Kael retreated to the dormitory, his heart pounding in time with the echo of Lysandra's voice: I feel no energy from you at all. It was a death sentence in this unforgiving world. Her words lingered in his mind like a specter, leaving him unsettled. If she was suspicious, others would be too. He couldn't afford to slip up. Not now. Not ever.
The dorm room was small, barely more than a closet, with a narrow bed, a rickety desk, and a single shelf. Kael sat on the edge of the bed, the Vestige clutched tightly in his hands. Its engravings were almost gone, the faint glow flickering weakly. One more minute. Maybe. He shuddered at the thought of what he would do when it ran out.
A knock at the door pulled him from his thoughts. "Kael?" It was Jarek.
He shoved the Vestige under his pillow and opened the door, his expression smooth and unreadable.
Jarek stepped inside, and Kael closed the door behind him. Leaning against the wall with arms crossed, Jarek studied him with sharp, calculating eyes. "Why weren't you at the initiation feast?"
Kael shrugged, trying to appear indifferent. "I just left early. I was tired."
Jarek raised an eyebrow, a hint of disbelief in his gaze. "Really? Because you looked like you were about to bolt. Was it something I said?"
Kael remained silent, unable to muster a response.
Jarek sighed and pushed off the wall. "Look, I get it. This place is hell for the weak. But you're a 42. Act like it. Be an example for those less fortunate."
Kael's eyes narrowed. "Less fortunate?"
"Are you an idiot? I mean people with useless abilities," Jarek said bluntly. "I've seen how they treat low-rankers."
For a moment, Kael felt understood—until Jarek's next words shattered that illusion.
"They're not Rankless, so they don't deserve it."
Kael hesitated, a storm of conflicting thoughts raging in his mind. "They honestly don't deserve it," he finally said, the words tasting bitter in his mouth.
"It's late. I'm tired."
Jarek grinned, a flash of camaraderie. "I knew you'd get it. Just remember, being a Rank 42 means something. You're not just another number here."
Before Kael could respond, a loud chime echoed through the dormitory. A holographic message appeared in the air:
"First Theory Exam: Tomorrow, 08:00. Prepare accordingly."
Jarek glanced at the message, then back at Kael. "Good luck. Try not to let them get to you," he said, disappearing into the hallway.
The next morning, Kael sat in the exam hall, his heart racing. The room was silent except for the scratching of pens and the occasional cough. The questions were brutal—advanced quantum physics, ability mechanics, tactical theory. He had studied for days, but still felt woefully unprepared. Doubt gnawed at him, whispering that he would fail.
He glanced at the clock. Two hours left. His wristband pulsed faintly—Rank 42. He couldn't afford to fail. In the back row, he spotted a student begging for mercy after being caught cheating, earning a zero for the exam.
The final question loomed on the page:
"Explain the theoretical limitations of time-manipulation abilities and their potential applications in combat scenarios."
Kael's stomach dropped. He had no idea how to answer. But then he remembered Lira's notebook, her scribbled notes on ability theory. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and began to write, tapping into the chaotic energy that surrounded him.
Less than an hour later, the results were announced. Kael had made it into the top 20%. It was a little too good—he didn't want to stand out—but it was perfect for balancing out the practical exam.
The rest of the day, Kael spent lounging and dreading the next day, his mind racing with worry. Would he be able to hold his own in combat training?
the day has come Tuesday's tactical combat training
It was worse than anything Kael had imagined.
The first lesson? Losing hurts.
"Rank isn't just a number," Professor Vayne had said. Her voice echoed through the training hall, sharp and unyielding. "It measures your worth. Forget that—and you'll end up at the bottom. Or worse."
Then she threw them into the arena.
No metaphorical test. No practice match with blunt weapons or protective gear. This was the reality of the Academy: raw violence, unbridled competition, pain as the teacher.
The arena was massive—a constantly shifting battlefield that adapted with each new training round. The walls shimmered with energy fields marking the boundaries. Anyone who retreated too far was punished—with a dull shock that paralyzed muscles and slowed reflexes. The ground was treacherous, uneven, with cracked stone slabs and occasional steps forcing sudden changes in elevation. There was no place to rest, no moment to gather oneself.
Kael felt the pressure even before the gong sounded. It was clear he'd have to save the Vestige for tomorrow. The others around him were tense, like predators waiting for the signal to hunt. His own pulse raced, his stomach churning.
Then chaos erupted.
A bolt of lightning crackled through the air—not far away, an ability discharged with a thunderous roar. Somewhere, flames hissed, hot enough that Kael felt the sudden temperature spike on his skin. Footsteps pounded across the stone floor, fast and hard. Breaths, sharp and ragged, mixed with the sounds of collisions.
Kael ducked instinctively as something whizzed over his head—a fist enhanced with kinetic energy. If it had hit him, he'd have been dazed—or worse. His opponent was a boy with Rank 47, muscular and with the stance of a boxer. No amateur chatter. No hesitation. Just the instinctive will to dominate.
Kael sidestepped, trying to create distance, but he was too slow. The boy pressed forward immediately. A punch landed on his shoulder—not enough to knock him down, but enough to send pain like a hot blade through his muscle. He stumbled, caught himself, and ducked under another strike.
The air was thick with energy, charged particles tingling on his skin. Another fighter unleashed an ability—shockwaves drove opponents back, making the ground beneath Kael's feet vibrate. Someone screamed as a burst of fire singed their sleeve.
A flicker in Kael's peripheral vision. Movement.
He spun just in time to dodge a kick aimed at his solar plexus. His reflexes saved him, but the next attack came faster and more brutal. An elbow slammed into his ribs, knocking the air from his lungs. Stars danced before his eyes—it felt like death.
He staggered, gritting his teeth. Don't give up. Don't lose.
Someone was thrown against the wall—a dull thud followed by a pained groan. Kael felt his own heartbeat like a drum in his ears. The boy with Rank 47 stood before him again, lips curled into a thin grin.
You're my prey.
Kael saw the intent in his eyes. No anger, no disgust—just calculation. Like a vulture circling the weak.
But Kael wasn't weak. He had trained regularly since he'd first conceived his plan, pushing himself through every grueling workout.
He twisted with the momentum of his recoil, let himself fall backward, and kicked upward—hitting the boy just below the ribcage. Not enough to take him down, but enough to make him stagger.
The boy recovered quickly, winding up for another strike. Kael braced himself, knowing this one would end it.
A sound cut through the chaos.
The signal.
Kael stood there, knees trembling, his chest heaving. The pain in his ribs was a dull echo of the last few minutes. He hadn't won.
But he hadn't lost either.
And in this place, in this Academy, that was all that mattered.