The dorm's digital alarm blared as Damien Gray slammed his hand against the screen. 6:00 AM. Another day of surviving Saint Academy—barely.
He groaned, rolled out of bed, and found Zeke already sitting at the desk, staring blankly at a holopad flickering with divine algebra formulas. Zeke scratched his head and muttered, "I swear this math was designed to assassinate Saints before they even graduate."
Damien flopped onto the opposite bunk. "You think Divinity theory is bad? I've failed the last three quizzes. I've got thirteen points, Zeke. Thirteen."
Zeke turned, frowning. "I'm at thirty. That's still light-years away from the 500 we need to move to the next class."
They both sat in silence, the reality sinking in.
Saint Academy wasn't just about combat. Students had to earn advancement—through academics, missions, service, and tournaments. Every exam, battle drill, simulation, or service activity earned points tracked via a sleek wristband known as the Divinity Tracker. At the end of the year, anyone under 500 points risked being demoted or worse—expelled.
Zeke leaned back. "There's gotta be a shortcut. Something… practical. Something we're actually good at."
Damien pulled out his wristband and tapped it. The transparent screen projected his point history in the air—mostly zeros, a few twos and threes, and one big ugly red line from last week's sparring misconduct.
He groaned. "We're so screwed."
That's when Zeke snapped his fingers. "The Team Combat Tournament. Three students. One squad. Winners get one-fifty points each."
Damien blinked. "That's almost a third of the total we need…"
Zeke nodded. "I heard sign-ups close by the end of the week. If we win just two rounds, that's 300 points in a few days. Plus bonus credits if we put on a good show."
"Good show?" Damien repeated. "Zeke, I've seen what some of those teams can do. We'd be roasted alive."
Zeke grinned. "Not if we get the right third teammate."
They both pulled up their wrist displays and browsed student profiles. Rank filters. Combat logs. Availability. Nothing worked. Most Jophiel-ranked students already had teams. The others either laughed in their faces or claimed they were "waiting for someone stronger."
Damien sighed. "We need someone who's not just strong—but smart. Like, scary smart. Knows how to read the battlefield. Predict movements. Outsmart the opponents before the first punch."
Zeke was quiet for a moment, then his eyes narrowed. "There's someone…"
"Who?"
He turned to Damien. "Amara Veyne."
---
Elsewhere in Saint Academy – Advanced Cognitive Wing
The glass walls of the Mind & Pattern Lab flickered as dozens of glowing digital threads stretched across the ceiling like constellations. In the middle of it all sat Amara Veyne, her long silver hair tied in a loose braid, eyes glowing faintly with her internal interface active.
She didn't blink as data swirled before her—projected trajectories, emotional surges, heat signatures, combat reactions. She saw patterns not just in battles, but in people.
Her slender fingers hovered over the display, tracing the faint invisible threads of probability.
"Combatant 7 will faint before round two due to elevated stress. Team Alpha will over-extend in 3.4 seconds. Formation will collapse by 11.7 seconds."
Her lips curled slightly.
"Predictable."
She exhaled slowly, continuing her analysis. She wasn't reading. She was seeing. She understood outcomes the way others understood shapes.
The air shifted, and a voice echoed from outside the lab door.
"Amara! There you are!"
Amara blinked, the glow fading from her irises. She turned slowly.
The voice called again, closer this time.
"Amara Veyne!"
The camera feed faded out.