A long, heavy silence followed his speech.
The freshborns sat in quiet awe, their minds turning over the weight of his words. The veiled man stood still, his presence looming, his posture unwavering.
Then…
He exhaled.
A deep breath, slow and measured.
And then, in the most casual, off-hand manner possible, he muttered—
"Well… that was dramatic."
A flicker of sound.
A hum. Low, deep, almost imperceptible at first. The kind of sound that didn't belong. It came from nowhere—everywhere—a deep bass thump, too distant to be real.
Before anyone could process what was happening, the veiled man gripped the edges of his overcoat and—
WHOOSH.
In one fluid motion, the coat was gone, revealing a glorious, sequin-covered, neon-drenched party suit underneath. The hall's dim lighting flashed to life, shifting into pulsing, colorful beams.
The freshborns blinked. Once. Twice.
A loud gasp rippled through them.
Then—
BOOM.
The entire auditorium exploded into color.
The man clapped his hands together, and as if answering some unholy signal, the entire staff followed suit—ripping off their coats in perfect unison to reveal an assortment of dazzling outfits.
And then—
THE MUSIC HIT.
A beat, deep and smooth, rolled through the hall like a tidal wave. A full-blown, bass-thumping, beat-dropping, high-energy party anthem.
The man—now a disco god—grabbed the microphone, tossing his hat and veil into the air, his face now obscured—by oversized party sunglasses.
He took a deep breath.
And then, at full volume—
"WELCOME TO THE ACAADEEEEEMYYYY!"
The words weren't spoken—they were sung.
In a booming, operatic voice that could shatter glass, he belted out the words with a dramatic vibrato, arms spread wide like a performer on the grandest stage.
"OHHHHH, YOU THOUGHT IT'D BE ALL BLOOD, SWEAT, AND TEARS—"
The staff—THE SAME STAFF WHO HAD BEEN STANDING LIKE STONE STATUES—broke into synchronized dance moves.
Spin. Shoulder roll. Finger guns. Shoulder shimmy. Knee slide. They were spinning, twirling, and moonwalking across the Auditorium Nexus like seasoned performers.
"BUT YOU GOTTA HAVE SOME FUN BEFORE THE YEARS DISAPPEAR—"
The freshborns were frozen in place.
Bigie was gripping his seat like he was holding on for dear life.
Vasco's face screamed what in the actual hell is happening.
Abunar just… stared.
Then the sunglasses man leapt onto the podium, striking a pose that should not have been physically possible for someone his size. Spotlights swept across the room as the holograms turned into disco balls. The staff were on the tables, doing synchronized dance moves that were both terrifyingly coordinated and extremely fun.
"YOU'LL TRAIN! YOU'LL FIGHT! YOU'LL PUSH TO YOUR LIMITS!"
He pointed at the crowd, commanding them like a general on a battlefield.
"BUT TONIGHT—"
"TONIGHT—" the staff echoed, harmonizing.
"YOU'RE GONNA DANCE UNTIL YOUR FEET FORGIVE YOU!"
A spotlight shot onto the freshborns.
And then—they started getting dragged in.
"COME ON, ROOKIES!" the sunglasses man hollered, clapping his hands. "YOU'RE NOT TRULY ACADEMY STUDENTS UNTIL YOU DANCE."
A spotlight blasted down onto the first row. A few unfortunate freshborns were pulled from their seats by the enthusiastic staff and thrown straight into the madness.
Someone flinched as if expecting an attack when the bass dropped.
A poor soul in the front row tried to bolt—only to be caught mid-air by a dancing staff member.
Someone tossed glow sticks into the air.
Confetti rained down from nowhere.
The fog machine wasn't just there—it moved, swirling unnaturally, curling around the freshborns like it had a mind of its own.
The walls lit up in neon patterns, shifting in sync with the music, as if the very academy was alive and in on the joke.
And the staff—
One was aggressively playing air guitar.
Another was ballroom-dancing with an imaginary partner.
The oldest, most serious-looking instructor—who had spent the entire day glaring at them—shredded a solo on an actual electric guitar, despite no one knowing where it came from.
The bass dropped.
The sunglasses man raised the mic once more. His voice thundered through the hall as he threw his arms wide—
Then—
He leaned forward.
Not shouting. Not singing.
Whispering.
Right before the beat slammed into them like a freight train.
"I hope you like musicals, because this is your life now."
Chaos. Absolute chaos.
Until the whole hall was moving—not in fear, not in panic, but in a chaotic, once-in-a-lifetime, energy-fueled fever dream of a celebration.
The sunglasses man led the charge like a disco warlord.