The air inside the upper F-Class training dome shimmered with tension as the students gathered for their weekly test-fight session.
It was the kind of class designed to gauge both individual power control and creative combat improvisation.
Artificial terrain was generated on command—desert wastelands, rocky cliffs, freezing snowfields, or even dense jungles—depending on the instructors' whims.
It was here, in this dynamic battleground, where students made names for themselves or were humiliated in front of their peers.
Elius arrived five minutes early. He stepped into the gleaming arena, his black boots clicking softly against the polished tiles, a subtle contrast to the heavy stomping of excited classmates.
His simple dark uniform seemed to catch the light in all the right ways—unbuttoned just enough at the collar to reveal the faintest glimpse of his collarbone, tousled hair falling just a little too perfectly around his eyes. It was effortless. Unforgivingly so.
