His words were perfectly logical, leaving no room for argument.

Moreover, Huor had invoked the Leader—and rightly so. Their nation’s Leader wasn’t a War God Mark Cultivator. Most citizens couldn’t wield the War God Imprint either.

Their future work served the Leader and the people. That was an unchangeable truth.

So—

“All that nonsense you’re spouting? It’s completely unreasonable!” the boy shouted hysterically. He knew he couldn’t win this debate. He’d never expected this seemingly slow-witted guy to be so razor-sharp with words.

“Think what you want. But deep down, you know it’s true,” Huor shrugged. “Now, why don’t you just hand over the spot to us?”

Instructors were present on the training ground, but they refused to step into the clash between Class A and Class D. Conflicts were unavoidable—not just now, but throughout life. Whether as Divine Mechanists or ordinary citizens, these students would face them. They had to learn to resolve disputes themselves, through reason or force. The teachers privately agreed with the boy’s earlier “survival of the fittest” remark. Of course, the strong thrived. Of course, power granted vision and resources. Officially, the Academy rejected this. Unofficially, it was tacitly accepted. So they stayed out of class rivalries—a form of self-management meant to prepare students for the future. It had pros and cons. It helped some, but eroded “fairness.”

That age-old ideal everyone preached.

No one had ever dared claim “absolute fairness” existed. At best, only “relative fairness” could be achieved. Yet as long as both shared the word “fairness,” most accepted it as good enough. It was the default. The norm.

“I came here to say this,” Huor stated firmly, his gaze unyielding. “Return what rightfully belongs to our class.”

He hadn’t considered how Class A would react. He hadn’t weighed the consequences. He only knew Class D’s training space was unbearably cramped.

No one sought discomfort. Everyone wanted a freer life. But his class was suffocating—and Huor wouldn’t tolerate it. Strength might lag behind others, but spirit and principle never could. At its core, it was about never bending the truth.

“Impossible! Don’t dream, kid. None of us here will agree to that,” the boy hissed, teeth clenched so hard his lower lip turned bloodless and pale. One more push, and it would bleed.

“Yeah, spare us your moral lectures. Our class can’t stand preachers,” another voice cut in. “Our creed is ‘might makes right.’ Got it?”

The boy stepped right up to Huor. Barely an inch separated them—a romantic distance for lovers, but between two guys, it screamed tension. Pure hostility.

“Kid, you really piss me off,” the boy spat, his face twisted with rage, disgust, and revulsion. “Why not stay quiet in your Class D? After graduation, even as a Divine Mechanist, you’d find a place. But no—you had to show off. Don’t you know I hate guys acting all high and mighty in front of me? That’s exactly what you’re doing!”

He jabbed Huor’s forehead with his index finger. Not hard, but not gentle either. Tap. Tap. Tap.

“You little punk. Are you asking for a beating?” he sneered. “If your skin’s itchy, just say the word. We’d be happy to loosen it up for you.” Malice dripped from every syllable. Dislike radiated clearly.

Silence crashed down.

Huor didn’t respond to the insults.

Class A assumed he’d backed down. Typical coward. Trash from a trash class. Even the slightly better ones were just prettier garbage. Garbage was garbage.

“You’ve got terrible breath,” Huor finally said, shattering the quiet.

“How long since you brushed? A day? Three days? A week? Or have you never brushed in your life?”

He didn’t know why he snapped back like this. Before, he’d stay calm. But now, his gut demanded it.

“You—want—to—die?” the boy growled.

“If that’s how you see it, fine,” Huor paused. “But your bad breath? That’s undeniably real.”