The moment Sumit stepped through the doorway, silence followed him like a shadow. The room had been alive just a heartbeat ago—laughter, quick chatter, the shuffling of papers and chairs. But all of it faltered, smothered beneath the sudden weight of his presence. One by one, heads turned. A dozen pairs of eyes found him at once.
Some eyes glimmered with idle curiosity, as if he were a puzzle to be solved. Others were indifferent, sliding past him as though he wasn't worth the effort of acknowledgment. And a few—sharp, cold, and openly mocking—looked at him with the kind of judgment that made his skin prickle.
The classroom was far larger than he had expected. Rows of polished wooden desks stretched across the space in perfect order, their surfaces gleaming under the sunlight that poured in from towering windows. Golden stripes of light cut across the floor, illuminating faint dust motes that danced in the air.
But it was the walls that caught his eye—pillars lined the room, their bases etched with strange sigils. They glowed faintly, pulsing with a rhythm that felt alive, like the quiet breathing of invisible guardians.
Sumit's hand twitched at his side. He could feel the heat of those stares pressing down on his shoulders. The faint murmur of whispers began to stir again, too low to catch clearly but sharp enough to sting.
Do I even belong here?
The thought clawed through his chest, venomous and unrelenting. His footsteps felt heavier with each step forward, but he forced himself to move—one careful stride after another—pretending not to notice the smirks curling on a few lips, or the blank, dismissive glances of those who didn't even bother to care.
Head low, he made his way to the back. The last row. The furthest seat by the window. He slid into it quickly, like a fugitive finding shelter. His bag fell to the floor with a soft thud, the sound swallowed instantly by the heavy silence.
He didn't dare look up. His gaze latched onto the view outside the window, desperate for anything to ground him.
And it worked.
Beyond the academy's walls stretched rolling hills, their emerald slopes bathed in soft sunlight. In the far distance, towers jutted into the sky, their edges faintly shimmering with protective barriers that glistened like glass. A flock of birds cut across the horizon, wings stretched wide, free and untethered.
Sumit let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. The world outside seemed to whisper calm into his chest, a fragile anchor against the storm brewing inside him.
He stayed like that for a while. Waiting—for the teacher to arrive, for the class to start, for anything to break the suffocating stillness of this new beginning.
Then the door slid open.
A hush swept through the room like a sharp gust of wind.
She entered.
The same woman who had guided him through the academy's halls now stood at the front of the classroom. Tall, composed, and sharp as a drawn blade, her very presence pulled the air taut with discipline.
The whispers died instantly. Chairs scraped against the floor as students snapped upright, spines rigid.
Sumit tore his gaze from the window and sat straighter, his heartbeat drumming against his ribs.
The teacher placed her bag neatly on the desk, adjusting her glasses with an elegant but precise motion. Her eyes—dark, piercing, and impossibly steady—swept across the room with clinical detachment. It was as if she weighed each student silently, assessing without a word.
"Good morning, everyone," she said.
Her voice was calm. Too calm. And yet it carried a weight that silenced even the faintest breath.
"My name is Professor Aadhira Verma," she continued, each syllable crisp as glass. "From this day onward, I will be your class teacher."
Her tone sharpened. Steel entered her words.
"I don't care who you were before you walked into this Academy. I don't care about your family's name, your wealth, or the so-called power you believe you already hold. None of it matters here."
A ripple of unease moved through the class. A few lowered their eyes, hands clenched atop their desks. Others smirked faintly, as though untouched by her warning, too proud to accept that her words applied to them.
"The only thing that holds value in this place," Professor Aadhira said, her voice cutting like a blade, "is results. Nothing else. You have one year. One year to prove yourselves before the final examinations. Those who succeed will move forward. Those who fail…"
Her eyes swept the room, pausing deliberately, long enough for the silence to ache.
"…will be moved to the ordinary section. There, you will learn nothing beyond the skills required to serve society as common workers."
The words dropped like a hammer.
Cold. Merciless. Unflinching.
And yet they carried an irresistible pull—a challenge.
A sudden, cold dread settled in his gut. The thought of failure clawed at him. To be stripped of even the chance to learn—to be discarded like dead weight—was terrifying.
Then, suddenly, Professor Aadhira's gaze landed on him.
For one breathless moment, the world stilled.
Her eyes pinned him to his seat. Cold. Measuring. Unwavering.
His throat dried instantly. He felt the air rush from his lungs, as though a hand were clamped around his throat.
She moved on, continuing as though nothing had happened. But Sumit couldn't shake it. Her next words burrowed into him like thorns, impossible to ignore.
"Power commands respect," she said, her voice hard as iron. "Strength determines your place. And weakness…"
Her lips curved into the faintest, most merciless shadow of a smile.
"…weakness has no seat here."
The silence that followed was suffocating. Even the air seemed to hesitate.
Finally, she straightened, her presence towering over the room.
"After ten minutes," she declared, "be prepared. We will head to the Evaluation Grounds. There, each of you will undergo your power assessment. No excuses. No hiding. Your true capabilities will be revealed before everyone."
The silence cracked.
Some students leaned forward, pride gleaming in their eyes, eager to prove themselves. Others clenched their fists beneath their desks, their jaws tight with the weight of her words.
Sumit sat frozen. Heat prickled the back of his neck. He didn't know if she had meant those words for him specifically—or if it was just his own insecurities twisting them into knives.
He lowered his gaze again. His palms were damp. His heart refused to slow.
Then—
"Hey."
The voice was soft, almost casual, but it startled him all the same.
He turned sharply, too quickly, his body tense.
A boy sat to his right, lounging comfortably in his chair. His hair was slightly tousled, his uniform worn with an ease that suggested he wasn't trying too hard. A gentle smile played on his lips as he lifted a hand in a small, friendly wave.
"Hello," the boy said.
For a moment, Sumit only stared. His mind reeled.
He's… smiling? At me?
In this suffocating room where every glance had felt like a knife, this was the first time someone had reached out to him. Not with arrogance, not with disdain—but with something startlingly simple. Friendliness.
"Uh… h-hello," Sumit managed, his voice catching awkwardly. His throat felt dry, his words trembling as they stumbled out.
The boy's smile widened, warm and disarming. "I'm Aravind. But you can just call me Arav."
"Sumit," he replied after a pause, fumbling with his words. "My name's… Sumit."
Arav studied him for a moment, eyes sharp but not unkind. Then, with a little grin, he leaned closer, lowering his voice so only Sumit could hear.
"So, it's true," he said quietly. "You're the outsider everyone's been whispering about."
Sumit froze.
His muscles tensed. A knot of familiar anxiety twisted in his stomach. Without realizing, he shifted slightly to the left, putting the smallest sliver of distance between them—bracing himself for ridicule. For the sting of mockery he knew was coming.
But instead—
Arav scratched the back of his head, his grin sheepish. "Ah, sorry! That came out wrong. I didn't mean to scare you. I just… blurted it out."
The sincerity in his voice caught Sumit off guard.
He blinked, then let out an awkward, breathy chuckle. He raised a hand in a clumsy wave, his expression somewhere between nervous and exaggeratedly casual. "N-no, it's fine. Really. Don't worry about it."
The strange, crooked smile on his face was half nerves, half forced reassurance, but Arav chuckled softly anyway, eyes warm with amusement.
Leaning closer again, Arav whispered with genuine curiosity, "Tell me… what's the outside world like? The normal one. I've always wondered."
For the first time since stepping into the room, the knot of tension in his stomach unwound just a little. His lips parted, words trembling on the edge of spilling free—
"All students!"
The crisp, commanding voice of Professor Aadhira cut through the moment like a whip.
"Form a line. We are heading to the Evaluation Grounds."
The classroom erupted in motion. Chairs scraped. Feet shuffled. The brief, fragile thread of conversation snapped in an instant.
Sumit rose slowly, falling into step with the others. His palms were damp, his pulse uneven. Every stride toward the door felt heavier than the last.
The Evaluation Grounds.
He had no idea what awaited him there.
But one thing was terrifyingly certain—
Whatever happened next, he would no longer be able to hide.