The True First Lesson

One month later, the vast shooting range was littered with golden cartridge cases, and a burly bald man with an AUG slung across his back had been waiting for quite some time.

“Hold your weapon properly. As a student of Cervidae Academy, even if you die, you must ensure you squeeze out the last ounce of your worth before the end,” Professor Diotossi’s sharp gaze bore into the trembling Jining. The live-fire exercises of the firearms training course proceeded in the same friendly atmosphere as the past few weeks. Due to Jining’s distinctly different progress compared to the other students, Diotossi had adjusted his schedule, granting Jining one-on-one instruction after the initial major sessions. These days, Jining endured the private lessons, though the experience was far from pleasant.

Diotossi was the strictest professor in all of Jining’s courses. Jining often suspected that the private lessons were merely an excuse to torment him without restraint, yet each time, he grit his teeth and completed every task, leaving Diotossi no grounds for punishment.

Though Diotossi hailed from an Italian mafia family, he had never truly done anything cruel to Jining. It would take a long time before Jining realized this professor was all bark and no bite—a harsh tongue and a soft heart. After all, people are more likely to believe that only sweet girls understand gentleness than trust a bald man with brutality written across his face.

After barely half an hour of instruction, Professor Diotossi stylishly emptied his magazine into the humanoid target, then nudged a nearby box of ammunition with his foot, tossing out a single sentence as he strolled toward the range’s exit: “If I see this box of bullets here after six o’clock, your dinner will be inside it. I don’t believe in talent—I believe bullets will feed you into a marksman. When the act of firing becomes instinct, you won’t be the first to meet these little golden fellows before your enemy does.”

A full day of live-fire training left Jining’s shoulders nearly incapacitated. The only mercy was the black serum Diotossi had produced before the lesson, a concoction whose effects were noticeably superior to the enchanted potions Sylvia had requested from the Academy. Jining could feel a warm current coursing through his body whenever he paused to rest. That warmth, as it passed through aching muscles, seemed to inject energy directly into his frame, effectively easing his fatigue.

Jining lay on the ground, gasping for breath, thinking that the sole benefit of private lessons was not having to worry about anyone witnessing his dog-tired appearance. Yet this pitiful self-comfort lasted only a moment.

“Jining.”

The familiar voice forced a sigh from Jining. He managed to roll over, lying flat like a flipped omelette.

Though the visitor wore a tactical helmet and a tight, black combat suit, leaving not a shred of personal detail exposed, Jining recognized her all the same. So far, only Irina knew him.

“Good afternoon, Senior.” Jining tried to stand, but his nearly numb arms left him rolling on the ground instead.

“The first time is always like this. You’ll get used to it.” Irina stood just above his head, then bent down to study him, close enough for Jining to glimpse faint golden irises. He remembered lying in the wheat fields of his childhood home, the world awash in that dazzling color.

Irina tapped Jining’s head with her helmet. Jining struggled to rise, trying to salvage the last scraps of his dignity, but all his resistance was effortlessly quashed by Irina with a single finger pressed to his shoulder. She spoke slowly, “You’re lucky. The GHL-7 serum didn’t leave you any side effects.”

“Was that the injection Professor Diotossi gave me earlier?” Jining stared at the ceiling, recalling Diotossi’s furtive manner when retrieving the serum from his briefcase that morning.

“Do you think an untrained person could fire all day? GHL-7’s main ingredient comes from Astrakhan. Its effects are still in clinical trials. Research indicates it can repair nearly all muscle strains, rhabdomyolysis, and acute muscle breakdown caused by overtraining. However, ten percent of users experience partial neural blockage in the hypothalamus, limbic system, and brainstem networks. Simply put, you lose some emotions.” Irina added, “Not every teacher is willing to use such a serum. Its negative effects are negligible compared to its potency. Professor Diotossi is probably about to go on a mission, so he doesn’t have time to teach you slowly.”

“Professor Diotossi is certainly generous.” Jining forced a bitter smile, glancing at the scattered, sunlit shell casings gleaming on the ground.

A subtle silence ensued. Irina broke it, picking up a shell from the ground and rolling it between her fingers. “Why did you come to Cervidae Academy?”

“My past suggests I should say I came for revenge, but honestly, I haven’t reached that point of hatred. I can’t muster the resolve to devote the rest of my life merely for justice or a reckoning. Compared to grand ambitions, my reason for coming to Cervidae Academy is pitifully insignificant—I just want to survive. If I dare ask for more, it’s simply not to live too lonely. That’s all.”

Irina didn’t ask for reasons. She paused, and through her tactical goggles, Jining couldn’t tell if she was gazing at him. After a moment, Irina said softly, “I hope you live to graduate.”

“And you—why did you come to Cervidae Academy?” Jining was deeply curious about this senior who had appeared so suddenly, still in her combat gear as if fresh from a mission, seeking him out without even changing clothes. He suspected Irina had something to discuss about him.

Irina seemed startled. She raised her hand as if to remove her goggles, but stopped as her fingers touched them. Jining was certain Irina was watching him. Her voice was utterly calm: “It’s here, so I came.”

Irina said nothing more, tossing “Professor Diotossi is coming,” before leaving. Jining watched her receding figure in confusion, until a gleaming bald head pulled him back from his thoughts.

The two moons unique to Cervidae Academy hung in the night sky. The Academy was home to many nocturnal students, so its nights were anything but silent.

“Next time, notify your friends before class. I don’t have time to escort you back.” Professor Diotossi dragged Jining across the Academy like a dead dog, granting him the dubious pleasure of public attention. Perhaps considering his faint dignity, Diotossi gave Jining a mask.

By the time Jining staggered from the infirmary, it was already late-night snack hour. Hunger, he thought, was the keenest trigger for loneliness. He tried to summon SCP-CN-655, but found only silence within. He vaguely sensed its stagnation in his body, but no matter how he tried, he couldn’t reach the entity living inside him.

Exhausted, Jining managed to finish his dinner with a single baguette. The pain throughout his body left him lying in bed, yet sleep eluded him. He called out for SCP-CN-655, but received no answer. Resigned, he counted sheep until he drifted off.

Jining was unaware that the GHL-7 serum he had ingested was being slowly analyzed and assimilated by the azure SCP-CN-655 within him, a process so gradual that SCP-CN-655 did not reappear for two months. Jining even began to think the voice that once conversed with him was merely a hidden murmur in his heart.

Two months later, on the thirteenth floor of Anderson Hall at Cervidae Academy, the current headmaster, De Stuart Birmingham, took a deep draw from his cigar and slowly released a gentle cloud of smoke. The board members sat in silence, faces grave, until one finally voiced their opinion.

“This incident should have been handled by the SCP Foundation.”

“The Foundation’s reach has grown too long. Have you all forgotten why our predecessors founded this Academy?”

“The age of the Academy has passed. We—”

“No matter the calamity, we have always pressed forward. Do you remember how many heroes we lost to forge an arrow aimed at the darkness? We have a duty—we must face all this, as we always have.”

“This is the board’s decision. That’s final, Headmaster Birmingham. The Academy will issue no tasks related to this matter. In principle, we will not support any student’s involvement in this event.”

Birmingham donned his coat and walked out of the meeting room. He recalled the decisions he once made here as a professor, back when every word he spoke felt like sharpening a hunter’s blade in the dark. Now, except for himself—the most ‘loser’ headmaster in Cervidae Academy’s history—everyone sided with the corpulent board, as the ancient East would say: those who understand the times are wise.

Young fawns darted through the Academy, but Birmingham had no heart to admire the magnificent architecture. He settled on a bench, weighed down by exhaustion. Perhaps he truly had aged beyond the times, for in his youth he had been spirited, but now he knew—those days were gone. To others, he was likely just a stubborn, eccentric old man.

As he lamented the relentless passage of time, he suddenly noticed an Eastern youth, utterly out of place among his surroundings, dragging a saber as he passed through a group eagerly discussing the Fifth Faith. In that moment, Birmingham saw a reflection of his former self, and a plan began to take shape in his mind.