The next morning came quietly, painted in soft gold and gray. The faint ringing of the Academy bell echoed through the dormitory corridors, signaling another day in the Writer's Academy.
Greem and Betty were already at their posts — Greem with his usual scowl, and Betty with her cheerful energy that somehow made the morning less dreadful. The bell chimed again, clear and resonant, sending the candidates out of their dorms in a slow but steady stream.
Francis was already awake before the first ring. His mind hadn't rested much through the night.
When he arrived at the courtyard, ten candidates had already gathered — Darius, Philip, Luther, and a few others among them. He joined the line quietly, earning several sideways glances.
Clinton arrived moments later, panting. "You've got to be kidding me," he said between breaths. "You're already here? And you're tenth?"
Francis smirked faintly. "Maybe I'm improving."
Clinton frowned dramatically. "Or maybe I'm just getting slower."
Their exchange drew a few low murmurs. Some of the candidates, especially those who'd witnessed the cafeteria scene, stepped a little farther from Francis. His name had already spread like ink through parchment. The boy who embarrassed Darius.
Philip's eyes burned with quiet fury. The sight of Francis standing there calmly made his stomach twist. His fingers curled into fists, but he said nothing — not yet.
On the girls' side, the morning began more gently.
Angel was the first to arrive, her steps light but determined. She was surprised to find Clara already standing there, leaning casually against a pillar.
Moments later, Angelina hurried in, waving as she caught her breath.
"You beat me this time," Angelina said, smiling.
Angel shrugged modestly. "I couldn't sleep."
Clara turned slightly, her tone sharp but controlled. "Neither could I. Yesterday was… interesting."
Angel offered a small smile, though her thoughts were elsewhere — back to the cafeteria, to that boy who had stood against humiliation without a word of fear.
She frowned slightly. Where have I seen him before? she wondered. He looks… familiar.
---
When both groups assembled, Greem and Betty stepped forward.
"Attention, candidates!" Betty's voice carried with its usual brightness. "Today's routine will continue as normal. You'll all proceed to the Hall of Drafts for your morning session."
A few students looked around, searching for a familiar figure. When Elira didn't appear, soft murmurs rippled through the group.
Clinton whispered, "Guess the beautiful instructor's not coming today."
Francis said nothing, but the faint disappointment in the air was shared by many.
---
The path to the Hall of Drafts was alive with quiet conversation — though not the kind Francis wanted.
Whispers followed him again, and several candidates moved aside as he passed, pretending to adjust their bags or tighten their robes.
Clinton noticed it first. "Why's everyone acting like we're contagious?" he muttered.
Before Francis could answer, another voice joined in — smooth and low.
"Because you two stirred up a hornet's nest yesterday."
They turned. It was Luther, the tall boy with dark hair and a half-smile that carried equal parts mischief and reason.
He walked beside them, hands in his pockets. "You humiliated Darius in front of everyone. People are either afraid of being targeted next… or hoping to see you crushed."
Francis raised an eyebrow. "And you? Which are you?"
Luther chuckled. "Neither. I like watching storms — not getting caught in them."
Clinton tilted his head. "You seem to know a lot about Darius."
"Who doesn't?" Luther said. "His father's a senator — a powerful one. Influence like that doesn't stay outside the Academy walls. Darius knows it. Everyone knows it. That's why most stay out of his way."
Francis's gaze hardened. "I've faced worse than a spoiled politician's son."
Luther looked at him curiously. "You sound sure."
Francis replied simply, "Because I am."
The three walked on, the faint tension between them turning into something else — an understanding. By the time they reached the Hall of Drafts, Luther was grinning. "I think I'll like you"
---
Inside the hall, the morning light poured through tall windows, bouncing off polished wooden floors. The room smelled faintly of parchment and old ink — a scent that could both comfort and intimidate.
Rows of desks stretched out neatly, each set with a blank notebook and a silver quill. At the front stood a young man, early thirties perhaps, with short brown hair and sharp features. His eyes were keen behind rimless glasses, and though his expression seemed stern, there was a quiet ease to him — the kind that came with confidence.
He wore a fitted dark vest over a crisp white shirt, his sleeves rolled neatly to the elbow. The ink stains on his fingertips suggested he was no mere lecturer — he lived what he taught.
The murmurs died as he spoke.
"Good morning, candidates. My name is Instructor Renaldo Hale, a certified ghostwriter under the Writer's Academy Guild."
His voice carried easily, steady and rich, commanding attention without shouting.
"I've written for over forty clients in the past year alone, and my accumulated earnings have surpassed fifty thousand dollars. So when I say this — listen closely."
He walked down the aisle, the sound of his boots echoing softly.
"Your journey here is not about surviving the Academy. It's about learning how to thrive beyond it. Your words are your future. Every sentence you write from this point forward could change your fate — or end it."
The room grew still.
Renaldo stopped beside a desk, resting one hand on it lightly. "From today, your works will begin a process — The Seven Reviews."
Several heads lifted, curiosity flickering through tired eyes.
"These reviews," he continued, "will determine your standing in this Academy — not just through points, but through the recognition your writing earns. Your books, your creativity, your growth as authors… all of it matters."
He adjusted his glasses, his tone shifting slightly — part challenge, part intrigue.
"Your first review begins next week, Monday morning. Until then, you'll continue refining your drafts. Each review will test a different layer of your craft."
He turned to the board and wrote in clean strokes:
THE SEVEN REVIEWS
1. Foundation of Words (Grammar, Syntax & Consistency)
2. Flow of the Quill (Pacing and Rhythm of Storytelling)
3. Soul of Character (Depth, Motivation, and Evolution)
4. Voice and Truth (Dialogue and Authenticity)
5. Craft of Imagination (Creativity, Theme, and Original Vision)
6. Pulse of Emotion (Emotional Resonance and Reader Impact)
7. Legacy of Ink (Connection, Market Value, and
Lasting Impression)
"Each review will strip away pretenders from true writers," he said simply. "After every stage, elimination will begin. Candidates with zero points or low reviews will be dismissed from the Academy."
The silence that followed was heavy — the kind that carried both fear and focus.
Renaldo smiled faintly, sensing it. "Don't look so grim. This place was built for the brave. Mistakes are not your enemies — apathy is."
His words hit like ink on dry paper — leaving a mark.
Francis sat straighter. Clinton swallowed hard, but there was a fire in his eyes. Even Angel, across the room, leaned forward, her gaze flicking briefly toward Francis again.
Where have I seen him before…? she thought again, frustrated by the strange familiarity that tugged at her memory.
---
As the class continued, Renaldo walked among the rows, observing the faces, the hands gripping pens, the quiet tension that filled the air.
He stopped near Francis's desk for a moment, watching as the boy scribbled something small in the margin of his notebook. Their eyes met briefly — teacher and student — and though no words were exchanged, something unspoken passed between them: recognition of potential.
When the session ended, Renaldo clasped his hands behind his back. "Remember," he said, "every story begins with courage. Let's see who has enough to keep writing theirs."
He dismissed them with a nod, and the room slowly filled with the sound of chairs sliding back and soft murmurs returning.
---
As the candidates made their way out, Francis, Clinton, and Luther walked together again.
Clinton exhaled deeply. "Seven reviews. Seven chances to fail. Or succeed."
Luther laughed under his breath. "I'm betting on the latter… for some of us."
Francis said nothing, but the determination in his eyes was unmistakable.
Across the hall, Darius watched them leave, his jaw tight.
"We'll see how long that confidence lasts," he muttered to Philip, who nodded eagerly beside him.
---
The cafeteria was quieter than usual that afternoon. The smell of food lingered, but the atmosphere had changed.
Gone were the playful tones and careless chatter. In their place — focus, whispers, and a strange, heavy silence. Every face seemed lost in thought, calculating, planning.
Francis sat at his usual spot, Clinton and Luther beside him.
Angel glanced across from another table, her thoughts still circling the same question. That face… I'm sure I've seen him before.
As spoons clinked against plates and the murmur of conversation filled the air, one thing became clear to everyone there —
The true test of the Writer's Academy had finally begun.