The "Misfit Class," officially designated as the Abnormal Class (or Kuromu class), was a collection of demons too powerful, too strange, or too disruptive to fit into the normal academic mold. Noir Sullivan walked toward the classroom door, his internal monologue a chaotic blend of relief and terror. I'm going to a class full of weirdos. This is perfect. I can hide my own weirdness here.
Noir, flanked by Asmodeus Alice (radiating meticulous disapproval) and Valac Clara (humming a jaunty tune and conjuring a small, levitating rubber duck from her pocket), arrived outside the massive, dark wooden door. It was covered in mysterious scorch marks and dents.
"This atmosphere is… highly irregular, Noir-sama," Alice murmured, adjusting his glasses. "The raw, uncontrolled mana residue around the entrance suggests a deep disregard for property preservation. I shall escort you carefully."
"Ooh, this door looks like it got hit by a truck!" Clara chirped, momentarily abandoning the rubber duck to try and pull the heavy brass knocker off the door.
Noir took a deep, steadying breath. Just act aloof. Powerful demons aren't bothered by scuff marks.
He reached out, grasped the cold brass handle, and pushed the door open, stepping across the threshold with a deliberate, confident stride.
The instant the door creaked open, an absolute, deadly deluge of projectiles erupted from the room, flying straight for Noir's face.
It wasn't a warning shot; it was a full-scale assault. Razor-sharp throwing stars, glowing magical daggers, several high-speed arrows wreathed in blue flame, and a heavy, spiked mace spun directly at his head.
The classroom was not engaged in a lesson; the students were making bets on the new student's capacity for pain.
Noir's façade—the carefully constructed mask of the formidable Demon Lord—shattered. He didn't think about power or rank; he only thought: I'm going to get hit! I'm going to be impaled and die!
His human survival instincts, honed by a life of dodging fishermen's boots and heavy nets, took over entirely. He didn't use mana; he didn't rely on the Chaos Lion or the Aether Tiger. He reacted with sheer, panicked agility.
He dropped into a low crouch, his body twisting mid-air, spinning on the ball of his foot like a desperate acrobat. The throwing stars whistled inches from his ears, burying themselves deep into the wood behind him with sickening THWACKS. The flaming arrows grazed the obsidian horn and struck the wall with puffs of soot. He threw his head back to evade the spinning mace, which chipped a piece off the top of the doorframe with a loud CRACK.
In a continuous, fluid, terrified motion, Noir stumbled sideways, completely out of the direct line of fire, finally finding himself fully inside the classroom. He was panting, his crimson eyes wide with adrenaline, a fresh wave of sweat breaking out on his brow.
He was shaking, but not a single weapon had touched him.
The bizarre collection of demons in the classroom erupted into cheers and disappointed groans.
"A full dodge! He didn't take even a scratch! Unbelievable skill!" cried a student with a long, prehensile tail who seemed to be acting as the bookie.
Asmodeus immediately rushed to Noir's side, incinerating the closest two embedded throwing stars with a focused blast of flame, utterly furious.
"Noir-sama! Are you injured?! This blatant display of hostility is an unforgivable offense! I shall incinerate every one of these miscreants!" Alice roared, glaring at the class.
Before Noir could regain his composure, a massive figure rose from a desk near the back, overshadowing all the other students. This demon was built like a granite statue, possessing dark, intimidating features, and wearing heavy, ornate armor. Crucially, he had several massive swords and axes sticking cleanly through his torso, shoulders, and arms. They weren't wounds; the weapons were simply embedded there as decoration or proof of incredible resilience.
This was Sabnock Sabro. He let out a booming laugh that shook the room.
"Hah! Impressive reflexes, newcomer! You're the first to achieve a perfect score!" Sabro boomed, pulling a sword out of his own shoulder with a slight grunt.
He then raised the weapon high above his head in a dramatic, challenging gesture.
"I am Sabnock Sabro, and I hereby declare that I am the most suitable candidate for the role of the next Demon King!" he shouted, his voice ringing with absolute conviction. "This is a dream I will achieve by reaching the highest attainable rank: Yod (\iota)! You, with your quickness, will make a suitable rival on my path to the throne!"
The entire class—the slime demon, the singing demon, and the other eccentrics—simply rolled their eyes, accustomed to Sabro's theatrical proclamations.
Noir stared, momentarily forgetting his panic. The scene—the casual impalement, the loud declaration of kingship, the students taking bets—was so far beyond the realm of human normalcy that it actually calmed him. He was just another weird student here.
"Pathetic attempt," Noir drawled, forcing the aloof persona back into place, his knees still trembling slightly. "Do try to challenge my reflexes next time."
Alice quickly finished his assessment. "Noir-sama, that is Sabnock Sabro. He aims for rank \iota, the legendary rank held only by the Demon King himself. His bloodline magic, Weapon Creation, allows him to produce and embed weapons in himself as a sign of his strength."