Another instructor stood and cleared his throat, the sound sharp enough to cut through the low hum of conversation that had settled over the hall. “Greta,” he said, raising his voice just enough to carry, “do you think you want to post the class notices? Your class is getting impatient, and I can already see mine drifting.” He squinted across the open space, scanning faces. “Yes, Jonathan, I see you. Come over here.” He pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed. “Fine. Just get everybody. We’re doing this now.”

  “Yeah,” Greta said with a short nod, clearly unbothered. “Might as well. It never works out when we try to delay it. Once one of them finds out, it’s over anyway.” Her gaze snapped sideways. “Marcus. I see you. Don’t do that.”

  The boy froze instantly, his hand half-raised behind a girl who had no idea he’d been seconds away from cutting a lock of her hair. He lowered his arm slowly, face burning, while a few nearby students snickered under their breath.

  “Alright,” Greta said, already turning away as if the matter were settled. “You lot, come with me. I’m posting these now. You already know what this is, so there’s no point in you sitting through the announcement twice and pretending you’re surprised.”

  We followed her across the hall to the notice board. A satchel rested at its base, scuffed and well-used, the kind of bag that’d been carried through more guild halls than most of us had ever seen. The board itself was completely empty. Too empty. It’d been cleared down to bare wood, not even a stray notice or curling scrap left behind. It looked deliberate, like someone had made sure there’d be room for exactly what was about to go up, and the sight made my stomach tighten.

  Greta knelt, loosened the satchel’s strap, and opened it with practiced ease. She started pulling out neatly stacked lists, one after another, pinning them to the board with quick, efficient motions that left no room for mistakes.

  The first list was Archers. Clarice’s name was there, right where I expected it to be, along with a few others I recognized, including Mildred. People leaned in close, fingers tracing lines of ink, some breaking into wide grins while others frowned and stepped back, already recalculating what this meant for them.

  The next list was Axemen. The name caught my attention immediately. Axeman was a strange choice for a class name, blunt even by guild standards, like someone had decided subtlety was a waste of effort. The master listed beneath it was Feisto Durham. I don’t know why that stuck with me, only that it did, the name lodging itself in my mind like a burr. The list itself was long, packed with names. Plenty of people wanted to swing an axe and call it a fighting style, and judging by the murmurs, they were proud of it.

  Barbarians came next, exactly where it should’ve been, and that list was even longer. Winnie’s name was there, along with Glim and several others I knew only in passing. The energy around that list spiked immediately. There was laughter, loud voices, and thumping shoulders as people found their names and congratulated one another, already half-lost in whatever image they had of themselves charging into battle.

  After that, Greta kept posting lists in alphabetical order.

  Greta pinned the lists up one after another.

  Then I reached Packmaster.

  I read the heading once, then again.

  The image on the card from registration surfaced in my head, uninvited. A man bent under an impossible load, packs stacked on packs, moving anyway. I’d stared at it back then without understanding what I was looking at.

  So there was a fighting style built around carrying a bunch of stuff.

  What made it strange wasn’t the idea itself. It was the fact that there were names under it.

  People had chosen this as a class.

  I finished reading the list and waited for the next one.

  Then Greta pinned the next sheet.

  Pugilists.

  There was only one name on it.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  Mine.

  Lonely didn’t even begin to cover it. The space around my name felt heavier than the noise filling the hall, like a quiet that existed only for me.

  Then I saw the master’s name beneath it, and my stomach dropped.

  Master Fatty Chuck.

  “Is this a joke?” I asked.

  Greta glanced at the list and then back at me. “I don’t think anyone’s ever actually taken his class beyond the first day,” she said. “He’s technically a master. Sweaty, fat guy. I’ve never seen him fight.”

  She tilted her head. “Apparently, he claims he’s a Mithril-ranked adventurer. If that’s true, he’s the only one I’ve ever met, and he’s here for whatever reason.” She snorted softly. “Even Feisto’s only Platinum-ranked, and he’s one of the highest-ranked adventurers I’ve ever met. Mithril, my ass.” She gestured vaguely at her own midsection. “Feels more like an iron gut to me.”

  I stared at the board, trying to reconcile the idea of training under a master named Fatty Chunk, who was supposedly going to teach me how to fight with my fists. The thought didn’t sit right.

  “He’s only ever shown up on the first day,” Greta said. “After that, everybody opts out. First week rules still apply. You have to attend day one. After that, you can switch to any of the other masters once per day during that week. On the final day, you pick which class you’re sticking with.”

  She exhaled through her nose, more tired than amused. “Usually by that last day, he’s got no one. No one signed up. So he doesn’t show. I’ve been doing this a long time, and I can tell you for a fact, I’ve never once seen him teach more than one class. Everybody says he doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

  She glanced back at the board. “I was honestly surprised when I saw your name on his list. I would’ve warned you if I’d known earlier, but it is what it is.”

  I looked back at my name, standing alone under Pugilists. Losing a day of special instruction stung, but it wasn’t permanent. One day wasn’t the end of the world. I told myself that even as I turned away, already planning to get to the room early so I could cry in peace before anyone else showed up.

  In the morning, we were woken early and told to meet in the outer courtyard to spend the day training under our assigned masters. I watched as the others found theirs and filtered out, one by one, until it was just me and Greta.

  I waited.

  An hour passed. “I guess he’s not coming,” Greta said. “Do your regimen today. We’ll pick another class for you tomorrow.”

  She hesitated, then added, “Honestly, it’s probably better this way. At least you can get your work in.” She glanced off toward the far side of the grounds. “I’ve got to watch the western region for the magical trainees today. It shouldn’t be more than five hours.”

  Her eyes flicked back to me. “Maybe do some of that enchanting of yours while I’m gone. When I get back, I’ll help you pick a new class.”

  I nodded and started my stretches. I wasn’t going to waste the day waiting on someone I’d never have to deal with again. He hadn’t shown. That was enough. The hour was gone, but the rest of the day wasn’t, and my training went on without him.

  Greta left me to my own devices, and I went through my regimen more completely than I had on previous days. Each day I’d gotten a little better at it, and today I made it to twelve repetitions of each movement without cutting corners.

  When I finished, I started my run.

  I was halfway around the building when I heard it, a heavy, meaty clap. Then another. Then another, slow and deliberate.

  I eased my pace instead of stopping short, letting my body slow naturally so I didn’t hurt myself. Once I came to a stop, I turned toward the sound. I checked my pulse out of habit, steady enough, nothing strange, and then lifted my head to see who the hell was clapping.

  A man, or maybe a mountain pretending to be one, stepped out of the treeline.

  He was human.

  Completely bald, but crowned with a glorious beard.

  Long and braided, streaked through with gray, not a single hair out of place. It flowed seamlessly from a thick mustache into a full beard with a soul patch, framed by heavy sideburns that stopped exactly where hair no longer existed. There wasn’t a strand on his head, not one, like every ounce of hair his body had ever decided to grow had been redirected to his face.

  And it showed care. Obsessive care. Oil, combing, time. The kind of maintenance that said this mattered more than anything else.

  Only after that did the rest of him register to my eyes. His gut was immense, round and heavy, and his arms looked like tree trunks someone had forgotten to strip the bark from. He was the shape of a ball, if that ball had been glued to four or five other balls just to see what would happen.

  He was a chunk.

  “Master Chunk I presume,” I said, because my brain had not yet caught up with my mouth.

  “No,” he said immediately. “My name is Master Fatty Chunk. Don’t be rude, brat.”

  I stared at him. “How is that any better?”

  “Master Fatty Chunk,” I said again, this time enunciating every syllable.

  “Good. Good,” he said, sounding genuinely pleased. “You are incredible.”

  I blinked.

  “I haven’t seen anyone do a proper push-up in years,” he continued. “Let alone crunches and squats. And your running.” He clapped again, the sound thick and wet. “Oh, your running. Smooth. Every stride was almost perfect for someone your size. You’re small, but you’re doing very well. You should be proud of yourself.”

  He looked like a man who had never run a day in his life.

  And yet, he was complimenting my form.

  I didn’t know what to say. He was right. My form had gotten much better.

  Which raised the uncomfortable question of how he would have known that at all.

  Everything about him suggested that exercise and he were mortal enemies, and yet here he was, clapping, smiling, and talking like he’d been watching every movement I’d made.