The line of students stretched down the yard as they waited for their turn on the obstacle course. Torren's sharp gaze swept over them, arms crossed as he stood near the start. "One at a time," he barked. "No cutting corners. If I see anyone slacking, you'll run the course twice."
Atlas stood near the back of the line, watching intently as the first few students began. He had to admit, he felt a flicker of confidence. After all, his years in Midtown had honed his agility. Dodging through tight alleys, leaping over crates, and sprinting from angry shopkeepers or guards had given him quick feet and good reflexes.
But as the students ahead of him tackled the course, his confidence wavered.
The first obstacle was a wall—a sheer wooden structure about eight feet high. The first student, a tall, broad-shouldered boy, scaled it effortlessly, pulling himself over in one smooth motion. Atlas noted how the boy's arms bulged with muscle as he dropped down the other side without breaking stride. A few others followed, some taking more time to hoist themselves up but managing it nonetheless.
Next was a stretch of hurdles—wooden bars set at uneven intervals. The students darted through them, some weaving gracefully while others stumbled and fumbled. A girl with short black hair and a focused expression breezed through, her movements light and deliberate, like she'd done this a hundred times before.
Then came the rope climb. Thick ropes hung from tall wooden beams, requiring the students to use their arms and legs to hoist themselves to the top before ringing a small bell and sliding back down. This was where the divide became glaringly apparent. The students from prominent families, with their polished postures and deliberate movements, scaled the ropes with relative ease. Others, like a wiry boy who barely managed to ring the bell, clearly struggled.
Finally, there was the trench crawl—a muddy pit with wooden beams set low overhead, forcing the students to crawl on their hands and knees to avoid hitting their heads. A blond-haired boy who'd sped through the first obstacles got bogged down here, his limbs tangling in the muck as the more experienced students yelled encouragement—or mockery.
Atlas watched it all carefully, his heart beginning to sink. Maybe he wasn't as prepared as he thought. Running away in Midtown wasn't the same as this. He didn't have the strength to climb walls or the endurance to sprint through long courses. And seeing the others—how polished, how strong some of them were—it brought a bitter pang of envy. He buried it quickly.
"Work hard," he muttered under his breath, his hands curling into fists. "You'll catch up."
Finally, his turn came. Torren's sharp voice broke his thoughts. "Let's go, Atlas. Show me what you've got."
Atlas stepped up to the line, shaking out his hands and taking a deep breath. He couldn't afford to second-guess himself now.
The whistle blew, and he sprinted toward the wall. His feet hit the ground hard as he leapt up, grabbing the top of the wooden structure. His fingers burned as he pulled himself up, legs scrabbling against the smooth surface. It wasn't graceful, nothing like the first boy who'd scaled it with ease, but he managed to haul himself over, landing on the other side with a grunt. His legs wobbled slightly from the effort, but he pushed forward.
Next were the hurdles. He approached them at a steady pace, trying to mimic the movements he'd seen from the black-haired girl earlier. His first few steps were smooth, his body weaving between the bars, but he misjudged the fourth hurdle, clipping it with his ankle. He stumbled but didn't fall, gritting his teeth as he forced himself to focus. By the time he cleared the last hurdle, his breathing was heavier than he'd expected.
Then came the ropes. Atlas froze for a fraction of a second, staring up at the bell at the top. The rope looked much taller now that he was standing in front of it. He grabbed it with both hands, the rough fibers biting into his palms as he started to climb. His arms trembled after just a few pulls, and he was forced to use his legs to brace himself. The rope swayed slightly under his weight, and his progress was slow.
"Come on, Atlas!" Torren's voice cut through the air, sharp and unforgiving.
The shouts of his classmates—some cheering, some jeering—pushed him onward. He gritted his teeth, his muscles screaming as he reached the top and slapped the bell. The sharp ding felt like a small victory, but the slide back down left his hands raw.
The final stretch was the trench crawl. By now, his body was aching, and his breaths came in ragged bursts. The mud was cold and clung to his skin as he dropped to his hands and knees. He pushed forward, his shoulders brushing against the wooden beams above. It was slow, grueling work, the mud sucking at his limbs with every movement.
Halfway through, his knee caught on a jagged rock, and he winced, biting back a curse. He forced himself to keep moving, his heart pounding as the end of the trench came into view. With one final push, he pulled himself out, his entire body covered in muck.
Panting, Atlas straightened, wiping the mud from his face as he jogged toward the finish line. The other students watched silently, their expressions a mix of amusement and indifference. He could feel their stares, their unspoken judgments, but he kept his head high.
When he crossed the finish line, he bent over, hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. He wasn't the fastest. He wasn't the strongest. But he'd finished. That was enough for now.
Torren approached, his face unreadable as he looked Atlas up and down. "Middle of the pack," he said curtly. "Not bad. But you've got a long way to go."
Atlas nodded, his chest still heaving. "Yes, sir," he managed to say.
As he stepped aside to join the other students, he caught Seth's eye. The boy gave him a small, encouraging nod. Atlas returned it, feeling a flicker of relief. Not everyone was against him.
But as he glanced at the others, the wary looks and quiet whispers, all he could do was shake his head and carry on.
The last of the students finally stumbled across the finish line, their faces red and covered in sweat and grime. Among them was Rea. Her usually confident posture was gone, replaced by a sagging exhaustion that seemed to weigh down her every step. Her tanned skin was streaked with mud, and her hair clung to her face in wet strands. She looked pale, like she might collapse at any moment.
Atlas couldn't help the small flicker of satisfaction that passed through him as he watched her struggle. Serves her right, he thought bitterly. After everything she'd done that morning, watching her suffer just a little felt like justice.
Even as the thought crossed his mind, a small voice in the back of his head tried to reason with him. He knew it wasn't entirely her fault. Sure, she hadn't helped the situation with Aaron, but the boy had a problem with him from the very first moment they'd locked eyes. Aaron didn't need much of an excuse to hate him.
Atlas's eyes shifted toward Aaron, who was standing with the rest of the group, barely winded and still managing to look composed despite the mud caked on his uniform. The boy's chest puffed out slightly, his expression smug as his gaze flicked to Atlas. There was something in Aaron's eyes—a silent challenge, a look that seemed to say, I'm better than you, and I know it.
Atlas clenched his fists, heat rising in his chest. He wasn't the type to back down from a fight, but now wasn't the time. He forced himself to look away, focusing instead on Torren, who was stepping forward and gesturing for the class to gather around.
The students shuffled closer, their movements slow and heavy. They were all coated in mud, their uniforms soaked with sweat, their breathing ragged. Some were leaning on their knees for support, others standing with their arms crossed, trying to mask their exhaustion. Atlas joined the group, his legs aching and his chest still heaving as he tried to catch his breath.
Torren's sharp gaze swept over them, his expression as unreadable as ever. "That was just the warm-up," he announced, his voice cutting through the group like a blade.
Groans rippled through the crowd, a few students exchanging weary glances. One boy in the back even muttered something under his breath, earning a withering glare from Torren that silenced him immediately.
"You think you're done because you made it through one course?" Torren continued, his voice low but carrying an undeniable weight. "This is nothing. Out there, when you're on the battlefield, there are no breaks. No one's going to stop and give you a pat on the back because you climbed a rope or ran through some mud. You will keep going until your body gives out, and then you'll keep going some more. That's how you survive."
Atlas felt a shiver run down his spine. Torren wasn't exaggerating; his words carried the weight of someone who had lived through it, who had been forged in the very fire he was throwing them into.
"Line up," Torren barked, his tone sharp and unyielding. "You're running laps. Ten to start."
A collective groan rose from the group, but no one dared voice their complaints. They lined up at the edge of the yard, their bodies stiff and sluggish as they prepared to run. Atlas found himself near the middle, glancing down at the mud caked on his arms and legs. It was already uncomfortable, sticking to his skin in all the wrong places. Running in this condition was going to be hell.
The whistle blew, and they started.
The first few laps weren't so bad. Atlas kept a steady pace, his legs moving automatically as he focused on the rhythm of his breathing. But as the laps wore on, the discomfort grew. The mud chafed against his skin, his muscles screamed in protest, and his lungs burned with every breath.
Ahead of him, the stronger students—those who had clearly been trained from a young age—pulled further ahead, their movements efficient and practiced. Aaron was among them, his stride long and powerful as he glanced back occasionally, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.
He's mocking me, Atlas thought bitterly, his frustration mounting. But he didn't let it distract him.
Behind him, a few of the less athletic students began to falter, their steps slowing as they struggled to keep up. Rea was among them, her face pale and her breaths coming in short, ragged bursts. For a moment, Atlas felt another flicker of satisfaction, but it was quickly replaced by something else—pity, maybe, or guilt. He shook it off and kept running.
By the seventh lap, Atlas's entire body felt like it was on fire. Every step was a struggle, every breath a battle. His mind screamed at him to stop, to drop to the ground and let his body rest, but he didn't. He couldn't.
Instead, he forced himself to focus on something else. He remembered the night Ren was taken, the helplessness he'd felt as he watched his only friend get hurt. He remembered the overwhelming sense of failure, of knowing that he hadn't been strong enough to protect him.
Never again, he thought, his jaw tightening as he pushed through the pain.
His legs burned, his chest ached, and his vision blurred slightly from the sweat dripping into his eyes, but he kept going. Each step was a reminder of why he was here, of what he had to prove.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, Torren blew the whistle again, signaling the end of the laps. Atlas stumbled to a stop, his legs trembling beneath him as he bent over, hands on his knees. His breath came in heavy gasps, and for a moment, he thought he might collapse.
"Not bad," Torren said, his voice carrying a hint of approval as he addressed the group. "Some of you managed to survive. Others…" He let the sentence hang, his gaze lingering on the students who had fallen behind.
Atlas glanced around, noticing how many of his classmates were slumped on the ground, too exhausted to stand. Even Rea had dropped to her knees, her face buried in her hands as she tried to catch her breath. Aaron, of course, stood tall at the front of the group, his smug expression firmly in place.
"Take five minutes to recover," Torren ordered. "Then we move on."
Atlas straightened slowly, his muscles screaming in protest. He wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his hand, glancing down at his mud-covered arms. He felt like he'd been through hell.
Torren had everyone line up once more after their grueling laps. The students stood in silence, their bodies covered in mud and their breathing uneven. Despite their exhaustion, no one dared complain under Torren's sharp gaze.
"Listen up," Torren said, his voice slicing through the air. "One by one, you'll step forward and spar with me. This is not about winning—it's about finding your limits, testing your instincts, and seeing how much training you've had. Don't hold back, and don't waste my time."
The students exchanged uneasy glances. Most of them still looked drained from the earlier exercises, their faces pale and covered in sweat. Torren scanned the line, his eyes narrowing as they settled on the first student.
"Marcus Eldarion," he barked, pointing at the tall boy who had flown through the obstacle course earlier with an almost effortless grace.
Marcus straightened, stepping forward with a calm confidence that betrayed his noble upbringing. His dark hair was neatly combed despite the mud clinging to the rest of him, and he moved with the air of someone who had been preparing for this moment his entire life.
He entered the sparring ring and took a textbook stance, his movements sharp and precise. Torren stepped forward to meet him, his stance relaxed but purposeful.
"Whenever you're ready," Torren said, motioning for Marcus to begin.
Marcus didn't hesitate. He launched forward with a series of clean, calculated strikes, his technique clearly refined by years of training. But Torren didn't counter immediately. Instead, he blocked and dodged with ease, letting Marcus press the attack while studying his movements.
"Good form," Torren remarked, stepping back to avoid a strike. "But predictable. You've been taught to fight by the book. That's not going to work here."
Marcus frowned but adjusted his approach, trying to incorporate feints into his attacks. Torren dragged the match out, testing the boy's endurance and forcing him to adapt. When Marcus finally began to slow, his punches losing their sharpness, Torren moved in. In one swift motion, he caught Marcus's arm, twisted him off balance, and swept his legs out from under him.
Marcus hit the ground with a grunt, his face flushed from effort and embarrassment. Torren offered him a hand, pulling him to his feet.
"You've got potential," Torren said, his tone matter-of-fact. "But you're too reliant on what you've been taught. Learn to think for yourself."
Marcus nodded tightly, his confidence clearly shaken as he returned to the line.
Torren's sharp gaze swept over the students again before settling on another figure. "Livia Ironhart."
The brunette haired girl stepped forward, her solid frame radiating strength. Livia was built like a brawler, her shoulders broad and her posture sturdy. She had been one of the few who powered through the obstacle course with brute force, her movements heavy but effective.
When the match began, Livia charged at Torren with raw aggression, her strikes powerful but unrefined. Torren met her strength head-on, blocking her blows with minimal effort.
"Strong," Torren said as he parried a particularly heavy punch. "But you're wasting energy. Every strike should serve a purpose."
Livia growled in frustration, throwing a wild kick that Torren easily dodged. He didn't counter immediately, instead circling her and forcing her to keep attacking. The match stretched on as Livia's stamina began to wane, her strikes becoming slower and less precise.
Finally, Torren ended the match with a swift takedown, pinning Livia's arm behind her back. She gritted her teeth but didn't cry out, her pride refusing to let her show weakness.
"Not bad," Torren said as he released her. "You've got strength, but you need control. Work on your precision."
Livia nodded silently, her jaw tight as she returned to the line.
The next student Torren called was Seth Valen. Atlas immediately recognized the boy with dark brown hair and an easygoing smile, the one who had encouraged him during breakfast. Seth entered the ring with a relaxed confidence, his stance loose but balanced.
Torren raised an eyebrow. "You look comfortable. Let's see if you've got the skills to back it up."
Seth grinned, his tone light. "I'll try not to disappoint, Sir."
The match began, and Seth moved with surprising agility. His strikes were quick and well-aimed, and he had a knack for dodging Torren's counters with just enough room to spare. It was clear Seth wasn't the strongest in the class, but his adaptability made up for it.
"Not bad," Torren said as he deflected a punch. "You're quick on your feet. But you're holding back. Don't be afraid to commit."
Seth nodded, his expression growing more serious as he pressed the attack. Torren allowed the match to stretch on, testing Seth's endurance and forcing him to push past his limits. When the boy finally began to tire, Torren ended the fight with a quick sweep that sent Seth sprawling.
"You've got potential," Torren said, helping Seth to his feet. "But you need to trust yourself more. Hesitation will get you killed."
Seth flashed a lopsided grin as he returned to the line, clearly exhausted but not discouraged.
The matches continued, each one revealing the students' strengths and weaknesses. Torren's approach changed with each opponent, pushing them just far enough to expose their flaws. Atlas watched closely, his nerves growing with each passing fight.
When Torren finally called his name—"Atlas"—his stomach twisted, but he stepped forward anyway.
As he entered the ring, he noticed the way the other students' eyes followed him. His auburn hair and golden eyes made him stand out in the group, a stark contrast to the darker features of most of the students. He tried to ignore the stares, focusing instead on Torren, who was watching him intently.
"Relax," Torren said, his tone calm but firm. "This isn't about winning. Just show me what you've got."
Atlas nodded, taking a deep breath as he dropped into a stance that felt natural to him, low and balanced, his hands raised defensively.
The fight began, and Atlas moved first, launching a quick jab. Torren dodged easily, his movements almost lazy. Atlas pressed forward, throwing a combination of punches and kicks, but each one was deflected or avoided with minimal effort.
"Good instincts," Torren said as he parried another strike. "But you're rushing. Slow down and think."
Atlas adjusted his approach, trying to anticipate Torren's movements. He managed to land a glancing blow on the instructor's shoulder, a small victory that filled him with a fleeting sense of pride. But Torren quickly regained control, testing Atlas with feints and counters that forced him to adapt on the fly.
The match dragged on longer than Atlas expected. Torren didn't end it quickly, instead pushing Atlas to his limits. By the time the instructor finally swept his legs out from under him, Atlas was panting heavily, his body trembling from exertion.
"Not bad," Torren said, offering a hand to pull him up. "You've got potential, but you're raw. Work on your foundation, and you'll go far."
Atlas nodded, his chest tightening with a mix of frustration and determination. As he returned to the line, he could feel the weight of the other students' stares. He ignored them, his mind focused on one thought: I'll get stronger. I have to.
Torren's voice called out the next name, and the matches continued. Atlas watched, his body sore but his resolve unshaken.