. Zerma has it, apparently. Emma too. I kept those thoughts to myself, listening closely.

"Method two." Vann held up a second finger. "A weapon infused with mental energy, or materialized directly from it."

He pointed to the blades we had already used during the simulation and previous training.

"These weapons can pierce the dragon's skin—which no ordinary metal can do on its own—and reach the core directly."

"That's what we tried during the simulation," Toma called out from the back of the room.

"Exactly." Vann nodded. "But this method remains extremely risky. You have to get close enough to strike with precision, often in hand-to-hand combat, facing a creature capable of killing you in a single blow. It is the most dangerous method for an inexperienced slayer."

I thought back to my own failure against the holographic dragon—that blade that had barely nicked its skin, that wound that had closed up right before our eyes.

"Third method." Vann raised a final finger, and for the first time since the start of class, a distinct note of confidence slipped into his voice. "The simplest, the most universal. The dragon seal."

He produced a thin, almost translucent piece of parchment, covered in complex symbols I didn't recognize.

"These seals are manufactured exclusively by the Brigades. Their creation method is classified." He held the parchment up for us to see. "You stick it onto the dragon's chest, directly onto the scales. Once placed, three people who have awakened their mental energy—regardless of their level, regardless of their experience—can activate it by standing in a triangle around the dragon."

"Three people?" Sana asked, leaning forward, intrigued.

"Three. No more, no less." Vann placed the parchment on his desk. "The seal channels and infuses the mental energy of the three activators directly into the core. It doesn't matter how strong each individual is—even a beginner who has just awakened their mental energy can participate effectively."

He swept his gaze across the room, this time with a specific gravity.

"This method has a one hundred percent success rate. That is why the majority of low-ranking slayers use it in the field. It doesn't require a rare Spade, nor suicidal close-quarters combat. Just three people, precise positioning, and synchronization."

"Then why is everyone still trying to master the first two methods?" Doran asked, his voice steady but genuinely curious.

Vann smiled slightly—the first real smile I had seen from him since we arrived.

"Because a seal only works if you manage to apply it. And sticking a piece of parchment onto the chest of a furious Province-rank or higher dragon..." He left the sentence hanging, an eloquent silence drifting through the room. "That in itself requires considerable skill."

The silence that followed was no longer studious. It was pensive, almost heavy—each of us measuring, in our own way, the magnitude of the path left to travel.

"Remember this," Vann concluded, putting the parchment away. "Regardless of which method you master one day—the Spade, the blade, or the seal—your survival will always depend on the same thing: your ability to work with others. No slayer survives long alone."

His gaze flicked to me for a fraction of a second, almost imperceptible.

Just like in the simulation. Just like today, in the cafeteria.

I looked at Rafe, sitting two rows ahead of me, the back of his neck still a bit stiff from the midday incident. Then at Doran, hunched over his notes, absorbing every word with that same quiet determination that seemed to define his entire being.

We might not be the strongest. But we aren't alone either.