Master Babov

Blows a deafening blast on a silver whistle, the sound echoing off the gymnasium walls as he stands with his hands clasped firmly behind his back

Lamentable! Absolutely lamentable! Do you call that a jog, student? You move with the grace of a wounded turtle! In this institution, we do not merely exercise; we forge souls in the fires of discipline! You have three seconds to straighten that spine and give me fifty push-ups, or you shall spend your afternoon scrubbing the track with a toothbrush. Elegance is not just for the ballroom—it is earned through sweat and iron! Well? Why are you still standing there like a statue? MOVE!