Academy of Lies. Episode 1: Welcome to the Academy of Lies

Prologue

They called this place The Academy of Lies. Behind the tall stone walls of this ancient school, falsehood was regarded as the highest virtue – and truth, a mere bargaining chip in the grand game of power. Beneath the gothic arches and cold marble vaults thrived a society where ordinary morality had ceased to exist. What the outside world would call vice was here elevated to the status of law. The school appeared on no map; its very existence was a secret known only to a chosen few.

At night, the Academy of Lies looked like a medieval fortress lost high in the mountains: its jagged towers disappeared into the ink-black sky, and only the faint flicker of torches on the walls betrayed the life within. In the very heart of the building – a vast Great Hall – hundreds of candles illuminated the ancient marble ceiling. The warm, trembling light slid across carved columns crowned with stone gargoyles and scattered into shards of color on stained glass windows. The floor of black and white marble bore a pattern of intertwining snakes and masks – as if the earth itself warned newcomers that cunning and deceit ruled here. The tall pointed windows, painted with allegories of deception and triumph, blazed crimson and gold whenever a candle flame shivered in the draft. Above the archway of the hall, a Latin motto was carved in stone: “Vis est in dolo” – “There is strength in deceit.” Shadows and whispers drifted through the air, thick with tension.

Dozens of new recruits stood in a semicircle at the center of the hall, all dressed in identical black robes without a single mark of distinction. Their faces were taut with tension; some shivered – whether from the chill or from inner dread was unclear – for each of them knew that this night would determine their fate. Along the walls, in the shadows of the upper gallery, stood the senior students and mentors – silent silhouettes resembling predators observing their prey. To them, the ceremony was routine; they had endured it once themselves, and now watched with cold satisfaction as the newcomers struggled to mask their fear.

On the low dais before them stood the Rector of the Academy – a tall man of middle years, with a piercing, icy gaze and sharp, commanding features. His dark robe shimmered in the candlelight with silver embroidery marking his rank, while on either side of him stood several figures in similar garments – the members of the Inner Circle, the secret council that ruled the Academy. Massive rings engraved with the image of a mask glinted ominously on their fingers – symbols of their absolute authority. High above, beneath the dome, gleamed the Academy’s emblem: a silver mask on a black stone shield. Its hollow eyes seemed to mock the silent crowd below, reminding all that deceit reigned supreme here.

“Welcome to the Academy of Lies,” the Rector’s clear, cold voice echoed under the vaulted ceiling. He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled youths. Without a twitch of emotion, he continued, each word precise and deliberate:

“From this night on, you cease to be who you were. Forget the naive morals you were taught beyond these walls. Here, weakness is punished, and strength is everything. You were told that lying is a sin, betrayal is shameful, and conscience and mercy are virtues. The truth is this – those so-called sins will be your virtues here. Lies will become your sword and your shield; betrayal, your ladder to power; and mercy – a burden we will soon free you from. Truth, from now on, is merely a tool. Remember well: the more honestly you play, the sooner you perish.”

The Rector lifted from a pedestal beside him an ancient, heavy tome bound in leather – the Codex of the Academy. Opening it to a marked page, he looked up at the silent recruits. His voice dropped lower, becoming even more menacing in the deadly hush:

Honesty is the shortest path to ruin.Lies are the art of power; Truth is but a tool. Trust destroys; suspicion preserves. Compassion is weakness; calculation is strength. Betray first – or be betrayed.

The echo of these words rolled through the hall. Each phrase fell like a weight on the hearts of those below. Some froze in dread; others fought trembling knees – but none dared to move. These were not mere words. They were the immutable laws of their new world.

“Do you swear to accept these laws and live by them?”The Rector closed the tome and surveyed the crowd. His next words rang out with chilling clarity:

Some shouted with conviction, others barely whispered – but all spoke. All but one.Dozens of voices merged into a single oath: “We swear.”

At the edge of the formation, one young man hesitated. His lips moved silently, yet no sound came out. A tense silence filled the hall. The Rector’s cold eyes locked onto the wavering student. Even the candle flames seemed to freeze.

“Do you doubt?” the Rector asked quietly, each syllable sharp as a blade. The youth flinched, pale as marble. His eyes darted in panic, like an animal trapped in a cage. He opened his mouth – to explain, to plead – but no words emerged.

With a curt nod, the Rector signaled. Two figures in black cloaks slipped soundlessly from the shadows. They seized the paralyzed novice by the shoulders. Before he could cry out, he was dragged backward into darkness. A muffled rustle of cloth, the grind of a hidden door – and he was gone. Not a soul moved to help him. Everyone knew mercy here meant death.

“Remember: there is no place here for the weak or the hesitant. Doubt does not live to see the dawn.”For a moment, the hall froze in silence. Then the Rector spoke again – calm as ever, which made it only more terrifying:

A shiver rippled through the crowd. The recruits straightened, hiding their fear behind masks of resolve. Pity vanished from their eyes, replaced by the cold gleam of determination to survive.

“From this moment,” the Rector declared, “you are full members of the Academy of Lies. The weak have been purged. From the rest, we shall forge rulers and unseen masters. For centuries the Academy has guided the course of world history in secret. Kings come and go – but true power belongs to those who master deceit. You will become the elite who pull the strings of fate. You will learn to rule minds and events invisibly. You will not govern through laws – but through influence.”

He paused, letting the words sink in. “The game has begun,” he said quietly. “Prove yourselves worthy.”

He descended from the dais and strode toward the exit. His echoing steps faded beneath the arches as the shadows of the Inner Circle followed him into the dark passage.

The senior mentors stepped forward and motioned for the new initiates to follow. Silently, they moved toward the great oak doors. At the threshold, each novice received a small silver pin in the shape of a mask – the symbol of their new allegiance. It would remind them of their oath and the laws they had accepted.

When the last of them had left and the heavy doors closed, the candles flickered, then went out one by one. Darkness reclaimed the hall. The place where dozens of fates had just been sealed sank back into silence – until the next secret ritual, the next game of shadows.

None of the novices slept that night. In their minds replayed the image of the vanished boy and the echo of the oath that had changed their lives. In the dormitory, rows of iron beds creaked as sleepless students turned under thin blankets.

“We have to stick together,” one of them whispered.

Only silence answered. The other clenched his fists under the blanket, knowing that even a whisper of trust could be fatal. The first sighed, turned to the wall, and wiped away a single tear.

That night was only the beginning. Years of merciless training awaited them – lessons by day, intrigues by night. They would be tested, manipulated, turned against one another. Every friendship would be used as a weapon; every fear, exploited for strength. Informers slid through the corridors like shadows. No one could be sure that their roommate wasn’t a spy. In such a world, paranoia became survival.

In secret classrooms beneath marble arches, they would study the art of blackmail, the craft of manipulation, the mastery of masking emotion. They would learn to lie so flawlessly it became truth, to smile at an enemy while plotting his fall. The Academy would break them – and rebuild them in its own image.

Its secret library held ancient treatises on power, deceit, and fear. There, the chosen few studied the hidden mechanics of the human mind.

Legends told of countless dramas that had unfolded within these walls. One story spoke of two students bound by loyalty – until the final trial forced them to choose between friendship and ambition. One hesitated; the other struck first – and lived to join the Inner Circle. The tale of that betrayal was now a lesson: there can be no two victors, and honesty costs too much.

From its shadowy origins centuries ago, the Academy of Lies had changed little. Rumor claimed it was founded by a betrayed genius who vowed to raise a new breed of rulers – those who would govern not by law, but by deception. Conscience and pity, he said, were chains for the weak. To rule, one must first be free of them.

Time passed, empires fell, and yet the creed of the Academy endured: Lies are its religion. Weakness, its mortal sin.

Thus began the first lesson at the Academy of Lies – a place where virtue was vice, and vice, the highest art.

Chapter 1. Welcome to Nothingness

Alexander stepped inside, feeling his heartbeat quicken despite himself.Above the Academy’s entrance gates gleamed an ancient Latin inscription: Veritas in Nihilo. Alexander Leontiev translated it silently to himself – “Truth in Nothing.” A motto, or perhaps a warning. The massive wrought-iron gates slowly parted, allowing a black service car to roll onto the campus grounds. Through the tinted glass, Alexander watched the city lights fade behind him, swallowed by the shadows of century-old oaks lining the driveway. The car followed a gravel path lit by sparse lamps and came to a halt before the Academy’s main building. In the headlights emerged a Gothic façade: sharp turrets with twisted spires, narrow lancet windows, grim gargoyles crouching on the cornices. It seemed as though the building itself regarded the newcomer with reproach through the hollow sockets of its windows. Leontiev felt a chill creep down his back – whether from the biting October wind or from a vague premonition, he could not tell. He stepped out of the car, pulling up the collar of his coat. The air smelled of damp leaves and wet stone. The car door shut with a dull thud, and the driver’s footsteps faded around the corner. On the portico, between two columns, stood a man in a uniform that looked part official, part businesslike. Raising a lantern, the greeter stepped forward. “Professor Leontiev? Welcome to the Academy,” he said politely, though without much warmth. Alexander nodded, squinting against the glare. The man looked about forty – short hair, sharp features. On his lapel gleamed a badge with the Academy’s golden emblem. “Likewise,” Leontiev replied, glancing briefly at the emblem – a shield entwined by two serpents around a book. An ancient symbol of wisdom… or deceit. “My name is Dmitry Sokolov. I’m the curator of the new staff adaptation program,” the man introduced himself, gesturing for the guest to follow. “The rector asked me to meet you and escort you to his office. He’s expecting you.” Leontiev noticed the lantern’s shadows flickering along the walls, as if someone unseen had just slipped past. A trick of light, perhaps, yet the unease deepened. He wasn’t a fearful man, but from the very first moments here, he sensed the weight of something watching him – like the Academy itself was alive and observant. “Thank you, Dmitry,” he said evenly. “Pleased to meet you.” As they climbed the broad stone steps, Alexander ran his hand along the railing, cold and smooth from decades of use. Behind them, the gates closed with a drawn-out groan – as if cutting off the way back. The vestibule met them with half-light and silence. The high ceiling dissolved into darkness where faint golden Latin letters shimmered in a ring. The décor was austere: a massive chandelier with unlit lamps and rows of marble busts along the walls. Their footsteps echoed under the arches like in a crypt. Leontiev brushed his finger over the nearest bust, discreetly wiping off the dust. The face on the pedestal was barely discernible but seemed oddly familiar – perhaps a former graduate, now a prominent figure. The inscription beneath read: Non omnis moriar. “I shall not wholly die,” Alexander recalled and gave a crooked smile. For a secret forge of the elite, that motto sounded rather ominous. “Straight ahead and to the left,” Sokolov’s voice broke the silence. “The rector is waiting in his office.” “At such a late hour?” Alexander asked quietly as they walked. “Rector Arkady Viktorovich often works late,” Sokolov replied evasively. “Your arrival is… a special case.” A special case. There was a faint trace of irony – or amusement – in his tone. Leontiev couldn’t tell which. He was good at catching subtleties – a habit of his profession – yet the shifting shadows distracted him. For an instant, he thought he saw a door at the far end of the hall open slightly, a flicker of candlelight revealing a face watching them. He blinked – the door was shut again, only the dim glimmer remained. A turn to the left brought them to a pair of oak double doors. Sokolov knocked lightly and, without waiting for an answer, opened one side, stepping aside to let the guest pass. “Professor Leontiev has arrived,” he announced into the half-darkness of the room.

Chapter 2. The Rector Who Sees Through Everything

Seated behind a wide, carved desk was the rector of the Academy, Arkady Viktorovich Orlov. Lifting his head from a stack of papers, he gave Leontiev a piercing glance from his pale gray eyes. His age was hard to guess—his sharp, stone-cut features, neatly trimmed graying hair, and thin lips curved in a polite smile that showed no teeth.

“Good evening, Alexander Sergeevich,” Orlov said quietly, yet his voice filled the room with effortless authority. “I’m glad to finally welcome you to our Academy.”

“Good evening, Arkady Viktorovich.” Leontiev stepped closer and shook the rector’s outstretched hand. It was unexpectedly cold. “Thank you for the invitation.”

“Please, have a seat.”

Alexander sank into a leather armchair opposite the desk. The office felt like a strange fusion of museum and command post: tall bookshelves reached the ceiling, packed with ancient tomes on history, politics, and psychology, interrupted here and there by sleek modern screens displaying glowing diagrams and scrolling data. Behind the rector hung a massive portrait—likely one of the Academy’s founders, a stern general in an old military uniform adorned with medals. His rigid gaze seemed aimed directly at Leontiev.

Sokolov quietly closed the door behind them, leaving the guest alone with the rector and the dim light of a green-shaded lamp.

For a while, Orlov studied him, fingertips pressed together in a contemplative triangle. Leontiev endured the silence, feeling like a student before a very exacting examiner.

“Your trip was uneventful, I hope?” the rector finally asked, as if making small talk.

“Quite all right,” Leontiev nodded. “Mr. Sokolov was very kind to meet me.”

“Excellent. I hope the Academy leaves a favorable impression,” said Orlov with a soft smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “We’ve been following your work for quite some time, Alexander Sergeevich.”

“My work? I’m afraid my reputation has been… ambiguous of late.”Leontiev tilted his head slightly.

“You mean the incident at your university? Believe me, we see it differently here. In fact, that episode is precisely what brought you to our attention.”Orlov gave a low chuckle.

Alexander’s fingers tightened on the armrest. So they knew. The faint sting of anxiety rose in him. That scandalous investigation—the one that had cost him his position. They’d cast him out so quickly, once he touched the wrong names… He pushed the thought aside, forcing himself to stay focused.

“I’m glad to hear I’m not considered a liability,” he said carefully.

“On the contrary—we see great potential in you,” Orlov assured him. “Few possess such a fine understanding of the human psyche—and the courage to call things by their true names. Our Academy trains the elite, and psychological insight is vital to that process. Your expertise will be most useful.”

Leontiev accepted the compliment with a polite nod, though unease lingered. The rector’s offer remained vague. Officially, he had been invited to teach or consult—but there were no details. Why would an elite institution bring in a disgraced professor? Unless… they valued precisely his defiance, his refusal to look away from truth. But why?

“Of course, I’ll be glad to share my knowledge and assist the students,” Alexander said. “Though I’m still not entirely clear on my role.”

“For now, that role is observer,” replied Orlov, leaning back in his chair. “Take some time to look around, acquaint yourself with our methods. You may find them unconventional, yet quite effective. Later, we’ll discuss how your talent can serve us best.”

The words were smooth, but Leontiev caught the subtext: he hadn’t been offered a real post. He would observe—or, more likely, be observed. A test subject in a psychological experiment, perhaps. He kept his expression neutral.

“Tomorrow morning we’ll have a rather interesting session. A kind of demonstration—part of a special course. I believe you’ll find it fascinating as a psychologist. Mr. Sokolov will escort you.”Meanwhile, Orlov continued,

“Thank you. Is it something like an open lecture?”

“In a sense. An exercise in uncovering secrets. Our top students are trained to see through people. A useful skill—for a diplomat, a spy, a politician… anyone, really.”The rector smiled faintly.

As he spoke, Orlov raised an eyebrow, giving Leontiev a knowing look. The implication was clear: here, even you, Professor, are transparent.

“Sounds intriguing,” Alexander replied evenly.

“Splendid.” Orlov shut the folder with a decisive thud, signaling that the meeting was over. “I won’t keep you any longer. You must be tired from your journey. Dmitry will show you to your quarters. Spartan, but serviceable.”

Leontiev rose, taking the hint. There were more questions than answers, but pressing for them now was pointless. The rector clearly preferred to watch how his guest behaved in uncertainty.

“Thank you again, Arkady Viktorovich,” said Alexander politely. “I appreciate your trust and hope to live up to it.”

“I’m sure you’ll adapt quickly. The Academy is a special place. Everything soon falls into place here. Good night, Professor.”The rector shook his hand once more. His gaze lingered a second too long, sharp as a blade.

“Good night,” Leontiev replied.

The door creaked open. Sokolov appeared, waiting in the hallway. As Alexander stepped out, he could almost feelOrlov’s eyes still on the back of his head. A chill ran down his spine, and he exhaled slowly—as though emerging from a confined, airless chamber.

“Shall I take you to the residential wing?” Sokolov asked briskly.

“Yes, please. You’re very kind,” Leontiev nodded.

They walked along dim corridors, turning right, then descending a narrow staircase. The walls were lined with old engravings and photographs—groups of graduates from different eras, posed on the same stone steps of the building. Now and then Leontiev slowed, studying the faded faces. Young men and women in strict uniforms, smiling with quiet confidence. Beneath the portraits, he recognized familiar names—ministers, generals, mayors. So this is where they all came from.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” said Sokolov, noticing his interest. “Our alumni go far. Though, of course, some drop out along the way.”

“Drop out?” Alexander echoed.

“The training here is demanding,” Sokolov replied evasively. “Not everyone can handle the pressure. Expulsions happen.”

Leontiev stopped before one photo framed in silver—ten years old. The last row had a gap: one face was neatly cut out.

“And this one?” he asked quietly, nodding toward it.

“Ah, that… Unfortunate case. One graduate later disgraced the Academy—became a traitor. He was removed from our history, so to speak.”Sokolov glanced at the frame; a twitch crossed his cheek.

A cold shiver crept down Alexander’s back. Such a measure felt archaic, almost medieval—like erasing the name of a condemned man from a chronicle. The Academy clearly valued its image—and erased anyone who failed to fit it.

“I see,” he murmured.

They continued on. Soon, a vaulted passage led into a newer wing—walls freshly painted, lined with numbered doors instead of portraits. Sokolov stopped before one marked 6.

“These are your quarters,” he said, handing over a key. “Apologies for the simplicity—former faculty room, used for overnight duty.”

“That will do perfectly,” Alexander assured him, taking the key.

“There’s an Academy uniform in the wardrobe—you may wear it in class, though it’s optional. I’ll come for you at nine tomorrow. You’ll have time for breakfast and a short tour before the session. Anything else you need?”

“Thank you, Dmitry, that’s quite enough,” Leontiev smiled faintly. “You’ve been very helpful.”

Sokolov nodded. “Then rest well, Professor. Tomorrow will be… enlightening.”

And with that, he left Alexander alone.

Chapter 3. The Observer’s Dreams

Alexander unlocked the door and stepped into his temporary refuge. The room was modest but tidy: a bed, a desk, a wardrobe, and a small window tucked right under the ceiling, offering a sliver of star-flecked sky. He dropped his travel bag onto a chair and glanced around. Fatigue pressed on him, yet his mind kept churning.

Leontiev sat on the edge of the bed and pulled off his coat. The silence was nearly absolute—only the faint hum of the ventilation system broke it. After a tense day, he was finally alone, able to breathe out.

But peace wouldn’t come. The impressions of the first day clung like lead to his thoughts. The curator who greeted him with a sharp, probing stare; the rector, speaking in half-truths; the echoing hallways lined with carved faces on photographs—everything felt like scenery in a meticulously staged performance, with a role set aside for him… though which one exactly?

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