Professor Stein From Soul Eater Novels & Stories

A murmur ran through the hall as a distinguished man entered—Professor James, a dean at Golden League University. All eyes followed him. Sora practically jumped forward. “Professor James!” she cried, her smile wide. “I’m Sora Hill. My mother, Veronice, mentioned you often. It’s such an honor—” The professor blinked at her, polite confusion on his face. “I’m sorry… Hill, did you say? I don’t believe I’ve heard the name.” “Aiden Hill? Don’t you remember?” she pressed The man shook his head. The silence was deafening. Then a low murmur of chuckles rose in the surrounding clque. Sora was embarrassed.

The same mouth that had been on me last night. Professor Elias Thorne. The man I fucked senseless in a hotel room. The man I was supposed to marry. He scanned the room and his eyes landed on me. I could see the same recognition I had on my face, flash through his. But it was gone in a second as he cleared his throat and stepped onto the podium. “Good morning,” he said calmly. “I’m Professor Thorne. Welcome to Advanced Literary Theory.” For a moment I just remained transfixed. Mara nudged me. “You okay? You look like you saw a ghost.”

“ And for that, I will make sure that the one who is your soul brother will have as much resentment for you as you made me have for Maya.” His eyes flickers. He feigns a smile, but the beads of sweat on his forehead hints otherwise. “ Secondly, you walked straight into my marriage with Aaron…oh god, now I'm beginning to connect the dots.” I gasped, cupping my mouth. It was him all along. His voice…his face…now that I think of it, the resemblance is uncanny. Steven is the professor who banged Clarice! How didn't I see it earlier? I had taken a closeup shot of them together, but I hadn't cared to look close enough. She called him professor, no way I could have thought it would be this son of a

“How’s the new professor?” I groaned and rubbed my temples. “Awful so far. Professor Stevens is old, stuffy, and a complete stickler for the rules. Her lectures are long and boring, and I swear she’s trying to kill her students with work.” “That bad, huh?” Tina winced sympathetically as she took a bite of her chicken salad sandwich.

Always watching. I dragged my hand down my face. “I do not hate you, Reese. I never did. I only hated what I believed you did. What he made me believe. If we are going against him, then we go fully. You have to tell me what you know. Tell me who touched Dahlia. Tell me what The Professor looks like.” I needed the truth like oxygen. I needed a target. A face. A neck to break. Reese inhaled slowly. “I don’t know his real name. All I know is that he was in education. A professor, likely. High-ranking. Untouchable like all his friends. That is why they call him ‘The Professor’.”

We made our way to two empty seats at the back. “Hey,” Liam whispered moving over for us to sit next to him. “Get lost asshole,” Macy retorted before I could say a word in response. She held my hand and made me sit. “What is going on? Why do you look so pale?” she whispered. My gaze never left his. I gulped. “Why is he here? Where is the arts professor?” “Oh, that? Didn’t you get the mail? Professor Brown retired to his hometown. Professor Sebastian got transferred as his replacement. He’s hot isn’t he? That’s the reason why you were so distracted…”

Jack pats her shoulder, his face twisted in fake concern. I should feel something sympathy, worry but all I can think is: Now who’s going to tell me my art is empty? The dean gestures to the stranger beside her. "This is Mr. Laurent. He’ll be your substitute instructor for the remainder of the semester." And that’s when I finally look at him. Jerome Laurent is not what I expected. Young too young to be a professor, maybe late twenties with tousled dark hair and a sharp jaw shadowed by stubble. He’s dressed in all black: fitted slacks, a rolled sleeve button down, boots that look like they’ve seen more than just a classroom.

Just an endless red sky bleeding slow-motion sunsets and a floor that remembers every fight it’s ever hosted (scars, burns, claw marks, and frozen lightning veins glow under the surface). The professor is already waiting. Professor Thunderstrike (real name unpronounceable in mortal tongues) is eight feet tall, built like a war forge, skin the color of stormclouds at midnight, four arms, each holding a different legendary weapon: - a flaming trident - a katana made of dawn - a shield that shows you your own death - and a coffee mug that says “World’s Okayest Mentor.” He doesn’t speak. He just points to the center of the ring, where six obsidian pedestals rise from the floor.

As soon as Zayne left and the sound of tire’s peeling down the pavement sounded, Alec was on the phone with Julian and Garrett. Soul Eater. That sounded even more comforting than an emotional leech. I wasn’t sure what to make of Zayne Novak. He was self-assured, pompous, and clearly felt some sort of animosity towards his father. The little tip he gave us about Soul Eaters wasn’t exactly for our benefit. What would happen if I was a soul eater? I’m sure the chances of a bright future would dim under that revelation. “Do you know Zayne or something? You seemed like you were about to explode the entire time.” I asked, stepping into his arms and smiling when his anger ebbed.

“Sure. Most everyone has.” “Ever see the guy working there with the limp? Medium height, skinny, longish hair, narrow face with deep-set eyes? And I mean serious limp. Both feet are pointed inward.” I sit back and think for a moment. Sure enough, a vague mental image forms. “Think so. He wears a lot of those classic eighties and nineties rock’n roll T-shirts, right? Metallica, Judas Priest, Motley Crue, L. A. Guns?” Father Ward nods. “That’s him. He came to All Saints last night. At least, I’m nearly certain it was him, based on the story he told me. As for that . . . ”