The following Thursday, Carol arrived before the students.
That alone was an event. A few of them stopped in the doorway, suspicious, as if they'd walked into the wrong room. But it was Room 7-B. And it was Carol Rosa — sitting in the instructor's chair, feet crossed on the desk, coat hanging open, pink hair falling across her face while she stared at the ceiling with the expression of someone calculating how many hours were left until the day was over.
The Sword was in its usual spot. Leaning against the door. Holding it open.
"Is she sober?" someone in the third row whispered.
"No way," someone else answered.
Carol was not sober. But she was less drunk than she'd been on Monday, which, on her scale, was practically a medical miracle. Her pink eyes had a cloudy sheen, like fogged glass, and the smell of alcohol was fainter — more of an echo than a punch.
Renato Voss came in last. He sat in the back. Didn't look toward the front. Since Monday, he hadn't said a word about what happened on the platform. Nobody asked. But everyone noticed he'd stopped crossing his arms.
The dwarven girl — Bia, second year, the same one who'd announced the schedule last class — opened her notebook and waited. She was the kind of student who expected something from every class, even when there was nothing to expect.
Carol took her feet off the desk. Opened the drawer. Pulled out a thick book with a worn cover and dropped it on the desk with a dull thud. The title, in half-faded gold letters, read: *History of the Awakening — Volume I: General Chronology*.
"History class," Carol said, her voice still hoarse.
Silence.
"Page one hundred forty-two."
Nobody moved. Nobody had the book. Carol looked at the class. Blinked slowly.
"Doesn't matter. I'll read it."
She opened the book to a page marked by a coffee stain. Cleared her throat once. And began reading aloud — flat, monotone, no inflection, no emphasis, no sign that she understood or cared about anything she was saying:
"The Awakening occurred on March fourteenth, two thousand ten, when the first dimensional portals appeared simultaneously at one hundred thirty-seven points across the globe. The nature of the portals remains partially unknown, but their immediate effect was the introduction of new sentient species — elves, dwarves, draconic hybrids, demonic entities — and the genetic alteration of approximately twelve percent of the global human population."
She turned the page. Didn't look up.
"The adaptation period, spanning two thousand ten to two thousand thirteen, was marked by accelerated geopolitical reorganization. Governments established species integration protocols, and coexistence between species was normalized in record time. Historians attribute this speed to the economic and military necessity of cooperation."
Carol scratched her nose with her thumb. Turned another page.
"The Great War began in two thousand thirteen, when the first territorial conflicts between multi-species factions escalated into large-scale armed confrontations. The first decade of the conflict, from two thousand thirteen to two thousand twenty-three, was characterized by a continuous escalation of violence, with civilian casualties estimated at—"
She stopped. Looked at the number. Looked at the class. Went back to the book.
"—civilian casualties estimated at eight hundred million."
She read the number the way someone reads a grocery list. No weight. No dramatic pause. Eight hundred million. Next line.
"In the second decade, from two thousand twenty-three to two thousand thirty-three, figures known as War Masters emerged — individuals of singular power capable of altering the course of entire battles. The war came to be defined by confrontations between these individuals, whose motivations became progressively detached from any political or territorial objective."
Bia was taking notes. She was the only one.
"The third and final decade, from two thousand thirty-three to two thousand forty-three, culminated in the rise of a human combatant known as the Barbarian, whose civilian name was lost from the records. The Barbarian systematically defeated all remaining War Masters over the course of ten years, bringing the conflict to an end. The post-war period, beginning in two thousand forty-three, gave rise to educational institutions for the Awakened, including the network of Arcana Universities."
Carol closed the book. The thud echoed through the silent room.
She looked at the class. Her pink eyes moved across each face — the boredom of some, the confusion of others, Renato's poorly concealed irritation in the back, Bia's pen gone still.
"Did you follow that?"
Silence.
It wasn't a rhetorical question. It wasn't a provocation either. It was a genuine question delivered with the same energy as asking whether the coffee had gone cold.
"Follow what?" Renato couldn't hold it. "You read the book. That's it. You just read the book out loud. Anyone can do that."
Carol looked at him. Same indifference as always.
"So you followed it."
"Followed what?! There was no explanation! No context, no analysis, no—"
"It's in the book."
"The book doesn't explain anything! The book lists facts!"
Carol tilted her head to one side. The pink hair slid over her shoulder.
"And what did you want me to do? Make something up?"
Renato opened his mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.
"A class. I wanted an actual class."
Carol was quiet for three seconds. Then she shoved the book back in the drawer, crossed her arms on the desk, and put her face down on them.
"Page one hundred forty-three for next week."
"You're going to read again?!"
The answer came muffled by her arm:
"If you don't read it first, yes."
Renato looked at Bia. Bia looked at Renato. For the first time, the two of them shared the same expression: pure disbelief.
The pink hair spread across the desk. Her breathing slowed. Carol was asleep in under a minute.
Bia looked at her notebook. She'd written down everything Carol had read. Word for word. She reread her own notes. Stopped on one line.
*Civilian casualties estimated at eight hundred million.*
Carol had read that number without changing her tone. Without pausing. Without breathing any differently. As if it were just another data point.
Bia looked at the sleeping professor. At the pink hair. At the crossed hands that on Monday had locked Renato's arm in place without leaving a mark.
She was sixty-five years old. The Awakening was in 2010. The Great War started in 2013.
Bia did the math.
The pen went still on the notebook. She didn't write anything else. She just sat there looking at Carol Rosa with an expression nobody in the room understood — because it was the first time anyone in that class had looked at the drunk professor and seen something else.