The announcement came just after sunrise. A deep chime echoed through the dormitories, followed by the cool, crisp voice of the Headmaster:
"All first-year students, prepare for the Mid-Term Proving Trials. Three days from now, the entire academy will witness your progress. Your performance will influence your class placement, ranking, and eligibility for the international invitational next term. Train well."
Malik stared at the ceiling, eyes open long before the chime. Sleep had eluded him again. Not after what happened in the last simulation.
He'd won.
But he hadn't understood how.
The leaderboard had lit up with his name:
Rank 1: Malik Barn — Ability: [—]
And then, as always, it vanished the next day.
Rank 500.
Dead last.
---
The academy buzzed in the days that followed.
"Proving Trials! Finally some action," Frank boasted, arms stretching wide in the courtyard.
"I hope I get to fight someone who's worth my time," Xander muttered, scanning the posted brackets.
"Keep dreaming," Peter laughed. "They're pairing us based on class tiers. So unless you fall down to 1E like Malik—"
He trailed off, catching himself.
Malik stood nearby, unmoved. "I didn't mean—"
"It's fine," Malik said flatly. "I'm used to being the example."
Margaret, watching from behind, narrowed her eyes. He shouldn't be, she thought.
---
That night, Margaret stayed up late, a notepad balanced on her knees. Pages flipped under her fingers—dates, duels, anomalies.
"Every spike in his performance matches with some kind of uncontrolled event," she whispered. "No audience. No instructors. Or… he thought he was about to be hurt."
She flipped to a fresh page. At the top, in dark ink, she'd written:
THEORIES.
But a theory wasn't enough. Not yet.
---
The Day of the Trials.
The arena roared with energy. Students, instructors, and even senior classes filled the circular coliseum. Lights pulsed along the dome's edge. The air buzzed with excitement and fear.
Each trial was designed to test survival, intelligence, and combat. Ability wasn't enough—you had to adapt.
Malik stood silently among the other 1E students, waiting.
"Instructor Lura?" Margaret caught Malik's class guide just before the trials began.
"Yes?"
"I have a request," she said, straightening. "For Malik Barn."
The instructor raised a brow. "Go on."
Thirty minutes later, Malik stood alone in a metal-walled simulation chamber. A countdown hovered overhead:
Scenario 3: Team Survival. Randomized Pairing.
The rules flashed across the wall:
1. Two students.
2. No ability data shared.
3. Survive for 15 minutes.
4. Threat level escalates.
5. Environment adapts to mental and emotional triggers.
The opposite door slid open with a hiss. Margaret stepped through.
"You?" Malik blinked.
"They're pairing everyone randomly," she said quickly. "Don't worry. I've got your back."
But that wasn't true.
She'd asked for this.
Not because she didn't trust him—
Because she did.
---
The scenario began.
The chamber shimmered and transformed—holograms weaving jagged rock and broken ruins. Sirens wailed. Smoke bled into a burning red sky.
"Stick together!" Margaret shouted, ducking behind a shattered pillar.
Robotic sentries emerged from rubble, scanning for targets. Malik followed her without thinking.
The first wave was simple—hide, relocate, adapt.
Then the simulation shifted again. Turrets descended from above. Red sensors locked on.
A bolt cracked against stone near Malik, knocking him sideways.
"Get down!" Margaret screamed.
They moved in sync. Margaret thrust up a barrier, ice solid and shimmering, catching a flurry of laser fire.
"Malik—take the right flank!" she called.
He obeyed, diving behind cover. Waiting. Watching.
Nothing.
Still no surge.
Still no spark.
His heart sank.
Then Margaret did something bold—something dangerous.
She dropped her barrier.
"Margaret, what are you doing?!" Malik shouted, panic seizing his chest.
She didn't answer. Just looked at him, steady and sure.
A turret spun, Locked and Fired.
And Malik moved.
His body reacted before his mind could catch up. A flare of raw energy erupted from his arm—violet, kinetic, and burning. The bolt struck the shield now pulsing around him. The dome cracked and shimmered, absorbing the blast.
And then—gone.
Margaret reactivated her barrier, breath sharp but steady.
She'd seen enough.
It was real.
---
After the simulation, Malik's hands trembled.
"You could've been killed!" he shouted. "Are you insane?!"
"I was never in danger," Margaret said softly. "It was set to stun."
"You didn't know that!"
"But you didn't know it wasn't."
He stopped. His chest heaved.
Exactly.
She stepped closer, her voice low.
"Malik… your power—it doesn't come from your mind. It comes from your body's survival instinct. It hides under calm. It erupts in danger. That's why it only triggers when you're not being watched. Why it flickers during chaos."
He looked at her, wide-eyed, breath shallow.
"You're not weak, Malik. You're wired to survive."
She handed him a folded page—her notes, her theory, everything.
He didn't open it.
He just looked at her and whispered, "Thank you."
---
The leaderboard updated the next morning.
Rank 1: Malik Barn — Ability: [—]
And then, the next day:
Rank 500: Malik Barn.
Again.
The whispers returned. But Margaret didn't care anymore.
She knew.
It wasn't a glitch.
It was a storm. Dormant. Waiting.
And one day soon, the entire academy would see it awaken.
---
It started with a change in staffing. A quiet notice on the digital board:
"New Specialist Instructor Assigned to Class 1E: Combat Optimization & Behavioral Observation.
Instructor: Dr. Halwin Craith."
Malik didn't think much of it—rotating faculty was normal. But the moment Dr. Craith entered the training hall, something felt… off.
Too smooth.
Too quiet.
His eyes didn't scan the room.
They read it.
Like he already knew what everyone would do before they moved.
During lunch, Margaret leaned in. "I don't like him."
"You like no one new," Malik said, managing a small smile.
"No. This one—he's watching."
Malik had no idea how right she was.
---
Craith's methods were… different.
He didn't explain drills. He didn't command. He observed. Silent, pen in hand, while students sparred freely.
But when he did speak, it was always to Malik.
"Barn, your posture is defensive, even when attacking. Why is that?"
Or—
"Tell me, Malik. How do you feel when someone gets too close?"
And once:
"If someone betrayed you, would you hesitate to retaliate?"
Malik gave vague answers, tried to deflect. But something about Craith dug under his skin.
Not like a teacher.
Not even like a critic.
He didn't feel tested.
He felt… measured.
Like data. Like a variable.
Watched not for growth—but for what might break.