Morning arrived like a verdict.
The sirens wailed at 5:00 a.m., pulling the cadets from restless sleep and uneasy silence. No one spoke to Malik. Not when he entered the cafeteria. Not when he took his tray. Not even when he sat across from them.
The results were clear. Blinking on every wall, pulsing red like a wound.
Ravin team had dominated the balance test, slicing through gravity fields with near-perfect coordination. Meanwhile, Falcon team—Continental Academy's underdogs—had finished dead last. Even George's solo crossing hadn't been enough to patch the cracks.
Whispers trailed them through the corridors like smoke.
"Did you see their final score?"
What made it worse: they couldn't even argue back.
The halls and bunks had ability detectors laced through every surface. That was rule number one when they'd arrived at the Continental Training Academy—"No unsupervised power usage. All off-record activity will result in expulsion or demotion."
And now, Stage Two had arrived.
The Combat Evaluation Trial.
A digital map of the arena unfolded above the crowd—a layered combat coliseum, where each level rose in difficulty. At the base: standard dummies. Easy to crush. No points.
As the tiers rose, so did the danger. Dummies adapted. Dodged. Replicated. Higher-level dummies even mimicked abilities once they were hit.
The rules were simple:
Each fighter had to fight. Each win equaled a point.
Defeat more—higher score.
Mutations, amplified damage, faster progression. Points were cumulative per team.
Falcon team didn't contain the strongest members. But they weren't the weakest either.
The arena roared as team after team took the field.
The glass observation decks above swarmed with cadets and instructors, whispering predictions, taking mental notes, measuring rivals...
The team members tested their combat, showing off their abilities.
Then came Team Sablehorn.
Unlike the earlier flashy teams, they didn't boast power. They moved with class, routine—silent, fluid, methodical.
And one of them, a girl near the center of their unit, caught Malik's attention.
At first, it was just a flicker. A turn of the head. A profile.
Her hair was cut short, tucked behind one ear. Her movement was familiar—too familiar.
Malik frowned.
Do I know her?
He leaned closer against the glass, ignoring the match for a second.
She ducked, froze an incoming dummy with a flick of her hand—not ice like Margaret's, but something like mist or smoke—and shattered it with a backhanded strike.
Her eyes glanced up toward the balcony.
And for a split second, they met his.
Malik's stomach dropped.
That face. That expression. That feeling.
But… she wasn't from Nayak. She wasn't from his country. Teams had been grouped by continent—they weren't even supposed to know each other.
So why did she feel like a memory he couldn't reach?
Then her match ended, and her name blinked on the leaderboard:
ALYRA CAIN — 9 POINTS.
Nine.
The highest of the day so far.
---
Then it was Falcon's turn.
Xander went first—his brute strength punching through four dummies before they began adapting to his attack pattern. On the fifth, he got sloppy. A feint, a hit—
5 points.
Margaret followed—ice spreading with her touch, freezing dummies mid-motion. Her form was sharp, precise, but time ate her edge before she could finish the sixth.
5 points.
Frank, invisible from the moment the buzzer rang, took four dummies by surprise. The fifth spotted his shimmer. He barely escaped.
4 points.
Peter blurred through the floor like lightning, but speed couldn't replace power. He knocked over three and disabled a fourth.
4 points.
Rhia, fluid with her twin kinetic spheres, kept pace with Peter—her attacks beautiful, but not fast enough to breach the fifth dummy's adaptive shield.
4 points.
The Falcons fought with determination and hope. They gave their best, one after the other.
The last one was Malik.
All eyes turned to him.
Falcon: Needs 1 point to tie the team above.
Malik: Unranked. Unactivated. Unproven.
And yet… he walked to the platform.
---
The Fall
He felt their stares before he heard the mutters.
"That's him?"
"He hasn't registered an ability all week."
"He better get one now."
Malik entered the arena.
The platform raised. Lights flooded down.
The buzzer blared.
ROUND START.
The first dummy lunged.
Malik dodged—but too slow. Its blow clipped his shoulder, nearly knocking him off balance.
No… this can't be happening…
"Activate—please—activate!"
"I'm so tired…"
"…of being a disappointment."
He tried to parry. His fists struck—but no power backed them. Nothing.
He pivoted, searching his core, his breath, his bones—anything.
"Come on," he whispered.
The dummy struck again—harder this time. His leg buckled.
Malik hit the ground. Hard.
Buzzer.
Trial failed.
---
A silence more violent than any scream followed.
"You've got to be kidding me!" someone yelled from the crowd.
"That was the first dummy!"
Zero points.
Falcon team froze. Their fate had just sunk.
Malik lay on the floor of the arena, eyes wide, pulse racing.
He felt the entire academy staring down at him. His teammates. The instructors.
The other students.
"That was the first dummy!"
Malik sat up, chest heaving. His eyes blurred. Not from pain—but from shame.
One point. Just one point.
That's all they needed from me.
Instead, I gave them nothing. Again.
Rhia buried her face in her hands. Peter just walked away.
Margaret stared. Not with hatred. Not with pity. But with the cold eyes of someone calculating their next move without him.
Malik looked up at the stands.
The girl from before—Alyra Cain—was watching him again.
Only now, her expression had changed. There was no curiosity.
Just… recognition.
And maybe even… sadness?
Malik blinked.
Who are you?
But the thought was swallowed by something else.
Something louder.
More desperate.
Inside his mind, a scream built like pressure behind a dam.
He stood, fists clenched.
Malik didn't remember how he left the arena.
Only that his legs moved without him asking.
His body numb.
His head… loud.
Zero points.
He'd given Falcon nothing. Again. And as the metal doors slid shut behind him, sealing off the combat platform, the weight of failure pressed harder against his chest.
Then—
"Welcome to the academy."
The voice wasn't his.
Malik froze mid-step.
Not a memory. Not his inner monologue.
A voice. In his head. Crisp. Calm. Female.
Not the announcer. Not a trainer.
Something else.