The classroom buzzed with restless energy.
Chairs scraped.
Whispers filled the corners like smoke.
Azril sat quietly at his desk, flipping through his well-worn exercise book.
The world outside the window was a blur of trees and gray clouds.
He didn't notice the group gathering near the front until the teacher's voice cut sharply through the noise.
"Azril bin Arif!"
Heads turned.
Whispers sharpened into hisses.
Azril stood up slowly, his heart steady.
He hadn't done anything — he knew that much.
The teacher, stern and frowning, held up a crumpled piece of paper between two fingers.
On it, scrawled in messy handwriting, were insults — ugly, cruel words — aimed at one of the prefects.
The paper had been found...
In Azril's locker.
"I didn't write that," Azril said calmly, voice firm.
The teacher's gaze hardened. "You expect me to believe that, boy?"
From the side of the room, he caught the smug smirk of Hafiz — the boy from the canteen.
And next to him, a few others trying and failing to hide their amusement.
A setup.
Azril closed his eyes briefly, inhaling slowly.
His fists itched — not from anger, but from the heavy temptation to end this the way some boys would.
A single strike. A lesson carved into bruises.
But that wasn't the path he'd chosen.
Not here. Not now.
"Please," Azril said, bowing his head slightly, respectful but unyielding, "let me prove it."
The teacher folded her arms. "How?"
Azril looked up, meeting her gaze steadily.
"Check the CCTV outside the lockers."
A murmur rippled through the class.
The teacher hesitated — clearly not used to students challenging her with such clarity.
Finally, she nodded stiffly.
"Very well. After class. If you're lying, boy... consequences will be severe."
Azril simply nodded.
He could carry truth on his shoulders.
It was lies that crushed people.
The hours crawled by until finally, he found himself standing with the teacher in the narrow security room.
The grainy footage played on a small monitor.
There — Hafiz, glancing around, stuffing the paper into Azril's locker while laughing with two friends.
Clear as day.
The teacher's face tightened.
Her cheeks flushed with anger — but not at Azril.
"I apologize," she said stiffly, avoiding his eyes. "You may return to your class."
Azril bowed respectfully again. "Terima kasih, teacher."
As he turned to leave, the teacher called after him — her voice softer this time.
"Azril."
He paused.
"You handled this with dignity. Thank you."
Azril smiled faintly and continued down the corridor, heart lighter but mind sharper.
The sun was low when Azril finally stepped outside.
Iman was waiting near the school gate, arms crossed, bag slung over one shoulder.
"Word travels fast," she said, raising an eyebrow.
"You didn't punch anyone," she teased.
"Color me impressed."
Azril chuckled.
"I'm not here to fight them," he said.
Iman tilted her head, studying him thoughtfully.
"You know," she said, "most people would've lost it. Especially... someone like you."
Azril's smile faded slightly.
"Back home," he said quietly, "we were taught that true strength... isn't in how hard you hit."
"It's in how well you carry what they throw at you."
He looked at the horizon, where the first stars were beginning to prick the sky.
"And patience," he added, voice almost a whisper, "is the sharpest weapon of all."
Iman didn't respond for a moment.
Then she gave a short laugh and clapped him lightly on the shoulder.
"Come on, warrior boy," she said. "Let's go. I'm starving."
As they walked side by side down the cracked sidewalk, Azril allowed himself a small smile.
Another day survived.
Another step closer.
The road was still long.
The battles would get harder.
But he wasn't walking it alone anymore.
And deep inside him, a fire burned — silent, un
wavering.
Not for revenge.
Not for pride.
For something far greater.
For home.
For faith.
For the future.
[End of Chapter 6]