<First Bell, First Battle>
The morning drill bell at Blackwell Academy doesn’t ring — it detonates.
The first thing you learn here isn’t algebra or literature. It’s the correct way to fold your blazer cuffs.
Every student’s last name could buy a country.
Princes and princesses of old monarchies, heirs of multi-billion-dollar conglomerates, children of political party heads, army generals, and celebrity lawyers — all shoved into one isolated, marble-lined fortress of a school. Those who never even touched the ground till the age of 10/12, are now capable of cleaning a 9-person dorm under 7 minutes.
They called it “training for the role you’ll play in the future”. I called it “throwing troublemakers with guns into a golden cage and hoping they don’t kill each other before graduation.” Yes, we are the "problem kids" but destined to solve world-wide problems.
Parents weren’t allowed to interfere. Outsiders never stepped past the iron gates unless the Headmaster invited them for official events. In here, we ruled the food chain. And sometimes, that meant catfights in the hall or silent wars in the cafeteria or maybe something more than that...
---
By 5:35 AM,
the entire East Wing was in motion. Loafers pounding on polished stone floors, blazers snapping into place, students moving in perfect lines toward the parade ground for inspection.
Perfect… except for the two of us.
I was on the left column.
HE was on the right.
The second our eyes met over the sea of navy uniforms, it started.
“You’re out of step,” he said with disgust without looking directly at me.
“No, you are,” I shot back, matching my stride to his exactly.
He smirked, “Keep telling yourself that.”
The instructor barked for silence, but the corners of his mouth twitched — Blackwell’s staff had learned that stopping us was pointless.
Our rivalry ran like clockwork:
argument → escalation → someone gets caught → mutual punishment
---
By breakfast,
the battle had moved to the cafeteria.
“Pass the salt,” HE said, just as I reached for it.
I paused, fingers inches away. “Say please~~.”
“In your dreams.”
I took the salt and sprinkled it on my eggs — slowly, deliberately — while his friends watched like this was a championship match. HE reached across the table, I blocked his arm with my tray and suddenly the whole place was leaning in.
It wasn’t about the salt anymore. It never was.
At Blackwell, we didn’t have the luxury of family titles or money to tip the scales. Here, victory was pure skill — timing, wit, precision.
And neither of us was going to lose before the first bell.
---
12:00 p.m.
Academics weren’t just about grades — they were battlefield simulations.
Every class was a drill. Every assignment was a test of endurance, precision, and speed.
Which is why I knew the second Captain Elara called for an “impromptu debate exercise” that this was about to turn into Round Three of today’s war.
“Volunteers?” she asked.
HIS hand shot up. Mine followed half a second later.
We both knew what we were doing.
The topic appeared on the projector:
“Discipline is more important than intelligence in leadership.”
HE smirked across the aisle. “Try not to embarrass yourself.”
“Then go first, Sir Einstein,” I shot back.
The bell rang to start. HE opened with crisp, sharp logic — military discipline ensures unity, precision, and respect. Even dropped a reference to ancient Roman legions just to show off.
I countered with equal force — discipline without intelligence leads to blind obedience, failed strategies, and disastrous leadership. I brought in examples from naval history, corporate disasters, and even a subtle jab about how “some people confuse following rules with actual skill.”
That one got the room’s attention.
The debate became a volley of verbal strikes — point, counterpoint, rebuttal, feint, retort. Students started whispering bets under their breath. Flirty Menace mouthed, my money’s on her; Spree whispered back, never bet against him.
When the final whistle blew, Captain Elara turned to the class.
“Both arguments were solid. But…”
She looked between us.
“…victory goes to HIM. By one point.”
One point.
Again.
He leaned in as we sat down. “Good game.”
I rolled my eyes. “It’s not over.”
---
The afternoon
drill was infamous: The Gauntlet.
A timed obstacle course designed to “forge unity under pressure.” Translation: mud, ropes, walls, tunnels, and the promise of humiliation for whichever team finished last.
“Pairs will be assigned,” the drill sergeant barked. “No exceptions.”
Why repeat the same thing if they're gonna assign the teams each time.
The room went still. Everyone prayed for someone competent, or at least not a liability.
“Cadet 746.”
Pause.
“Cadet 89.”
The silence was instant and heavy. Then the collective gasp. Then the smirks.
Flirty Menace whispered, “They’re either going to kill each other or kill us watching.”
I side-eyed HIM. He groaned, as if the sergeant had declared his arrest warrant.
“Try not to slow me down.”
“Don’t trip over your ego.”
The whistle blew.
We launched. First wall: he scaled it in seconds, then looked down thinking whether to offer a hand. I ignored it, took the other side route, and landed just behind him. His smirk carried over the mud pit.
“Stubborn as always.”
“Independent,” I corrected, shoving past him.
Ropes, balance beams, trenches — every obstacle turned into another round of our private war. If he got ahead, I was on his heels. If I gained ground, he pushed harder. The sergeants shouted at other pairs, but with us they just exchanged disappointed looks. This wasn’t teamwork — it was open combat disguised as cooperation.
Then came the final stage: a weighted log that required two people to carry. No loopholes.
We stared at it. Then at each other.
“Don’t drop your side,” I warned.
“Don’t drop yours.”
We heaved it onto our shoulders, marching in sync, teeth gritted. Every step was a test. HE moved faster, I adjusted. HE stumbled once, I caught the weight before it crushed us both, then muttered, “You’re welcome.”
“Don’t make it sentimental.”
We crossed the finish line first.
Or so it was supposed to be.
The log hit the ground with a thud. HE was rolling in mud like the fatso pig he is (ps. he is not fat). The sergeant blew the whistle, unimpressed. “Disqualified. Hundred and fifty push-ups each.”
"But sir, it's 100 each if a team gets disqualified!", I glared at the sergeant.
"Very well. Come with me you two. Rest of you, dismissed," sergeant shot back.
But the crowd of students was buzzing — because we hadn’t just killed The Gauntlet. We’d turned it into a show.
"You just can't help causing a drama, huh! 50 more push-ups isn't that big of a deal for both of us. But NO! You had to go and be self-righteous. Pathetic!"
"Says the one who is covered in mud and got us into this mess. Failure."
"Say that one more time and I'll rip off that ugly face of yours!"
"Go ahead and try, scaredy-pants."
---
⟬⟬Principle's Office⟭⟭
"Paired up 18 times this year, 49 times last year and not a single win. But when paired up with others, even when paired with skinny Mr. Woods or slow-pacing Ms. Evelyn, you two always manage to secure 1st and 2nd places. Even when there was no one to pair up with her, she came on top beating everyone. So, what's wrong with you two being in the same group?! Both of you know very well what you are destined to be and for that how closely you two need to work. Then why defy the obvious future?" Major Brock kept yelling at us.
"....Now scram and don't forget to submit your 5-pages self-critique reports before 9:00 p.m."
«outside the principle's office»
"Next time at least try not to get disqualified before glaring at me, young miss. Two hundred push-ups each before going back. FYI, 50 more for wasting my precious 11 minutes 23 seconds." Sergeant Halberd scoffed on our way back.
As we staggered off, HE leaned close enough for only me to hear.
“Face it. We’re unstoppable together.”
I shot back, breathless but defiant: “You mean, incompatible.”
---
5:00 p.m.
“Down!” the sergeant barked.
I hit the ground. He hit the ground.
....
Seventy-one. Seventy-two. Seventy-three.
By hundred, sweat and dust were already stinging my eyes. By hundred and fifteen, the crowd that had stayed behind to watch was whispering, betting on who’d crack first.
Glitch Coder, smug even while covered in mud, hissed sideways at me:
“Still think being righteous was worth it?”
I glared at the dirt. “Still think rolling around like a pig was strategy?”
Twenty. Twenty-one.
“You’re just mad because I looked better in the mud than you.”
“Please. Mud is your natural habitat.”
A muffled laugh from the sidelines — Flirty Menace couldn’t hold it in.
Thirty. Thirty-one.
“Face it,” he said between breaths, “you’ll never beat me. Not here, not anywhere.”
“Bold words,” I shot back, “for someone who trips over his own genius every time he opens his mouth.”
Forty. Forty-one.
His grin didn’t falter. “Keep talking, Ms. Prefect. I’ll still be the one finishing before you.”
“Over my dead body.”
Shadow Sidekick, quiet as the night, was kneeling in the back row, keeping perfect pace with us even though the punishment wasn’t his. Always on his side. Always in his shadow. Gross.
Fifty.
The sergeant’s boots scraped the gravel. “Pathetic. Both of you. Not strong enough to lead, not disciplined enough to follow. Again!”
And so we kept going, trading insults between breaths, dragging the entire squad’s reputation into the mud — while the crowd fed on every second.
By the time we finished, Shadow Sidekick collapsed, arms trembling, why did he even try to keep up with us? I hated him more than ever.
And also knew tomorrow, we’d start again.
At the end, HIS grin was infuriating. “Checkmate-ish.”
"Not even close."
---
