My Classmate Is A Monster

Chapter 6: The Price of Knowledge

Devan’s fingers trembled as he pulled the thin, translucent data-tab from the console. His eyes scanned the scrolling columns of archaic script and geometric blueprints. At the bottom, under the heading Lineage Synthesis, one name stood out in bold, jagged font: Fairfield, Alaric.

"My great-grandfather," Devan whispered, his voice cracking. "He didn't just build the Academy. He built the cage."

Shaila stood beside him, her gaze fixed on a monitor showing the structural integrity of the entire subterranean complex. She didn't look at him, her posture rigid as she processed the betrayal.

"Does it change anything?" she asked, her voice dangerously flat.

Devan looked up at her, the blue glow of the console reflecting in his eyes, making them look like cold, fractured glass. "Does it change? Shaila, I’m not just a victim. I’m the grandson of the architect who turned children into lightbulbs."

"You were seven years old when he died, Devan. You didn't know," she said, finally turning to meet his gaze. "You’re not your bloodline. You’re just you."

"I don't know who I am anymore," he muttered, dropping the tab onto the desk. "I thought I was a poor kid from the slums who hit the jackpot. Turns out, I was just a spare part waiting to be installed."

"Quit it," she snapped, stepping into his personal space. Her hand gripped his shoulder, hard enough to bruise. "You’re spiraling. If you start feeling sorry for yourself, we’re both going to end up in one of those tanks. Is that what you want?"

"No," he said, shaking his head. "I want to burn this place to the ground."

"Good. Save the angst for later. Right now, we have a problem." She gestured toward the far end of the room. A soft, rhythmic clicking sound emanated from the reinforced steel doors leading to the main lift.

"What is that?" Devan asked, his breath hitching.

"That’s the security override," she said, her fingers dancing across the console. "Kresna’s people. They know the seal on the ward was broken. They’re coming to check the inventory."

"Inventory," Devan repeated, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. "That’s what they call us."

"We need to move. Now."

"If we go back up the way we came, we’ll run right into them," he said, scanning the room for an exit. "Is there another way?"

"The ventilation shafts for the primary mana-conduit," she pointed toward a series of overhead grates. "But they’re saturated with raw energy. It’ll be like climbing through a lightning storm."

"I’m the battery, remember?" Devan said, a dark, reckless grin spreading across his face. "Let’s see if they can handle a surge."

"You’re serious? You want to vent the system?"

"If I flood the conduits with my signature, the sensors will think there’s a total core collapse," he explained, stepping toward the main junction box. "It’ll force an emergency lockdown of the entire wing. It won't hurt the kids in the tanks, but it’ll blind every guard in this hallway."

"And us?" she asked, her voice laced with sudden concern. "If you do that, you’ll be pushing your core to the absolute limit. You might not recover for days."

"I’ll recover," he said, reaching for the heavy lever. "Are you with me?"

"I’m always with you, you idiot," she whispered.

The steel doors behind them shrieked as they began to pull open. Heavy, metallic footsteps echoed against the stone floor.

"Fairfield! Merrick!" a voice boomed Kresna’s voice, cold and authoritative. "Step away from the console. This is your only warning."

"They don't know who they're dealing with," Devan said, looking at Shaila one last time. "On three?"

"On three," she agreed, drawing her own energy to the surface. Her frost-touched aura began to swirl around them like a winter storm.

"One," Devan started, his hands gripping the lever.

"Two," Shaila whispered, her eyes glowing with an icy, blinding luminescence.

"Three!"

Devan shoved the lever down with everything he had. A wave of violet, distorted energy erupted from his chest, slamming into the room’s power grid. The lights overhead shattered, and the air ignited with the smell of ozone and burnt copper.

The guards at the door stumbled back, their weapons sputtering as the magnetic locks failed.

"Now!" Shaila screamed.

She raised both hands, and a massive, jagged wall of ice exploded from the floor, sealing the doorway in a fraction of a second. She grabbed Devan’s hand, and they vaulted over the control desk, sliding into the narrow, dark tunnel of the ventilation shaft just as the main chamber began to shudder under the force of the overload.

"Keep pushing!" she yelled over the roar of the rushing air. "If you stop now, the feedback will snap your neck!"

"I’ve got it!" Devan gasped, his lungs burning. He poured every ounce of his remaining strength into the walls of the shaft, shielding them from the searing heat of the conduit.

They scrambled through the dark, narrow space, the metallic walls vibrating with the sound of a failing facility. Behind them, alarms blared a low, rhythmic siren that sent chills down Devan’s spine.

"Almost there," Shaila grunted, her shoulder slamming against a grate at the end of the tunnel. She kicked it outward, and they tumbled out into the shadowed, quiet hallway of the West Wing dormitory.

They landed on the plush, velvet carpet, gasping for air. The silence of the dorms was a jarring contrast to the chaos they had just left behind.

"We made it," Devan whispered, clutching his chest. The sigil was barely a sliver of dull, grey light now. He was drained, his limbs heavy as lead.

Shaila sat up, her white hair matted with grime, her breathing ragged. She looked at him, her expression a mix of exhaustion and something else a lingering, terrifying intensity.

"That was too close," she muttered, pulling her hair back from her face.

"Yeah," Devan managed, leaning his head back against the wall. "But we’re out. For now."

"Don't get comfortable," she said, her eyes flicking toward the end of the long, dark hallway. "We’re not in the clear yet. Look."

Devan squinted, his vision blurry. At the far end of the corridor, near the staircase, a shadow moved. It wasn't the uniform of a guard. It was the distinct, elegant silhouette of a student, watching them.

"Someone saw us leave," Devan realized, his heart skipping a beat.

"Or someone was waiting for us," Shaila corrected, standing up with a grace that belied her fatigue.

"Who?"

"I don't know," she whispered. "But that shadow... it didn't just stumble upon us. It was waiting for a reaction."

The figure turned and began walking slowly away, fading into the darkness of the upper levels.

"They’re going to report us to the Head Proctor," Devan said, trying to push himself to his feet.

"No," Shaila said, a dark, dangerous look in her eyes. "Whoever that is, they’re keeping their own secrets. If they wanted us caught, they would have called the guards while we were in the basement."

"So, what do we do?"

"We survive the night," she said, offering him her hand. "And tomorrow, we find out exactly who is playing this game with us."

Devan took her hand, the familiar cold of her skin grounding him. He felt the weight of the academy above them, the millions of tons of stone and history, and for the first time, he didn't feel like a pawn.

"Let’s go home," he said, his voice quiet.

"Home," she repeated, a ghost of a smile on her lips. "I think that’s the first time you’ve called this place that."

"I’m not calling the academy home, Shaila," he said, turning toward their respective rooms. "I’m calling the fact that we’re still breathing... home."

She watched him walk away, her eyes lingering on his back for a moment too long. "Fairfield," she called out, stopping him.

He looked back, one hand on the door handle. "Yeah?"

"Don't trust anyone tomorrow. Not the teachers, not the students, and definitely not the shadows."

"I’ve already got one person I can trust," he said, looking at the glowing mark on his chest.

She turned away, but he saw the way her lips quirked. "Just make sure you don't die in your sleep, Devan. I’m not doing all this work for a ghost."

He slipped into his room, locking the door behind him. He stood in the dark for a long time, listening to the hum of the academy’s wards. It wasn't just a building anymore. It was a war zone, and he was the one who had finally picked up the sword.

As he drifted toward his bed, he felt the tether to Shaila pulse once, twice, three times a steady, rhythmic reminder that he was no longer alone in this. But as he closed his eyes, his mind kept wandering back to that shadow in the hallway. Someone had watched them. Someone knew what they had done. And as he drifted into an uneasy sleep, he wondered if the real trial had only just begun.