*A/N: All right guys, get your popcorns and your sodas ready, 'cause the first official chapter is a ridiculously long one. Hope it was worth the wait and that you all like it; keep an eye out in mid-to-late February for the second installment.*


Thirty-Six Hours Later, Thelian

The snows will be coming early this year, a lone man observed to himself, quietly shifting his weight as he lingered at the edge of the virgin forests on the outskirts of the city of Marina. Reasonably tall, lean of body and chiseled of physique, with longish bronze hair and distinguished, handsome features, the man soon stepped out of the shadows to reveal himself as none other than Shawn Michaels, the decorated captain of the First Troop of the Imperial Guards and a well-loved hero from the French-Thelian Wars of 1863. The rich maroon color and dull gold braiding of his velvet imperial coat blended in stealthily with the looming, menacing shapes of the tall black pines that rose above him like ancient, petrified monsters. However, the glint of the gold-hilted saber by his side canceled out the camouflaging effects of his darkly-colored Imperial Guards uniform, as Shawn continued to wait patiently at the rendezvous spot. He looked, for all intents and purposes, to have come alone.

Suddenly, the faintest sound of rustling leaves--one which would have gone undetected by untrained ears--echoed across the vast forest, and Shawn barely had time to adjust his position or even blink when, out of seemingly nowhere, the slim, attractive shape of a woman swung down from a tree right in front of him. The Imperial Guard captain's only outwards indication of surprise was a slight backwards inclination, but inwardly Shawn's heart was struggling to calm itself after the surprise of the woman's highly unexpected and even more unorthodox entrance. As the kunoichi continued to hang upside down from the sturdy branch, her figure cloaked in a typical ninja nightsuit colored the black and scarlet tones of the Kuro Kei clan, Shawn took a few seconds to regain his composure, before clearing his throat and beginning to speak.

"Good evening..." Here, his voice trailed off, uncertainty coloring his words as he tried to figure out a way to refer to the woman without insulting her dignity. He tried again, working to gather together the unshakable confidence he always exhibited before his troop.
"Good evening, ma'am," Shawn started to say, but was cut off sharply as the woman finally leapt down from her inverted position on the tree to brusquely order, "I will thank you to call me Okashira, like my ninja do--just as I will oblige to calling you by the title your troops do, Captain Michaels." Shawn checked his impulse to counter every caustic word she'd spoken, then determinedly went on.
"I apologize for my rudeness, Okashira," he continued, speaking with the cold courtesy that natives of Thelian were notorious for across Europe. "Unless I have wounded your feminine vanity in any other way, I trust we can now begin the peace talks?" He could almost sense the Okashira's eyes narrowed in a livid glare behind her exquisitely carved, white-jade tigress mask, but in the end was forced to grudgingly give her some credit when she spoke, tersely and in a carefully even voice, "Let us proceed, Captain."

It was obvious by her expectant silence that she was waiting for him to go first, prompting Shawn to furtively sneak a sweeping glance of their surroundings--a glance which may or may not have gone unnoticed by the leader of Kuro Kei--as he began to recite the Imperial Guards' terms for compromise.
"As you are aware, His Majesty the King can be a rather stubborn man, so first of all, I can't guarantee you anything," he started smoothly, and was answered with a stiff nod of the head.
"I am well aware of Vincent the Second and his bullheadedness," the Okashira replied, a hint of venom lacing her frosty words.
"In any way, I guarantee nothing," Shawn hastily repeated, pretending to not have noticed her malicious bitterness as he went on, "But I can give you my word as a gentleman that I will arrange an audience with the House of Lords as soon as possible. There, I will propose more legal protection for women, children, and immigrants all over the empire, and will try my best to convince them to pass the necessary laws for such reforms."

A pause.
"What is your price for all this generosity?" the Okashira asked dryly. "Men aren't exactly famous for their unconditional altruism...least of all Thelian men." Shawn couldn't help but frown at this spiteful jab toward both him and those of his sex, but forced himself to keep a lid on his temper and continue.
"In exchange, Kuro Kei will be disbanded, as can be expected," he replied firmly. "Its members will be sent to labor camps in the Thelian colony on the Grecian islands. There, they will serve their punishments over a ten-year period, after which His Majesty will personally grant them official pardons, and they can be rehabilitated into normal lives."

Shawn finished speaking, and it was obvious by his tone of voice and his body language that he considered these terms to be final and non-negotiable, should Kuro Kei plan to accept them. Stony silence was his reply at first, and when the Okashira finally spoke, her voice was drenched with a blood-chilling hatred so powerful that it was almost tangible.
"You irredeemable male chauvinist," she bit out acidly. "You and the rest of your sexist pigs can all go to the deepest circles of Hell, and take your one-sided peace treaty with you!" As Shawn instinctively took a step back, stunned by the unexpected viciousness of her verbal attack, the Okashira closed off her diatribe by declaring scornfully, "I should have known better than to trust a man to sympathize with a woman's fight!"

It was obvious that by then the peace talks had deteriorated beyond repair, and the leader of Kuro Kei was only too happy to seal the deal--so to speak--as, with a nigh invisible flick of her wrist accompanied by a calm, throaty command of, "Die," she nearly buried a poisoned shuriken right into Shawn's throat. The Imperial Guards' First Captain managed to swing sideways and barely dodge the fatal blow, but in the process the poison-tipped dirk managed to slash his left shoulder as it whizzed past him and sailed instead into the prickly blackberry shrubs a few feet away.

At the same time, a piercing whistle erupted throughout the seemingly slumbering forest, and the masculine, distinctive voice of the Imperial Guards' Second Captain, Chris Jericho, rang out loud and clear in a grim order.
"Second Troop, attack!" the charismatic, golden-haired leader commanded, charging into plain view from behind a cluster of brambles where he'd been hiding in during the duration of the ill-fated peace talks. Following closely behind were some of the most prominent officers of the Second Troop of the Imperial Guards, while Shawn, staggering against a thick pine trunk and holding his injured left shoulder, instructed with as much authoritative strength as he could put into his voice, "First Troop, follow their lead."

The okashira of Kuro Kei darted swift, calculating glances at the multitude of armed and uniformed Imperial Guards rushing towards her, and behind her carved tigress mask her mouth twisted up in an ironic sneer.
"I thought the agreement was that both parties were to come alone," she reminded Shawn quietly, putting such cool dignity into her voice that for a moment the rushing troops faltered in their steps.
"It was," Shawn replied, wincing as the effects of the poisoned shuriken began to creep into his veins. "However, with all due respect, Okashira, I'm willing to bet my life that you didn't show up alone, either." The Okashira's eyes danced with vicious amusement, as she drawled, "And so you shall, Captain Michaels."

Before she had even finished speaking, a series of rustling noises began emanating through the forest, causing both Shawn and Jericho to hold out their arms and signal for their troops to stop in mid-charge. As the faint, whispery hints of movement continued to radiate about, a wave of vigilant murmurs washed over the Imperial Guards, before the diminutive Rey Mysterio, who always seemed to display heightened senses during such emergencies, cried out while pointing at the trees above, "Over there!" His comrades followed his gaze, to find out that they were virtually surrounded from above by trained members of Kuro Kei's First and Third Attack schools.
"Damn, those crazy ninja are everywhere," John Cena cursed in an incredulous voice, at the same time that Jericho tried to rally his troops by letting out a warrior cry of, "Soldiers, are we going to let ourselves be intimidated by a bunch of tree-loving women dressed in bed sheets and masks?!" The response was immediate, as male pride instantly gripped his men and they replied in unison, "Hell no, chief!" And before Shawn could even break into their victory yell by offering some cautionary words of advice, the members of the Second Troop had charged off and the battle officially began.

Once fighting was initiated, Shawn had no choice but to order his troop into the skirmish as well, and soon the night that had begun with a peace talk seemed destined to end in a bitter battle. The two opposing sides clashed full-force, with power and advantages unevenly distributed amongst them. For, while the Imperial Guards had superior weaponry and more fighters on their side, the Kuro Kei ninja were constantly moving in and out of sight so that they were almost impossible to pin down for a clear shot. Jericho himself was currently engaged in a fierce duel against the Master of the First Attack, matching his slender, sharp-bladed rapier against her gleaming, wickedly curved twin scimitars. Several yards away, Shawn was struggling to fight back the painful, dizzying effects of the poison rapidly coursing through his bloodstream, and unsheathed his own sword to effectively keep three neko-te-and-dagger-wielding kunoichi at bay.

The battle raged for several minutes, with neither side gaining a significant advantage over the other. As it wore on, Shawn's health began to visibly deteriorate with each passing minute, for his movements became slower, his aim less accurate, and his famously perfect defense had slipped to a point where his three adversaries had been able to get close enough to tear his maroon imperial coat and fawn-colored breeches to shreds. Several gashes now peered through the torn material of his uniform, angry red with blood, as he continued to fight the three relentless ninja, until the Okashira, clearly frustrated with her girls' inability to deal any serious damage to the Imperial Guard's top captain, drew out her own sword with an irate cry of, "Enough!" and stepped forward to fight him herself. The three kunoichi who'd been previously attacking Shawn obediently backed away and let their leader handle him by herself, scattering in various directions to take on other opponents.

Shawn was breathing hard as he stepped up to his new adversary, both from the physical strain of combat as well as from fighting back the poison straining to shut his body down. Such was his physical state as he was forced to face off against the leader of Kuro Kei, but even so he was able to match every thrust and parry the Okashira could throw at him, until a severe paroxysm of nausea gripped and shook his entire frame and he nearly collapsed onto the ground. The Okashira saw her opening and mercilessly seized upon it, flying forward and knocking Shawn's saber out of his hands before kicking him so viciously in the mouth that he was sent flying onto his back several feet away.
"Get up," she spat out contemptuously at his fallen form, beginning to advance with slow, menacing steps...

...Until somebody unexpectedly emerged from the shadows to kick her sword right out of her hand. The Okashira swore to herself before lithely leaping back, as Rob Van Dam of the First Troop disengaged himself from his current fight and ran to save his injured leader. She glared down condescendingly at the young man as he positioned himself between Shawn and her, whipping out both his longsword and his ivory-handled pistols while coolly informing the ninja leader, "Try me on for size."
"Then I see you're suicidal in addition to being stupid," the Okashira sneered arrogantly, supremely confident in her own prowess with her weapon.

A few yards away, Lita had her hands full trying to oversee the detonations of several strategically-placed explosives while at the same time fending off a pair of relentless Imperial Guards. The fiery-haired master of Kuro Kei's Third Attack was able to barely repel two full-frontal shots from Second Troop officers Matt Hardy and Shane Helms, only to spot too late the maned and goateed form of Sean O'Haire inch out from amidst a cluster of raspberry brambles to take careful aim with an expensive English rifle.
"Watch out for the sniper!" Lita started to holler, breaking into a sprint in an effort to save the ninja in greatest danger of being shot. However, her warning came too late, and Lita could only watch helplessly as two of her kunoichi narrowly escaped being gunned down by leaping to the sides. In the process, however, their legs were nicked by bullets, and the sudden burst of searing pain caused them to fall heavily onto the ground, scattering fistfuls of explosives and derringers in the process.
"Master, what should we do?!" the nearest unharmed ninja cried, two of them supporting the injured girls as they ran up to their leader for help. Lita cursed the hand fate had dealt them, and after getting that out of her system, realized that with two gunshot victims on their hands, they had no choice but to retreat. In an instant, her mind was made up.
"We'll use the Hyakurai-jui! Let's go!" Lita crisply fired off the order.

Somehow, an unseen signal was exchanged between all the ninja--masters, kunoichi, and okashira alike. Somehow, a small wooden barrel was filled to the brim with explosives in a whirlwind of efficiency. Somehow, the fuse was lit, resulting in a fiery explosion that shook the entire forest to the core, causing all its inhabitants to totter on their feet, before digging their weapons into the ground to steady themselves. And, somehow, amidst all the smoke, fire, and confusion, Kuro Kei vanished into the night, as silently as they had arrived.

When the smoke cleared up, Rob found himself defending his captain against an enemy who had long since departed, for the leader of Kuro Kei had simply disappeared sometime during the explosion, taking her deadly ninja with her. Only then did Jericho take the time to run over to the poisoned leader of the First Troop. The golden-maned Second Captain needed take only one look at Shawn's feeble condition to make up his mind, as he let out a piercing whistle and ordered authoritatively, "Retreat to Fort Marina! Van Dam, run for the nearest army doctor you can find! Everybody else, move it! We haven't got all night!"

And thus the impromptu battle was ended in a draw, on a night when peace was supposed to have prevailed.


The Following Morning, Ellistaire, Capital of Thelian

For an establishment that was supposed to be the first university for women in the Thelian Empire, Belmont College had certainly hired an architect who appeared to have indulged in the aethestics and the extravagantly fashionable when he designed it. The school itself lied on an expanse of seemingly boundless green acres, beginning in the outskirts of an evergreen forest and ending right at the shores of the sparkling blue Lake Carolina. The series of grand and majestic edifices which made up the college were fashioned after the Gothic and Queen Anne Revival styles of architecture, with each building boasting its share of mansard roofs, towers, and intricate stained glass. Such a splendid design belied the fact that it was, indeed, an institution of academics...and not an extravagant palace fit for a king.

Inside, the college's décor was even more grandiose, for in each room there were arranged with painstaking attention to style richly-colored portières, luxurious satin seats, exotic plants growing out of jardinières, gorgeous Oriental vases, and heavy oil paintings. Students' desks were carved out of the finest cherry wood and upholstered with plush brocade and elaborately crocheted antimacassars, bay windows draped with heavy velvet over fluttering lace under-curtains graced virtually every room, delicate Chinese scrolls and authentic Rembrandts hung artfully on the walls, and the school library, with its expensive leather paneling and enormous glowing fireplace, boasted well over ten thousand books.

At first glance, it was glaringly obvious that Belmont College was a school built solely for the aristocrats and the wealthy upper-class--the daughters of Thelian's politicians, of Axon's generals, and of Sieragona's plantation owners--backed by fantastically rich sponsors, populated by women who were all undeniably genteel ladies, who had all come from honorable families of old and proud pedigrees. Its teachers were demure maidens and respectable spinsters, its students were groomed to be sophisticated gentlewomen in the truest sense of the word, and since Belmont was virtually brimming with rich and pretty girls, there was never any shortage of dashing young men calling at the school--most of them from the nearby Imperial Guards Headquarters.

But underneath the deceptively gorgeous veneer of elegance and chic and demurely doe-eyed young ladies, Belmont was as competitive a college as any male institution. It indiscriminately accepted students from all social classes--from the rich planter's daughter all the way down to the humblest scullery maid--and the common thread which bound this diverse group of women together was that all of them were, in addition to being deadly ninja by night, some of the best and brightest in the entire empire. Belmont's teachers, likewise, possessed the double threat of both brains and beauty.

Among the faculty at the college, Professor Victoria Varon was notorious with her students for being as severe and sharp-tongued in the battlefield against the Imperial Guards as she was in the classroom with her own students. Naturally, the day following Kuro Kei's inconclusive battle at the Marina forests against the First and Second Troops proved to be no different.
"On August 30th, 1813, civil war broke out in the empire, pitting Sieragona against the combined forces of both Thelian and Axon. This came as no great surprise, both back then and right now, for hostilities had been mounting between the two sides for over ten years, due to Thelian and Axon wanting Sieragona to industrialize and the latter wishing to remain an unpolluted, agrarian kingdom," the smoldering, jet-haired Master of the First Attack was lecturing to her interested class, a heavy book cradled against her left arm, her right one raised to write the date down on the massive blackboard at the front of the room. The heavy skirts of her sable bombazine made a steady rustling sound as she paced back and forth at the head of the classroom, and her voice rose clearly over the whisper of her trained dress as she asked expectantly, "There's a popular misconception as to the true cause of the war, which lasted three-and-a-half years. Anybody know what it and the real reason are?"

A soft voice floated over from the front row to reply in gentle, silky cadences, "Most people believe that the war was caused by the assassinations of the Duke and Duchess of Saint-Sault from Axon by a Sieragonian loyalist." A couple of students turned around to see who had answered, and soon identified the speaker as a svelte, delicately-built Chinese girl with fine, doll-like features and alabaster-white skin. She was dressed in a slim, chic, modestly décolleté Princess Line gown made of jade-green satin, cinched in at the waist with a dark emerald velvet sash and complemented by a pair of tiny chamois slippers laced at the ankles with looping black ribbons. Her luxuriant licorice-black locks were worn loose so that they tumbled delicately around her shoulders, while the fragrant sprig of sweet verbena tucked into her hair identified her as twenty-year-old Autumn Li, a prodigy in the First Attack and a sweet-tempered student at Belmont. Autumn offered a charming half-smile at her audience, before raising her voice a notch above her usual elegant whisper and continuing her explanation.
"However, in truth Thelian and Axon had already decided four days earlier that Sieragona was going to modernize whether it wanted to or not," she further explained, "and merely needed an excuse to attack. The double assassinations of Lord and Lady Saint-Sault proved to be the perfect opportunity for them to declare war."

"Very good, Autumn," Victoria spoke with the barest traces of approval in her voice, before continuing with her lesson. "Sieragona had three main generals who led the kingdom's Royal Army against the combined military forces of both Thelian and Axon. Out of this decorated trio of leaders, one stands out for defeating the Imperial Army's one-hundred-thousand troops with only sixty-five-thousand men at the single bloodiest battle of the war, the Battle of Castalan in July of 1814. This famous general--"
"--Was in fact General Robert Orton, the grandfather of Captain Randy Orton, who coincidentally happens to be the current leader of the Third Troop of the Imperial Guards," a voice broke in languidly from the back, causing Victoria's spidery black eyebrows to slant sharply downwards while she seethed acidly, "In the future, I'll trust you to refrain from interrupting me while I'm lecturing, Maya."

Pale and petite twenty-three-year-old Maya Shiranui merely leaned back in her seat and smirked at this acute reprimand, and the cat-like effect of her lazily graceful poise was enhanced by her sharp feline features and glittering green eyes, which suddenly sparked to life at the possibility of conflict. Her long, whip-straight hair was so dark that it appeared an unnatural shade of blue, tied tightly together into a high ponytail with an ornate sapphire-studded silver pin fashioned after the elaborate Eastern styles. Her slinky indigo sheath boasted both a plunging, shockingly low-cut neckline and a fit that was on the borderline of being too snug to be considered appropriate, while the black cuirasse bodice of her dress wrapped firmly around her torso to perfectly show off her hourglass figure. Maya replaced her previous smirk with a look of maddening artlessness on her deceptively frail, fragile-looking face--a face which had led many men to their deaths--before answering with exaggerated innocence, "Pardon my rudeness for interrupting you, Professor Varon, but if you'll just check your history book, you'll see that all of my information is perfectly sound." Victoria fumed under her overconfident student's leisurely retort, her dark eyes snapping fire and her chest heaving with anger beneath her tightly-laced corset, before she remarked with an odd, curve-lipped semi-sneer, "In that case, I'm sure you won't mind researching 'perfectly sound information' on Thelian's role in the Crusades, will you, Maya? Let us continue with our lesson."

Autumn shifted slightly in her seat to shoot a sympathetic look in the outraged-looking Maya's direction, who, after opening her mouth to protest and reluctantly changing her mind at her friend's gentle yet warning look, forced herself to swallow her indignant anger with poor grace and resigned herself to going through the remainder of the class in silence. Victoria, for her part, seemed to have forgotten her conflict against Maya, and had returned to her lecture.
"The opening battle of the war took place in Heatherton Falls, Sieragona, one-hundred-and-twenty miles from its capital of Queenston," she spoke. "However, newspapers across the empire renamed it the Battle of Beaufort, alarming countless people in that city, who responded by refugeeing elsewhere. Annis, can you tell us why the papers would purposely publish false information as to the battle's location?"

The history professor's words were directed toward Annis Clough, a strikingly tall young woman of twenty-seven years of age who didn't seem to be paying quite as much attention to the lesson as she ought to have been. Slender and shapely, with smooth olive skin and long, straight, jet-black hair pulled back into a sleek, shoulder-length ponytail, the ivory-organdie-clad Annis was a girl well-known with her peers for her easygoing pertness, her gentle smirk, and her absolute tenacity in battle. She snapped up abruptly at Victoria's words, subtly closing her book on a small photograph of Second Troop leader Chris Jericho...a photograph upon which she'd been doodling a pointy black beard and silly tufts of ear hair.
"Erm...why the newspapers changed the Battle of Heatherton Falls to the Battle of Beaufort, you mean?" she repeated guiltily, praying that she'd gotten Victoria's question right. Fortunately for Annis, good fortune seemed to be smiling on her that day, for at her history professor's curt nod, she went on to explain, "Oh, I know the reason. It's because Beaufort is a French name, and if there was anything that all three kingdoms of the empire still had in common at the time of the war, it was their anti-French sentiments, which were fueled by Europe's combined clashes against Napoleon Bonaparte. Newspaper owners knew that changing the location of the battle to a city that would inevitably link itself to the French would further evoke hatred amongst the people, and as a result sell more papers."

Victoria frowned in grudging admiration at her student's knowledge.
"That is correct, Annis," she said, while thinking silently to herself as she swept her students in a long, thoughtful look, I can't contest to their personalities, but as to their minds, it's no wonder that Belmont's known as one of the top schools in the empire.


Gail Kim, professor of mathematics at Belmont, enjoyed a somewhat less fearsome reputation than the darkly bewitching master of Kuro Kei's First Attack. Granted, the mischievous Korean import taught one of the hardest classes--and, by default, one of the most loathed classes as well--at the college, but the spirited brunette always lightened the mood of her lessons with amusing anecdotes, most of them about matching wits against men. Plus, Gail always had indisputably fabulous taste in clothes, and was never stingy about sharing the newest fashions and trends from Paris with her students.

On the day following the ill-fated peace talks with the king's men, the atmosphere in Gail's classroom was ostensibly no more somber than on any other day. The youthful professor herself was at the front of the room, looking as stylishly pretty as always in her bold crimson gown and fragrant rose water cologne as she wrote down a series of problems on the black board.
"All right, let's say we have the equation 1/(sec y+1)-1/(sec y-1). How would you simplify this problem?" she was saying as she wrote it down in white chalk. "Any ideas on how to do it?" A stretch of silence followed her words, as Gail swept her class with an expectant russet glance.
"Anybody have any ideas at all on how to do this...Come on, girls, don't be such silly chickens, I know you all know how to do this," Gail demanded playfully from her class. Finally, a slender arm half-rose from the neat rows of carved cherry desks, and Gail called gratefully on the student it belonged to, "Yes, Rune. Glad to know you're brave enough to tackle this problem."

Rune Angelo gave an obliging chuckle following her professor's light-hearted compliment, knowing that it wasn't bravery but extensive studying which had prompted her to try her hand at solving the problem. She was a fairly tall girl of twenty-two years of age--almost too tall to be considered genteel, for it was a carefully concealed fact that she would actually tower an inch or two over some men if they didn't wear subtly heeled boots--with a flawless, creamy complexion and bright, crystal-blue eyes. Her luxuriant dark blonde hair, when let out of its trademark elegant up-do adorned with pale pink snapdragons, flowed all the way down to the middle of her back, while her expensive golden-orange moiré dress with its rose-patterned train and her even costlier diamond jewelry served as a testament to her social position as the daughter of a prominent Sieragonian family. Rune cleared her throat, mentally assessing the problem on the blackboard in front of her, before answering in a clear, confident voice, "You multiply the first fraction by (sec y-1) and the second fraction by (sec y+1) to get a common denominator. After that, it's just a matter of subracting the two fractions and canceling out positive sec y and negative sec y to get a negative two in the numerator."
"Very good, Rune," Gail praised genially as she wrote out the steps the tall blonde had dictated, ending up with a new equation of -2/sec²y-1 on the blackboard. After she had finished mapping out the numbers, symbols, and letters, the lithe, dark-haired young woman turned to her class and asked expectantly, "Anybody know what should be done next?"

The calm, coolly polite voice that answered her question didn't come from Rune, but rather, from a student who, up till then, hadn't uttered a single word throughout the entire morning.
"One has to be familiar with the Pythagorean equation tan²x+1=sec²x in order to further simplify the problem," Hikari Tsukino answered steadily, exuding as always an air of perfect, aristocratic femininity. Sylph-like and delicate, with a never-fading aura of classic grace, the twenty-three-year-old Asian exchange student possessed a fragile, quiet beauty--the standard beauty of genteel Eastern women of noble birth, one which didn't pain itself with advertising its splendor. The velvety darkness of her long black hair and blueberry-black eyes was accentuated by her oleander-white skin, while her attire and deportment were proudly and traditionally Asian. She always stood out rather appreciably from the other girls in their rainbow-bright crinolines and lacy shawls, for Hikari's trademark outfit was a gossamer black silk kimono, decorated with an embroidered dull gold Japanese dragon on one side and tied with a matching gold sash around the waist. A ruby-encrusted mother-of-pearl hair pin, carved on one end in the likeness of a rose bloom, kept her inky hair elegantly swept atop her head, while a long, trailing crème scarf, fringed with slender strings of tiny white pearls, completed the portrait of aristocratic refinement.
"In this case," Hikari went on in a voice drenched with cold formality--for it was a noted fact that she resented Gail in some way or another, both as a leader and as a professor--"you merely replace sec²y-1 with tan²y, and simplify the equation to -2/tan²y, which in turn becomes -2cot²y."

Gail signified with a curt nod of her head that Hikari was correct, and the fact that she failed to accompany this gesture with the same graciously complimentary words which Rune had received failed to go unnoticed by a single girl in the classroom.
"Well, I see that it's almost time for your next class--" Here, Gail spared a brief glance at the chrome-and-black-walnut clock set high on the wall--"so I won't be keeping you for long. Don't forget to study for your big trigonometric identities exam tomorrow..." A wave of good-natured groans rose from the students at this reminder, causing their professor to break into a charming smile and reply teasingly, "Don't give me those looks, I'm not doing this out of pure vindictiveness!" Hikari resisted the unladylike temptation to roll her eyes heavenwards and mutter something unflattering under her breath, while her professor continued, "And I'll be more than happy to disclose the types of questions that will be asked on the exam, if Miss Maras in the corner will be so kind as to oblige to put her book down and listen."

At this trenchant statement, the whispery sounds of rustling silk splashed across the classroom, as girls carefully smoothed down their voluminous skirts so that they might turn around in their seats and peek at the disgraced student who'd been caught reading in class. The young woman in question, a sultry, albeit somewhat tomboyish twenty-three-year-old by the name of Ishiekah Maras, reluctantly placed down her heavy hardcover copy and glanced up with piercing hazel eyes. With her willowy figure sheathed in slim-fitting midnight-black and her long, curly chestnut hair twisted tightly into a chignon at the back of her head, the aloof kunoichi often gave the impression of an ever-alert panther, projecting a façade of languor while inwardly getting ready to pounce. Ishiekah worked to hide a frown of mild displeasure as Gail walked up to her desk and retrieved the book that had held her student's attention during class, flipping across the pages before finally turning the volume over and looking at its cover.
"Le Comte de Monte Cristo," she read in lilting French, running a hand over the title's lettering while remarking, "In its original, untranslated version, I see. Quite impressive, Miss Maras; I didn't know you were this fluent in French."
"I am," Ishiekah grunted tersely, signifying by the tone of her voice that she clearly didn't wish to further continue this chat.
"And I suppose Monsieur Dumas's story of revenge is far more interesting than my lessons in trigonometry?" Gail prompted.
"I happen to like vengeance," Ishiekah conceded grudgingly.

Before anybody could reply, the low, resonant sounds of tolling bells interrupted the impromptu teacher-student chat, causing Gail to start up and turn around vaguely in the direction of the closed classroom doors. She sighed and reluctantly set the edition down on her pupil's desk with a warning murmur of, "We'll discuss this later, Ishiekah. In the meantime, you'd better get ready for your next class." Ishiekah nodded stiffly as she and the rest of the students carefully got out of their seats, gathering up their books and loose papers and arranging their sashaying silk skirts around them before filing in a neat, orderly row out of the classroom, curtsying politely to their professor on their way out.


The stables of Belmont, constructed by the shore of the iridescently cerulean Lake Carolina, held well over a hundred powerful stallions and spirited young mares, with a new brood of feisty colts joining the corral every year. While Victoria was lecturing on wars and Gail was confiscating popular novels, Lita, riding high with the honor of being the most decorated horsewoman in the empire's capital, had taken a couple of the horses out of their stalls for the day's lesson in equestrianism. The riding instructor's number of students was visibly diminished on that day, undoubtedly due to the fact that it was her who that had taken the brunt of the previous night's spontaneous skirmish. However, this seemed to have little effect on the fiery redhead's mood, for she merely poured extra attention and support to the few students who were able to make it to her class.

And the students present did need her attention and support--some a bit more than they'd like to admit. As much as Lita hated acknowledge any shortcomings her own kunoichi might have, she was nevertheless a fairly honest person--or about as honest as a ninja could possibly be--and had to own up that when it came to horsemanship, her students were a long way from matching up against Randy Orton's Third Troop. It's not that they're unwilling to learn, the flame-haired fire and explosives specialist thought reflectively to herself as she watched the girls atop their spirited mounts, before glancing down at her own simply-tailored, dark emerald dimity riding habit and thinking amusedly to herself, It's just that young girls like them are more concerned with looking pretty than with actually handling their horses!

Isabella Walker, poised with refined grace atop a dainty strawberry mare, proved Lita's silently-argued point to a perfection. The tall, olive-complexioned twenty-three-year-old looked like virtually the ideal horsewoman as she sat on her mount, sidesaddle as was befitting of ladies, her dancing skirts tucked demurely around her long legs. She wore a finely made crinoline with satiny sea-green skirts and a deep rose basque lined with princess lace, while a matching coral-colored hat made of glossy, smooth tarlatan was perched smartly atop the crown of her shoulder-length, heavily layered midnight-black hair. Under any other circumstances, Lita would have been proud of her sapphire-eyed student's ability to maintain the fairer, softer aspects of youth and femininity even as she rigged fields with land mines or carried out arson missions...but now! The older kunoichi silently groaned, watching none too pleasedly as Isabella preoccupied herself with adjusting her expensive crinoline and allowed her reins to slacken, letting her mare veer inexcusably off-path.

Isabella glanced up just in time to see the reproving frown on her leader's face, and guiltily resumed control of her horse while laughingly calling out at the redhead, "Come on, Lita, twenty-eight's not the time yet to be getting all old and decrepit! Surely you can't tell me that you've already forgotten how much fun dressing up and looking your prettiest used to be!" Lita smirked to herself; it was impossible trying to admonish girls when they were wearing a new dress and hat.
"Watch who you're calling old and decrepit, Isabella--in five years you'll twenty-eight as well," she opted for shooting back, while Isabella laughed and, as though to demonstrate that she could still ride reasonably well even in all her crinoline and tarlatan glory, shook the reins of her horse and trotted off.
"Not true!" she called back, adding proudly, "I'm going to be a belle even when I'm thirty, you just watch!" Lita shook her head at this playful boast, then winced as, in a moment of carelessness, Isabella had to swerve wildly to narrowly avoid crashing into a row of trees with heavy low-hanging branches. That girl's impossible...

...But then again, it wasn't as if nineteen-year-old Elizabeth Hawkins was proving to be a much better equestrian on her dainty, silk-maned cremelo. The young, petite Sieragonian certainly made a pretty picture atop her horse, with her smooth, creamy skin, lustrous mahogany-colored hair, and piercing jewel-green eyes. Her moderately curvy figure was cloaked in a slim-fitting organdie of the palest violetish-magenta color, finely fringed with silk at the hems of the skirt and sleeves and topped off by a tastefully slender wreath of alyssum blooms around her tiny waist.
"You look beautiful, Elizabeth," Lita called out generously, earning a beaming smile from the diminutive nineteen-year-old...a smile which quickly began to morph into a scowl as soon as its owner heard the next words to come out of her riding instructor's mouth.
"However, Kuro Kei ninja are expected to be at the very least passable equestrians, and you'll hardly be able to bring down even one of Captain Orton's cavalrymen if you're too preoccupied with looking cute to bother learning how to make jumps!"
"Lita, you know that's not true!" Elizabeth protested fiercely. "I can ride just as well as Randy Orton himself--as long as I'm in my nightsuit, anyway. You see, this is a new dress, and I don't want to get it dirty and torn before the hunting season has even started!"

Lita merely shook her head at this excuse, thinking with silent mirth as she rode away on her red stallion and jumped gracefully over a series of split-oak fences, Young girls are all impossible. They've got more excuses for showing off their new clothes and coiffures than I've got explosives hidden away!


Presiding at the front of Belmont's biology classroom, Professor Trish Stratus was simultaneously browsing through a heavy science book while writing down the day's lesson plans on the blackboard with gritty white chalk. It was apparent that whatever activity the young doctor and part-time biology professor had planned required some sort of dirty work, for she had changed out of her usual glossy sky-blue challis gown and replaced it with a plain lavender calico frock, adding a heavily quilted white pinafore over her outfit as an added precaution.
"As I'm sure you're all well aware of, I've been making you read tedious anatomy texts for months now...so now I've decided that it's about time we look at the real thing," the sunny blonde mentioned affably as her class began. Observing the class of daintily-dressed girls poised with books and pens, Trish added as a corner of her mouth went up in an impish grin, "I'm a bit disappointed that nobody paid much attention yesterday, however, when I instructed all of you to wear your oldest frocks today, since my lesson will be rather unorthodox, I expect."

Kyra Andrews shyly raised her hand from the front row. On the surface, the petite kunoichi appeared to be nothing more than a tiny, sleek twenty-six-year-old with deep brown eyes and chocolate-colored hair cut in a chic, whip-straight style with a side sweep fringe. Kyra had straightened up in slight alarm when her professor mentioned the necessity of wearing old and faded clothes to class on that particular day, especially since the lithe brunette was currently dressed in a finely-tasseled, lace-trimmed iridescent crinoline that was as white and gossamer as snowdrop petals. To confirm her fears, Kyra had meekly lifted one arm, and as soon as Trish had nodded in her direction, she proceeded to ask, "Professor Stratus? What exactly do you mean by this unorthodox lesson that will require old frocks?" Trish grinned cheerily.
"Oh, it's nothing to worry about, Kyra," she joked. "Just a couple of jolly old cadavers who are not-so-happily awaiting dissection and close analysis by my students."

Kyra went ashen at that casually-spoken revelation about cutting apart another human being--particularly a dead one--and was shocked into petrified silence for several seconds. When she finally ventured to speak again, Kyra stammered, looking rather ill as she stumbled over her excuse, "I...I don't believe I'm feeling too well, Professor Stratus...I..." Part of the reason why the sensitive, obedient young woman had so willingly trained for the Fourth Attack school of Kuro Kei was because it would enable her to assassinate targets with swift and clean efficiency--no gore and very little, if any blood at all. Just an arsenic-laced meal here and a poison-tipped dart there, certainly none of the slicing and dicing that the First Attack kunoichi were only too happy to carry out.
"Don't be silly, Kyra," Trish laughed off Kyra's uneasiness. "You'll never become a good doctor if you only bury your nose in books and never experience the real thing. Besides--"

The sound of the classroom doors quietly opening and closing interrupted Trish's little motivational speech, and soft footsteps tapped across the floor and toward an empty desk. Trish broke off to shoot a stern look at the culprit, a tardy student who turned out to be one of the most brilliant strategists in the clan by the name of Inoue Sonoko. Small yet lissome, with porcelain-white skin and storm-gray eyes, the half-Japanese, half-Anglo-Saxon twenty-year-old was, as usual, heavily clothed in layers of excessive garments, as though to consciously hide her mixed Asian/Caucasian heritage. Her unnaturally pale complexion was perfectly concealed beneath a voluminous, plainly designed seafoam-blue muslin frock, bordered by a Spartan trim of lightly-tinted Irish lace and topped with a basque that buttoned all the way up to her slender neck. Even though she was indoors, Sonoko still wore her trademark pale turquoise bonnet pulled low over her long jet-black hair, which served a double purpose of both tidily keeping her luxuriant locks in place as well as concealing her uniquely biracial features in shadows.

Sonoko calmly arranged her skirts in place and took out her books and papers, while Trish glared down with clear annoyance at her lateness and drawled sarcastically, "I'm glad you could join us, Sonoko. Why only the ten-minute delay this time?" Sonoko met her professor's irritated look with a steady gaze, replying laconically, "I had plans this morning." Trish rolled her eyes.
"It would be best for you to redo your schedule, Sonoko," she started to admonish, "so that you might be allowed to attend your classes on time..."

Before Trish could continue, Terri, the college administration's head secretary, entered the room and broke in apologetically, "I hope I wasn't interrupting anything important, but I've come to inform you all that a couple of our generous backers have arrived for an arbitrary tour of the school they helped erect." Trish sighed in clear displeasure at this unwelcome piece of news, before nodding toward the tiny blonde secretary and thanking with admirable grace, "Good work on reporting the news so quickly, Terri," and going to the blackboard to erase what she'd initially written and replacing it with a new outline.
"Change of plan, ladies," she announced. "Instead of a, ah, closer examination of the human anatomy, you'll be analyzing cell structures with a microscope today. Be grateful that your outfits won't be ruined, but remember to wear your most unflattering frocks tomorrow, because with any luck, those pompous men will have tired of bothering us by then and we'll be able to continue with today's initial lesson plan."

Terri looked somewhat discomforted at this brisk order.
"Ah, Trish?" she finally spoke up. "Today's visitors are actually all members from the empire's House of Lords--I believe among them Lord Flair and his son." Trish sighed, reluctantly turning around and erasing what she'd just written.
"In that case, we'll be going over the animal kingdom today," she improvised, then catching her students' mounting indignation--particularly Sonoko's thunderous glower and Kyra's uncertain frown--reminded the class sternly, "Remember this, ladies: some men may be liberal enough to claim that they like smart women, but there's only so much knowledge and prowess that they'll tolerate in the opposite sex before they start feeling that their male egos are being challenged by girls who are too smart. Right now, we can't afford to have anybody--least of all the House of Lords--start getting suspicious about Belmont." When the girls grudgingly relaxed their postures and signified their agreement, Trish turned to the school secretary and plastered on her phoniest bright smile while instructing, "Send the gentlemen in, Terri."


Located in the heart of Ellistaire, the Imperial Guards' headquarters building was, in fact, a vast, sprawling castle named Ashburn Park, built by a sixteenth-century king back during the days when Thelian consisted of nothing more than a cluster of tiny warring territories. A long avenue of majestic oaks surrounded the flight of winding white steps leading up to the castle, which was constructed out of whitewashed stones and boasted well over twenty-five hundred chambers. Among the more unique features of Ashburn Park was a small Roman Catholic church, no doubt installed by an ancient master during the years when Protestantism was first spreading throughout Europe. Out of respect for religion, this church hadn't been torn down and redesigned in a more military-worthy fashion, and in fact soon proved itself to be quite a place of spiritual solace to wounded Imperial Guards, many of whom were Catholics.

However, aside from that holy place, the rest of Ashburn wasn't spared from militarization. Rose gardens were converted into training grounds, little wooded hills were cleared away and transformed into sharpshooting and archery practice fields, and orchards cut down to make room for the stables which would house the innumerable boisterous horses of the Third Troop. Art museums that had previously only seen obsolete armaments of centuries long gone had been cleared of their priceless displays and reconstructed into storehouses for the most modern weaponry in all of Europe...In fact, just about the only room in the castle that had been spared, aside from the church, was the expansive ballroom, since many officers in the Imperial Guards wanted at least one place in headquarters that would be charming enough to woo the ladies.

The other rooms in the castle had obviously been decorated to best show off the might of the Imperial Guards. Gleaming sabers with gold filigree handles and dueling pistols inlaid with mother-of-pearl were crossed strikingly on the walls, regal flags with thick gold tassels draped tastefully across every arching atrium, and grandiose watercolors depicting glorious battle scenes hung in many a room. Not a day went by that the sight of armed and uniformed officers didn't pass busily down the the hallways while on their way to strenuous, never-ceasing drilling, handsomely uniformed, resplendent in velvet imperial coats and tall varnished boots, and armed with the finest weapons to be found in all of Thelian.

On the day following the brief Battle of Marina, all three troops of the Imperial Guards could be found practicing even more intensely than usual, perhaps in anticipation of a second encounter against Kuro Kei, perhaps because their failure to disable the ninja clan had spurred their captains to kick up the usual training process.

Out of all the leaders, First Captain Shawn Michaels was undeniably the most empathic of the trio of men. It was painfully obvious to any bystander that the decorated war-hero-turned-Imperial-Guard was still feeling the effects of the previous night's poisoning, for the usual spring was gone from his light tread, and he paused occasionally to steady himself against a post and wait for the sporadic attacks of pain and dizziness to fade away. However, despite the intermittent paroxysms, Shawn fought through his illness and continued to tirelessly coach his troop, pausing frequently by each young man to either correct his stance or give him some helpful pointers. Frequently by his side was First Lieutenant Luke Hayden Maddox, a tanned, sandy-haired youth of twenty-six clad in the typical burgundy-coat-and-fawn-breeches uniform of the First Troop. Tall and clean-shaven, with solid good looks, Luke worked side-by-side with his leader, often sacrificing his own training time to watch over Shawn whenever the latter indicated by a slight wavering that he wasn't feeling too well.

Unlike the efficient and dedicated First Troop of the Imperial Guards, however, the Second Troop was far from being as harmonious or as professional. The officers in that division were drilling at a reasonable enough pace, most of them practicing dueling with short-bladed weapons such as smallswords and cutlasses. Unfortunately for them, their captain, Chris Jericho, seemed far more concerned with demonstrating how much better he was than his students than in actually critiquing and helping improve their performances. Currently, Jericho was going down the rows of Second Troop officers, barking at each and every single one of them about how much better his own swordsmanship and marksmanship were, how they could never possibly hope to match his own superior skills at the rate they were slothing along, and how fabulously dashing he looked in his sleek charcoal-gray imperial coat, cream-colored cravat, and fawn trousers.

Jericho reluctantly stopped rambling about the wonders that were the Second Captain of the Imperial Guards when he paused by the only female member of his troop, a tall, statuesque brunette with ivory skin and somber hazel eyes.
"Thayar, you're fighting like a girl," he criticized haughtily, causing nineteen-year-old Nicola Thayar to glare daggers at her leader. Her willowy figure, hidden beneath a gray Second Troop uniform tailored more slimly to fit the feminine shape, automatically positioned itself into a fighting stance, but the gesture went unnoticed by Jericho, who continued to nag, "I never did know what His Majesty saw in you to give you a spot in my troop, but if you're going to be an Imperial Guard, the first thing you'll have to do is start holding your sword like a man." A flash of anger flickering across Nicola's impassive gold-flecked eyes was the only indication that Jericho's words had stung her, before she bowed stiffly and replied, "As you wish, Captain." She then proceeded to clench onto her samurai sword with an iron grip and use it to cleave a nearby tree trunk neatly in half with a single lightning-fast slash, narrowly avoiding decapitating Jericho by less than an inch in the process.

The very force of her arching cut created a gust of wind that whipped Jericho's long blonde hair around his face, while Nicola asked in a cold deadpan, "Is that a manly enough hold for you, sir?" Jericho, frozen in place by the initial shock of her unexpected slash, failed to reply for several seconds. When he finally regained his power of speech, no amount of chivalry toward women instilled in him since babyhood was able to prevent the dashing Second Captain from unleashing a furious verbal attack against his maverick trainee.
"Are you crazy, you sanctimonious little bi--" he started to rant, before Third Captain Randy Orton, passing by on his black stallion, called out laughingly, "Watch your language, Your Mighty Blondeness, that's no way to talk to ladies...even those who prefer to wear pants and carry around weapons." And as he rode past the two, Randy tossed a playful wink at Nicola, who answered both his overture and Jericho's upbraiding with the same expressionless, blank stare.

Randy, for his part, soon left the two behind as he returned to his Third Troop, who'd gathered by the far end of the courtyard. Most of the officers were practicing horsemanship and sharpshooting diligently enough; however, their illustrious young leader seemed far more interested in the very few females in his division than in actually training his cadets.
"You're looking divine today, Miss Molly," Randy was saying charmingly to a petite, dark-haired young woman, flashing her his famous white smile--or smirk, rather--as he added somewhat ungallantly, "Especially considering how you aren't even wearing a corset like proper ladies do. Not that there's anything wrong with it; after all, women who choose to join the Imperial Guards are hardly expected to make first-class fighters while trying to maintain the perfect hourglass shape at the same time." Molly frowned at this rather dubious compliment, before replying in a clipped tone, "In that case, since I seem to have unsexed myself according to your standards by joining this troop, then I'll ask you to please call me Officer Holly, sir. It's hardly common for a leader to be on a first-name basis with his subordinates."

Randy shrugged and merrily trotted off on his horse, deciding to himself that Molly was probably just being modest, when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that one of the members of his Third Troop who'd been practicing death-defying jumps with her white horse had abruptly stopped during his brief chat with Molly and was now observing him keenly from afar. Randy frowned in puzzlement, reining in his own mount and turning it around just in time to catch twenty-two-year-old Gabrielle LeNoir quickly and abashedly drop her eyes to the ground. Smirking easily to himself, Randy rode up to the athletically-built young woman who was, second to him only, the best equestrian in the troop. She was certainly an attractive girl, with her long, wavy ash-blonde hair and expressive blue-gray eyes, and Randy wondered why he hadn't noticed her up until then. Gabrielle's mouth dropped slightly open at his approach, and she hastily turned her horse around as if to flee, but Randy soon caught up to her with an easy gallop and spoke flirtatiously, "Don't tell me my very presence scares you, Miss Gabrielle...or would you prefer that I call you Officer LeNoir?"

Gabrielle looked hesitant, like part of her still wanted to run away. It wasn't everyday that men flirted with her...or with any of the other female members of the Imperial Guards, for that matter. Apparently, the idea of a woman wielding arms--some with greater prowess than the average male--was an offensive, often times intimidating notion. Ever since she'd joined the Imperial Guards, Gabrielle had watched gentlemen everywhere pass over her and instead flock to girls who were far less beautiful than she, shower them with gallantries and worship them like goddesses simply because they were coy, doe-eyed, and could not tell the difference between a broadsword and a rapier. Now faced for the first time with a young man who didn't seem daunted by a strong woman, Gabrielle could only mutter with poor polish, "Far be it for me to challenge your authority, Captain Orton; you may call me whatever's appropriate."

Randy grinned at her unwittingly inviting words, but before he could make his second move, a royal courier dashed breathlessly into the orderly rows of Imperial Guards, catching everybody's attention with his intrusion. Ignoring the hardly subtle looks of curiosity that followed his every move, the young messenger scuttled over to Shawn and, without bowing, began to inform him nervously, "Sir, His Majesty has requested a private conference with all the captains of the Imperial Guards' three troops, regarding what happened last night." Shawn swore softly under his breath, mulling over the news before beckoning Luke over and instructing briskly, "In that case, call the troops to order." Luke nodded.
"Yes, Captain," he replied obediently, striding purposefully toward the scattered troops and blowing piercingly on his whistle to catch their interest. "ATTEN-TION!" Invariably, the rest of the Imperial Guards paused in mid-action, most of the Third Troop being forced to dismount their horses in order to obey. Shawn strode up briskly to the front and cleared his throat before speaking.
"I am pleased with all the progress you have made for today," he praised laconically, then gave the terse order, "You're hereby dismissed for the rest of the day."

A confused murmur rippled across the ranks as they pondered over why their training was being cut short, before John Cena, evidently the ring-leader of quite a clique within the ranks, called out wickedly, "Hey, now, what are we standing around nitpicking for? If I remember correctly, all those single ladies at Belmont should be getting out of their classes around this time of the day!" An approving, rowdy whoop rose from the young men, and Randy and Jericho, who'd previously seemed intent on lashing out at Shawn for taking over as leader of their own troops as well, paused in mid-step and instead turned around to join their Belmont-bound boys. Shawn gaped in disbelief at the two's action, furiously stalking over to the captains of the Second and Third Troop and hissing, "Haven't you got any sense at all? His Majesty plans to confer with the captains of the Imperial Guards--that means all three of us! You can chase after women later." Randy and Jericho winced simultaneously at the First Captain's verbal barrage, before reluctantly following after Shawn and the courier and whining all the way to the waiting coach that would take them to King Vince's Royal Palace. Fed up with the two's childish griping and grumbling, Shawn decided to ride out front with the driver, but before the coach doors were closed after the other two captains, he could distinctly hear Jericho disclose something to Randy that sounded suspiciously like, "Oh, well, at least that Princess Stephanie Marie is a beauty--sometimes, anyway--so as long as she's there..."