Internet Mage Professor

Meanwhile, far away from Teacher Nolan, deep within the northern courtyard near the edge of the abandoned training arena, Delo walked nervously at the back of the group. Ramos led with a quiet intensity, flanked on both sides by his usual core—Jano, the loud one with fast fists; Rin, the wiry schemer with sharp eyes; and Tugg, the silent wall of muscle. The rest of the gang followed behind them, a loosely formed line of students once branded as failures, troublemakers, or worse.

They had found a secluded spot surrounded by overgrown hedges and fractured stone pillars, a place where Academy eyes didn't wander often. Here, they could talk freely.

Ramos turned to Delo, his expression firm. "Alright. Listen close. This ain't just about dodging punches anymore. You're one of us now. That means you follow our rules, you don't act on your own, and you wait for my signal if things go south."

Delo nodded. "I understand."

"No, you don't. Not yet. So let me explain."

Ramos raised his hand, and the group instinctively formed a loose circle. Everyone grew quiet, leaning in.

"We're the Repeaters' Gang," Ramos began. "People call us that 'cause most of us failed something. A subject. A test. A mission. Hell, some of us just failed to be noticed. But that don't mean we stay failures. Not forever."

Rin chimed in, crossing his arms. "We move like shadows, not because we're scared, but because people underestimate what they don't see coming. That's rule one, Delo. Always watch. Always listen. Don't talk more than you need to."

Jano grinned and added, "Rule two. Never throw the first punch unless Ramos says. Doesn't matter how much they piss you off. If Ramos says 'wait,' you wait. We don't fight for pride. We fight for message."

Tugg gave a small nod. It was his way of agreeing. Delo noticed he hadn't spoken once since they left the classroom.

"Rule three," Ramos continued. "We fight clean, but we win dirty if we have to. You see someone about to take a hit for you, you take that hit instead. Brotherhood means protection. If you see one of us fall, you stop what you're doing and get them out. Got it?"

Delo nodded again, more firmly this time. "Got it."

"And rule four," Rin said, his tone sharper, "No magic unless it's an emergency. We're trying not to get expelled, remember? Fists only unless you want the Principal's Eye on your back."

They all groaned slightly at that. The Principal's Eye—a literal magical surveillance spell—was something every gang feared.

"Rule five," Ramos said slowly, leaning closer to Delo, "Respect every deal. If we say we're gonna pay, we pay. If we say we'll meet someone, we show. Our word is our backbone. Lose that, and this brotherhood crumbles."

The group nodded again. Jano patted Delo's back. "Welcome to the crew."

"Now..." Ramos looked toward the east side of the courtyard.

A group of figures emerged slowly, shadows stretching before them like swords being drawn. They wore different-colored uniforms—still Silver Blade Academy issue, but marked with the stripes of Class 9-B. Their leader stood at the front, arms crossed, silver-threaded cloak fluttering behind him. His name was Seric, and unlike Ramos, he was lean, quiet, and terrifyingly calm.

Delo's heart began to thump.

"That's them," Ramos whispered.

"Who are they?" Delo asked.

"Class 9-B. The other repeaters. But they ain't like us. They think they're better. 'Cause their fails were 'technical errors.' Not 'behavioral defects,' like ours. They think we're trash because we got violent, because we skipped, because we lost control. They think they're above us."

The two groups stood at opposite ends of the courtyard now. Not a word spoken. The wind rustled through the old hedges and broken stone pillars. Delo looked at Ramos, who was silent, eyes locked on Seric. Rin tapped Jano's arm and whispered something that made him grin.

Finally, Seric stepped forward.

"Ramos. Still picking up strays, huh?"

Ramos smirked. "Better than babysitting stuck-up academics."

"This isn't your courtyard."

"Not yours either. Unless you wanna make it a thing."

Seric tilted his head. The boys behind him—all neat haircuts and smug stares—tightened their formation.

Ramos turned to Delo, voice low but steady. "You remember the rules?"

"Yeah."

"Then stay close. Watch me. Learn. And only move when I tell you."

Delo nodded. The wind felt colder now. The space between both gangs grew thick with unspoken rage, broken pride, and something else—anticipation.

Seric took another step. Ramos didn't move.

And the standoff began.

The moment the two groups saw each other at the end of the corridor, time seemed to slow—not with the stillness of fear, but the quiet pressure of unspoken tensions gathering like rainclouds.

Ramos stepped forward first, hands in his pockets, chin slightly tilted upward. His boys fanned out behind him like a wall of heavy breath and sharpened grins. Delo stood toward the back, watching. His heart was thudding—he wasn't sure what to expect, or even if this was really happening. His newfound allies, once his tormentors, were now gearing up for something serious.

Across them, the rival gang—larger in number, louder in laughter—leaned against the lockers, kicked their boots idly against the marble tiles, and barely blinked as Ramos approached. Their leader was a tall, thick-necked student named Gorran. He had a scar running over his lip, and his sleeves were rolled up like he had already been in a fight earlier that day.

Gorran chuckled. "What's this? Ramos and his repeaters think they've got guts now?"

One of his cronies spat on the floor. "Didn't you beg off last time? What changed, huh? You get a new dog?" His sneer flicked in Delo's direction.

Delo flinched, but said nothing. He could feel his muscles locking into place. No one here was laughing yet, but the energy was shifting fast.

Ramos grinned, the kind that didn't reach the eyes. "Nah. Just thought we'd stretch our legs today."

Gorran took a step forward, brushing his fingers against the steel of the lockers. "Stretch, huh? You want a warm-up match or the real deal?"

"We don't warm up," one of Ramos's boys snapped.

A few chuckles bounced off the stone walls. The two gangs were almost chest to chest now. Still no fists. But the words were starting to slice deeper.

"Y'all been training on each other, huh?" Gorran nodded toward Delo. "He looks like he's had a hell of a semester. What's this, charity work?"

One of Ramos's guys growled and stepped forward. "Keep his name outta your mouth."

"Oh? So we're defending each other now?" said one of Gorran's lieutenants, a girl with short crimson hair and a tattoo that slithered across her collarbone. "Did Ramos forget who he is?"

"I remember just fine," Ramos replied, his tone suddenly flat. "Just been deciding when to remind you."

And then silence.

Not a single sound.

Even the shifting of boots stopped.

It was like both sides had drawn invisible weapons. The hallway, lit by flickering crystal lamps, buzzed like a wire about to snap.

Gorran's smirk dropped.

And just like that—

BAM!

A fist flew from Ramos's right-hand man. It connected with someone's jaw on Gorran's side, a crunch echoing like a slap of thunder through the corridor.

All hell broke loose.

It was chaos. Elbows clashing, knees driving into ribs, forearms smashing into shoulders and chins. The sound of fists meeting flesh, of gasps and grunts and shouting, erupted all at once.

Delo was shoved back into the wall, wide-eyed, the war erupting in front of him. His hands clenched instinctively, but he held back. Ramos had told him to wait.

"Ramos!" one of the boys shouted while ducking under a wild swing. "They brought more than usual!"

Another punch. Someone flew backward, crashing into a doorframe.

Ramos ducked under a high kick and slammed his fist into a ribcage, then twisted and slammed another student's head against the wall. "We don't need numbers," he shouted back. "We've got grit!"

Delo watched as the hallway turned into a battlefield. Students not involved darted out of nearby rooms or pressed against the far walls to avoid being dragged into the fray. Someone was laughing, somewhere. Another person screamed. A few even looked like they were enjoying the madness—like this was the only place they ever felt alive.

One of Gorran's crew swung at Ramos, but was intercepted by Ramos's second-in-command. The two locked in a brutal exchange, fists thudding against each other's shoulders and faces like war drums.

Delo saw a guy from his new group catch a kick in the gut and fall to the floor with a groan. The attacker turned on another, only to be sucker-punched from the side.

The battle was brutal. No weapons, but every strike felt like it was meant to break bone. No one was holding back anymore.

Delo's breath was shallow. He hadn't moved yet, not once. His blood was racing. Adrenaline poured through his body like fire—but he didn't step forward.

Not yet.

He saw Ramos take a hard hit to the jaw. Stumble. But then Ramos straightened and delivered a thunderous punch that dropped the guy flat.

Delo's jaw clenched.

He wanted to jump in.

But he remembered the rule: wait for Ramos.

He stayed back, watching. Learning. Reading each movement, each twitch of muscle, each clumsy lunge. Ramos was methodical, brutal, and precise. The others fought with fury, but they followed his rhythm. Delo watched like a hawk, like Nolan taught him—see the balance, watch the weight shifts, time the rhythm. And it began to feel familiar. Like he could almost anticipate who would fall next.

And then he locked eyes with one of Gorran's crew who had spotted him standing at the edge.

The boy's sneer deepened, and he broke away from the fight, pushing past his own allies toward Delo.

"Hey, little coward," he said, cracking his knuckles. "Just standing there while your friends bleed?"

Delo's eyes didn't flinch.

He remembered Nolan's words. "If they pick on you again, dodge until they get too tired to pick on anyone."

But he still didn't move.

The boy stepped closer.

Then—

A whistle.

Everyone paused.

It came from Ramos, who, with a bloodied lip and a swollen knuckle, raised a hand without turning.

"That's enough," he growled. "You touch him before I say, you're out."

The boy froze mid-step, grimacing. But he obeyed.

Delo let out a breath he didn't know he was holding.

The fight still raged in bursts—small pockets of skirmish as Gorran's side realized they weren't gaining ground.

More of Ramos's crew were bruised and panting, but they stood their ground.

Then, out of the blue, the voice of one of the rival gang members cracked: "We didn't come for a war. Just to scare."

"No one scares us anymore," Ramos snapped, cracking his neck.

Another student groaned from the floor. Someone else limped back.

It was ending. Slowly, painfully, and with blood in its wake—but it was ending.

Delo stood in the center of it all, untouched. Unused.

And yet, his body felt ready.

But his mind? It was racing.

And something inside him whispered...

Next time, he wouldn't stand on the sidelines.