The GAIA Enforcers Talent Academy loomed before me, a blend of glass and steel, shimmering with faint lines of energy that pulsed like a heartbeat. It wasn't just a building—it was a promise and a warning.
A scanning device stood tall at the entrance, sleek and imposing, its polished surface glowing faintly. One by one, rookies moved through the device in an orderly line, each pausing momentarily as it scanned and checked them in.
When my turn came, I stepped forward without hesitation and passed through the scanner.
[Welcome to GAIA Enforcers Talent Academy]
Name: Noah Adler
Rank: C
Class: Technomancer
Talent: Technical Specialist
Status: Rookie
Grade: Untested
Squad: Not Assigned
"Please proceed to training ground E54. Follow the route signs," the system's calm, mechanical voice announced.
A holographic map of the academy materialized in front of me, detailed with impressive precision. A bright GPS route lit up, clearly marking the path to my orientation location. Efficient, high-tech, and impossible to miss.
I gave a small nod to myself, appreciating the tech.
"At least they're thorough," I muttered as I began following the route, weaving through the bustling academy grounds.
The courtyard was electric with a mix of nerves and adrenaline, a tangible buzz that rippled through the mass of fresh-faced rookies.
I stood near the back, hands shoved casually into my pockets, scanning the crowd. It was easy to pick out the high-rankers.
They carried themselves with a cocky edge, their postures screaming entitlement. Meanwhile, the lower-rankers huddled together like a pack of prey animals, exchanging whispered doubts.
Then he arrived.
"Alright, listen up, maggots!"
The voice cut through the chatter like a whip. Gerald, our orientation leader, stormed onto the scene, all six-foot-something of him, muscles straining against his academy-issued uniform.
He looked like the kind of guy who could bench press a car and then lecture you on how you weren't doing it right.
He paced before us like a drill sergeant, his biceps flexing dramatically as he waved an intimidating holopad.
"You lot think you're special because you got an invite to the academy? Think again! Half of you don't belong here, and by the end of the orientation, you won't be here. Fail the tests, and you're out. No second chances."
The group collectively stiffened.
"Biceps don't equal leadership," I muttered under my breath, earning a barely stifled snort from a kid beside me.
Gerald's eyes landed on me like a hawk spotting a mouse. "You got something to say, C-rank?"
I shrugged, keeping my expression neutral. "Just wondering if we're graded on the volume of your yelling or the quality of our performance."
The crowd went dead silent. Then a few chuckles escaped before they were hastily stifled. Gerald glared but decided I wasn't worth the energy.
"Let's see how confident you are after the physical test!" he barked.
********
The obstacle course stretched out before us like some sadistic carnival ride. Rope climbs, weighted runs, a towering wall that seemed to reach the heavens, and a combat arena at the end.
"All tasks must be completed in under two hours," Gerald announced with a wicked grin. "Or you're disqualified."
The timer began, and chaos erupted.
The first station was deceptively simple—a series of ropes dangling over a pit filled with god-knows-what. The smell alone suggested it wasn't something I wanted to fall into.
I gripped the rope, muscles straining as I pulled myself upward. My lack of raw strength was a glaring weakness, but I made up for it with strategy, using my legs to anchor myself. Slow and steady.
Halfway up, a voice called out beside me. "Need a hand, C-rank?"
I glanced over to see a lanky guy with sharp features and an easy grin. He had already reached the top of his rope and leaned over to offer a hand.
"I've got it," I replied, but there was no edge to my tone.
He shrugged, pulling himself up and waiting at the top. When I joined him, he extended a hand again, this time for a shake.
"Atlas Draxler. A-rank Sniper, Assassin Class."
"Noah Adler. C-rank Technomancer."
His grin widened. "Technomancer, huh? Sounds fancy. Guessing you summon robots or something?"
"Something like that," I said vaguely.
The next stage involved hauling a weighted pack across a rocky trail. Atlas kept pace with me, cracking jokes about how the instructors seemed to have a personal vendetta against fun.
"I mean, come on," he panted. "This pack weighs more than I do. What are they feeding these instructors? Pure protein powder?"
I smirked, focusing on my breathing. "Maybe you should try eating once in a while, stick figure."
He laughed, pushing himself harder. Despite his easy-going nature, it was clear he was competitive. I appreciated that. It pushed me to keep up, even when my legs screamed in protest.
The wall was the most intimidating obstacle yet, its surface slick with some sort of grease designed to make climbing a nightmare. Higher-ranked rookies were already scaling it, their superior stats making it look effortless.
I stood back, observing the patterns. The grease wasn't uniform—some sections had less, offering better grip. I mapped a path in my mind, then attacked the wall.
Atlas joined me partway up, his agility shining as he swung from hold to hold. "You've got a good eye," he said.
"You've got a big mouth," I replied, but the camaraderie was undeniable.
Together, we reached the top, earning sneers from some of the high-rankers who had finished ahead of us.
The last station was a brutal gauntlet against combat drones. The metallic constructs moved with unnerving speed, their programming designed to exploit weaknesses.
Most rookies relied on brute force, trying to overpower the drones. I took a different approach, baiting their attacks and exploiting openings. With each strike, I felt the familiar rhythm of a system revealing its flaws.
Atlas, meanwhile, showcased his sniper skills, taking precise shots that disabled drones with efficiency.
"Nice moves," he called out, ducking under a drone's swing.
"Likewise," I replied, hurling a piece of debris to distract another.
By the time the dust settled, only a handful of rookies were left standing. Whispers rippled through the crowd, many eyes landing on me.
"C-rank, my ass," one muttered.
"Lucky," another scoffed.
Gerald stepped forward, clapping slowly. "Not bad, rookies. Not bad. Even you, C-rank." His tone was mocking, but there was a glint of approval in his eyes.
Atlas nudged me with a grin. "Looks like you're starting to make an impression."
As the group dispersed, whispers about the next day's challenge filled the air. Gerald's parting words lingered ominously: "Today was the warm-up. Tomorrow, we separate the weak from the warriors."
I caught a flicker of movement in the shadows, a figure watching us from a distance. Their gaze lingered on me, sending a chill down my spine.
Atlas noticed my tension. "Something wrong?"
"Nothing," I said, but my instincts told me otherwise. Something—or someone—was watching, and it wasn't friendly.