Chaos erupted across the deck. Too many things crashed together at once—no one had time to watch anyone else. The invaders swarmed like ants, ten times the number of instructors, representatives, and students combined.
Bodies pressed against bodies. Human cries tangled with the sharp ring of clashing blades.
At the rear, Instructor Stevein held the line. The man was a fortress—someone every instructor respected, someone they could trust with their backs. His years spoke for him: over ten as Senior Instructor, countless more as Junior. Scars mapped his service.
The jagged mark across his face told its own story. Seven years back, during the Milhwa festival, he'd thrown himself between students and a monster's fury. The scar remained, but so did the students.
Everyone knew Stevein. Steady. Silent. Perfect in character. He rarely spoke, but when he did, people listened. Kind to his core, obedient to duty.
Which made the scene behind him all the more impossible.
