Kael sat on the windowsill of his room, staring down at the street below. Lira was packing her small suitcase, the dull morning light catching the shimmer of her blue wristband—Rank 40. She had improved by two since the last evaluation. The badge seemed to glow like a tiny star. The Academy of Early Bloomers had accepted her. For her, it was an adventure. For Kael, a constant reminder that he had failed.
"You look like you're about to cry," Lira called up, laughing, as she waved with a gloved hand—water trailing from her fingertips in a thin, controlled arc. Perfect control. Kael latched onto her words: We both have a future now. She hadn't meant them cruelly, but they slithered into his chest and coiled into something hollow, something heavy, something sharp-edged and growing. It was like—
"Come on, Kael! Help me carry this!"
Her voice snapped him out of his thoughts. Kael forced a smile and went downstairs. As he lifted her suitcase into the waiting car, he caught a glimpse of his mother wiping away a tear. She's proud of her. And of me? Just for barely passing.
"Take care," he murmured to Lira as she climbed into the car. "And… don't let the elites push you around."
Lira grinned. "You should be more worried about me pushing them around. I outrank you now." Her smile faltered slightly. "Four days, Kael."
He knew what she meant. Four days until he turned eleven. Four days until the lie became irreversible.
The night before Lira left, Kael trained in the basement, the air thick with dust and old wood. His hands hovered over the artifact on the table—the Vestige—its engravings so worn they barely reflected the candlelight. Another minute. Maybe. He didn't dare activate it.
Frustration gnawed at his ribs, hollow and insistent. He started moving—repeating drills he had watched from the academy's recordings. His feet scuffed the cold stone floor. Sweat slicked his skin. And then—a misstep. A clumsy lurch. His shoulder struck a shelf, and glass shattered against the ground.
"Kael?"
His mother's voice, a quiet crack in the silence. She stood in the doorway, candlelight flickering against the dark of the basement.
"What are you doing? It's midnight."
Kael slid the Vestige beneath a silk cloth with a practiced motion. "Just… training. For the academy."
She gave him a sad smile. "You don't have to be perfect, you know."
Yes, I do.
After Lira's departure, Kael found an envelope on his bed. Inside—her old school notebook, packed with scribbled notes on ability theory. On the last page, a drawing of the two of them, surrounded by water and lightning. Good luck, brother. You can do this.
-L.
The rest of the week blurred. Kael spent his days memorizing answers to possible questions—about lessons, about his ability. About the lie.
The Main Academy for the Gifted was a monolith of black glass, its surface swallowing the gray morning sky. There were only four of these institutions across the entire nation, each centrally placed and accessible via hyperspeed trains—allegedly a Rank 83 scientist's invention. His ability had made it possible.
Kael stood at the gates, several meters high, reinforced for students capable of altering size. The cold morning air burned in his lungs. His wristband pulsed faintly—Rank 42. Just high enough to avoid the lowest class. Just low enough to stay unnoticed.
Inside, hundreds of students crowded the entrance hall. Above them, holographic banners displayed the academy's rules:
1. Rank is power, but knowledge is currency.
2. Exams every month: theory and practice, one week apart.
3. Fail twice, and you drop a class.
The most important rule: Ability rank means nothing. The academy rank—displayed alongside the ability rank—was what truly mattered. It determined everything: class placement, opportunities, survival. Rank 1–30 were the lowest tier. Treated as such. 30–50 were middle-tier. 50–80 were high-rank. 80+? They barely attended classes. Some were stronger than the instructors themselves.
And ranks could be taken. A win against a higher-ranked student meant an increase. A loss—stagnation, or worse. The academy's brutal hierarchy ensured that strength was never static.
A gong rang. The director took the stage. His wristband burned blood-red—Rank 94.
"Welcome, hunters and hunted," he began. His voice was a blade against the heavy silence. "Here, you will learn that talent without discipline is useless—and discipline without talent is cruel."
Kael's stomach twisted.
After the opening speech, students were assigned temporary classes until the first exams. Kael was placed in Cohort 1-B—middle-tier, Ranks 30–50. The classroom smelled of cold metal and something sharper, something like fear. On the board, a schedule for the week:
- Monday: Theory exam
- Tuesday: Tactical combat training (practical)
- Wednesday: Practical exam
- Thursday: Quantum physics & ability analysis
- Friday: Survival training ("Enemy Simulation")
A boy dropped into the seat next to Kael. Torn hoodie, hollow eyes. Rank 48.
"I'm Jarek," he muttered. "In case you're wondering—half of us won't make it through the first week. Not me, though. I'll pass the exams and break into 50+."
Before Kael could reply, their instructor entered. A woman with steel-gray hair. Rank 78.
"I am Professor Vayne," she said, her gaze cutting through the room like a blade. "And this…"
She tapped her tablet. The walls of the room dissolved into molten lava.
"…is not a playground."
The Initiation Ceremony took place in the courtyard—a showcase of power. High-rank students displayed their abilities, proving why they deserved their positions. Kael pressed against the cold stone wall as a girl with scarlet hair (Rank 71) unleashed a firestorm that melted the academy founder's statue. The crowd roared in approval.
"Impressive, isn't it?"
A voice behind him. Kael turned. A girl with short-cropped hair, a green wristband (Rank 35).
"I'm Mira," she said. "And you're the new kid who looks like he's about to pass out."
"I… I'm just tired."
Mira smirked. "Liar. I saw you when Vayne activated the lava. Your pulse spiked to 180. You're scared." Her voice lowered. "So am I. But you don't survive here alone."
Before Kael could respond, the red-haired elite stepped between them.
"Lysandra," she introduced herself. Her smile was cold steel. "Rank 71. Class 2-A. And you're… Kael, right? The newbie from 1-B."
She reached out, her fingers brushing against his wristband. A spark of static zapped against his skin. "Strange," she mused. "I feel no energy from you at all." Her gaze sharpened. "How dull."
Then, she turned and disappeared into the crowd.
Kael clenched his fists. His gaze flicked toward him—Rank 5. Timid, weak, easily commanded by Rank 32 and 38.
His first target.
Kael stepped back, vanishing into the shadows. He wouldn't make his move now. No. That would come later.
But it -would- come.