DISCLAIMER: I do not own Assassination Classroom nor the cover image.

The First Assassination Classroom

There once was a boy who had everything he could possibly desire in his life—more food than he could stomach, more living space than he needed, more trinkets and treasures than he wanted, and more time than he knew what to do with. He always had… more. More than enough.

Despite this, despite growing up with a superfluity of materialistic pleasures enjoyed by other humans, despite being brought up in the lap of luxury, he was unhappy. He had not a single ounce of love for his parents, who spent their days hosting lavish parties and catering to their own interests. He had not an ounce of attachment for the town he had known his whole life, nor patriotism for the nation that he was raised to serve. And no pride in the name he was born into and given.

Perhaps the boy had never been alive in the first place.

It certainly didn't feel like he was.

He was only… there, like a hollow porcelain doll, with no passion nor a single friend—his mother had told him otherwise, but he knew better. He did not like playing the piano, and those children with the fake smiles and grabby fingers were not his friends.

And along came that fateful night, and for the first time, the boy found himself smiling genuinely, with only one thought racing through his mind—a spark of light and hope in the dark recesses of his insipid life:

Beautiful.

The pale-haired child couldn't help but stare in awe at the man who had just murdered his father. It was a graceful, soundless murder, committed a being made of shadow and silence. There had been nothing but the white flash of a polished blade. The gleam of moonlight reflecting off the surface of the falling wineglass, its contents as red as the blood that had just been spilled… as aged and as astringent as the life that had just been reaped.

What a beautiful skill.

As the scion of a wealthy family, the child had seen many, many works of art—masterpieces wrought on canvas and paper and metal and stone by craftsmen who had honed their skills over a period many times longer than the boy himself had been alive. They were present in the halls of the mansion in which he was raised, in his own room, in the lovely gardens filled with his mother's beloved roses and labyrinths. None of them held a candle to the raw, primitive pulchritude of this art form, in which the fate of a single life was left in one's own hands, to be spared or ended in whichever way one desired.

He must master it.

There! There he is! The man from last night!

It hadn't been hard to find him. Although his name and face eluded the child's mind, the town was small. Thusly, the population was small, and tracking down visitors was easy. The time it took to visit the only inn was but a fraction of the morning, and after waiting for an hour, his golden eyes managed to seek out the brown hat and coat of his father's murderer just as the raven-haired man was leaving the establishment.

Feeling his heart pounding in his throat, the child ran forth, crossed the deserted street, and dared to speak.

"Please teach me how to kill!"

"I-I'm… sorry?"

The mysterious man half-turned, his face just barely obscured by the brim of his hat. For a second, the boy's resolve faltered—he didn't look like the killer. His gait was different, as was his body language. He was so… ungraceful. Normal.

But that had to be part of his skill set, right? Acting.

"My father," the child said quietly. "You killed him last night."

"You must have me mistaken for somebody else."

There was something sinister hidden under that façade—a faint, cold feeling, like a claw of fear. It was almost as if he was staring into the maw of a venomous serpent, ready to deliver a bite. The boy heeded the cry of his instincts and took a step back.

"N-no." He shook his head, undeterred. "No. It was you—I can feel it."

A low hum made its way past the man's lips, which twitched into a half-smile. He was… amused. "I'm impressed that you even managed to track me down. That, and you seem to have an innate knack for sensing bloodlust."

"So?" the boy asked, almost breathlessly. His heart was in his throat again, albeit in a good way.

"Very well. I will take you on as my apprentice."

"What should I call you?" the boy asked, skipping alongside his new master. His entire body felt so much lighter—his assassination training had begun as soon as they had left the town behind. His master was an amazing lecturer. Not only were his lessons informative, but they were simply fascinating. And this was but a crash course.

"Whatever you like," the man said dismissively. "I have many names. Some call me the God of Death. To others, I am the Reaper."

"Which do you use to refer to yourself?"

"None of them."

And so, the child contemplated.

"Master Reaper!"

"No."

"Master Death!"

"No."

"Master God!"

"Absolutely not."

"M'kay…" The child pouted disappointedly and kicked at a pebble lying nearby, lamenting over his new mentor's painfully blunt statements of rejection. "You were the one who told me to call you whatever I wanted, though…"

"Obviously, there are boundaries."

A nod. "Yeah… then, how about just Master?"

"… Fine." Master sighed. 'Shall we get back to the lesson?"

"Oh, yes! Please!"

"Alright. Now, for a rookie assassin, one must remember to…"

The boy listened avidly, eyes gleaming like a pair of suns as he absorbed the information. There was still so much to learn about this beautiful skill and the man who had it down to an art. So much to do. So much to be.

This was the beginning—the dawn of their Assassination Classroom.

The idea for this fanfiction had been lurking in my mind for over a month now, so to deal with my current writer's block and my newfound love for the villains of this story, I have decided to put that idea into words! And damn, does it feel satisfying!

What do you think? I might continue, depending on whether or not I get inspired again, but then again, I think it's good as a one-shot.

*Just a warning that this will not be a friendship fic. It only seems like it because I'm writing from GoD2's perspective. GoD1 never seemed to care about his apprentice, so their relationship will only get worse as time progresses. I will be staying as close to canon as possible.