Children of Gambit

Another day. Another walk through the same dimly lit hallways, where gothic architecture loomed like silent witnesses to a history long past. The high-arched windows let in faint streams of morning light, but they barely touched the cold stillness that clung to the walls. The air carried a mix of old books, polished wood, and the faint dampness of stone—a reminder that this place was old and stubborn, refusing to change with time.

I reached the classroom door, pausing at the sound of voices inside. Three of them. Familiar ones.

Pushing the door open, the murmurs quieted, if only for a second. Three pairs of eyes flicked toward me, curiosity momentarily replacing whatever conversation they'd been having. But I wasn't their concern—not really. A moment later, the chatter resumed, and I slipped inside without a word.

Taking my usual seat at the back, I leaned back with practiced ease. It was always the same: an empty chair, a quiet morning, a book in hand to pass the time.

Then—

"Good morning, uh… Klein, right?"

I looked up. Liesa. Social, talkative, and persistently interested in making conversation.

"Yeah."

She smiled before turning back to her two companions—Dennis and Trovan. Trovan gave her a look that practically said: Why are you talking to him?

I didn't care. Instead, I flipped open the book I had borrowed yesterday, letting my mind wander. The classroom gradually filled, the background noise fading into a hum of movement and routine.

Until she walked in.

The girl from yesterday. The one I'd bumped into.

She took a seat at the front, her presence sparking a brief recollection before fading into the background.

Another voice interrupted my thoughts.

"Morning."

I turned. A boy with short brown hair and sharp brown eyes sat beside me, his posture casual but observant. His neatly pressed uniform did little to hide his athletic build.

McAllister.

"Yeah. Morning."

His gaze flicked across the room, scanning it with a casual sharpness. Unconsciously, I did the same. From here, everything was in view—every movement, every glance, every unspoken dynamic playing out like a stage performance.

My eyes landed on Kurk. Dark-haired, neck-length, perpetually disinterested. A loner by nature, though unlike me, he still had a small group he engaged with.

Then there was Liesa, still animated in conversation. The class was a mix of personalities, all fitting into predictable archetypes. Patterns.

I returned to my book—

Thud.

A sharp impact on my desk.

I looked up into piercing blue eyes. Ginger hair cascaded down her back, and a beauty mark rested just below her right cheek. But her expression was anything but delicate. Behind her stood two other girls, arms crossed, mirroring her irritation.

"Can I help you?"

People rarely approached me. Girls even less so.

She scoffed. "The hell does that mean? Look, I'll get to the point—you were staring at me. That's disgusting."

…What?

I blinked. My mind rewound. When? Where? How?

I had barely noticed her until now. Maybe when I scanned the classroom earlier?

"I don't know wh—"

"Shut up, you horny little prick." She cut me off, her expression twisting into disgust. "I see you staring at me like that again, and you'll get negative lines. I can assure you of that."

Then, without waiting for a response, she turned on her heel and walked away, her entourage following suit.

I exhaled slowly, watching them go.

McAllister let out a low whistle. "Damn. That chick's got a real ego, huh?"

I shrugged. "Too good about herself. To the point where it gets to her head."

McAllister smirked. "A bitch, huh?"

I gave a half-smile. "A bitch indeed."

As the classroom settled, the door opened once more, and the atmosphere shifted.

Sir John Fredrick stepped in.

Conversation died instantly.

Dressed in a crisp black suit, with grey hair that spoke of either age or stress, he moved with the practiced air of authority. His sharp gaze swept across the room as he set a stack of books on the podium.

"Before class begins, an important announcement." His voice carried an edge of formality. "For the past three weeks, things have been… uneventful. That will change today."

A pause.

"With that said, I am informing you of a major inter-class project. A group project, if you will."

A few groans. Some murmurs.

"A simple task—data analysis." He adjusted his tie. "You will collect raw data, analyze it, and refine it into useful conclusions. Logical and analytical reasoning will be required."

"Sir, doesn't data analysis take a long time?" Donatello Kibrisky asked, his green-tinted black hair catching the light.

"Do not interrupt," Sir John said sharply. "The raw data will be pre-approved by the school. Your team will choose from a selection of datasets, ranging from medical research, media statistics, economic trends, accounting figures, and more."

He wrote on the board as he spoke.

"Once your team reaches a conclusion, the opposing team will evaluate its accuracy. If they deem your analysis correct, you will be awarded."

Liesa raised a hand. "What's the reward?"

Sir John's eyes scanned the class. "Ten Marks per successful analysis."

A ripple of reactions followed.

Marks. The school's currency.

It functioned like real money within campus grounds—usable for food, supplies, privileges. But what truly complicated things were Lines and Credibility.

I sighed internally. Might as well explain.

Marks were simple—get them, spend them. But credibility? That was the real game.

Credibility was the backbone of a student's standing in the academy. A score of 20 was the highest, 10 was average, and anything below that? Trouble.

Positive Lines were beneficial. Each one multiplied your credibility by 2, boosting your overall standing.

Negative Lines were the opposite. Each one reduced credibility by 6. They were punishments for misconduct, failure, or underhanded tactics.

The real complexity came in how they interacted. A Negative Line times another Negative Line would create a Positive Outcome.

Confessing to a mistake turned it into an advantage.

But a Positive Line multiplied with a Negative Line? That only resulted in more negative lines. Meaning, if you tried to fight a punishment instead of accepting it, you'd suffer worse consequences.

It was a twisted system. And I had a feeling it would be exploited soon enough.

Sir John continued. "If a team uses underhanded tactics and they are exposed, the whistleblower will receive five credibility points. The guilty party? Negative Lines."

More murmurs.

"Incorrect conclusions will cost you five credibility points," Sir John warned. "So choose your analyses wisely."

A pause. Then, with finality:

"Tomorrow, you will be assigned groups of four. Be prepared."

He picked up his bag, heading for the door. But before leaving, he stopped.

"Oh… and one last thing." His gaze lingered over the class.

"Know what you want. That's the key to winning this project."

With that, the door closed behind him.

A group project. A competitive one at that.

I exhaled. Looks like I'll need to buy a recorder.

Why?

…Let's just say it might come in handy.