Morning in the Academy didn't arrive quietly.
The lights didn't "turn on."
They activated, flaring to life with clinical precision exactly at 0600 hours. A tone followed—sharp, piercing, engineered to make sleep impossible.
I sat up instantly. Not because of discipline, but because I'd barely slept.
A projection snapped into existence over my desk:
CADET AREN VALE — TRAINING EXAM SYSTEM INITIALIZATION
Phase: Orientation Trial
Location: Sector Hall C-12
Time Remaining: 00:18:43
An orientation trial? That meant this wasn't the real exam. This was the exam before the exam.
Naturally.
The Academy loved its layers.
I grabbed my jacket and headed out, taking a detour down the less-traveled corridors. Too many eyes in the main routes. My thoughts ran in parallel:
— Orientation trial means baseline measurement.
— Baseline measurement means they'll compare us to an internal standard.
— And if the Academy set the standard… it probably isn't human.
Sector Hall C-12 was a cavernous chamber with a hexagonal layout. Students filed in—nervous, loud, trying way too hard to impress each other. I stood near the back, where I could see everyone but no one could corner me.
A hologram flickered on above us, forming into a skeletal humanoid construct—thin metal plating, floating joints, a blank mask for a face.
Its voice was metallic, yet disturbingly calm.
"Welcome, Cadets. You will now undergo the Orientation Trial. This trial evaluates:
— Reaction Speed
— Situational Awareness
— Cognitive Adaptability
— Will Instability Threshold
— Rift Exposure Compatibility"
That last one caught my attention.
Rift exposure.
They're measuring how the Rift changed me.
The construct continued:
"Failure in three or more categories results in immediate reassignment to non-combat divisions."
Translated: fail, and you're worthless to them.
The floor split open into six corridors. Students were pushed forward by the crowd. I waited until the last moment, choosing the corridor with the smallest number of people.
Less noise. Less distraction. More variables I could control.
Inside, a voice echoed from unseen speakers:
"Begin Test 1: Reaction Speed."
The corridor went dark.
Then—
Flash.
A projectile fired from the left. I ducked automatically.
Flash—Flash—Flash.
Multiple angles now. No rhythm. No pattern. I tracked the micro-tremors in the floor, the faint wind displacement before each launch. After twenty shots, the system escalated.
The projectiles accelerated.
Fine.
I could accelerate too.
I didn't dodge randomly. I mapped the angles, calculated the frames, treated every projectile as a problem with a solution.
By the time the test stopped, the corridor lights flickered back on.
REACTION SPEED RESULT: EXCEPTIONAL
I sighed softly.
"Exceptional" meant attention.
Attention meant trouble.
Great.
But there was no time to think.
"Begin Test 2: Situational Awareness."
The corridor dissolved—literally faded out—and a new scene formed around me. A simulated ruined cityscape, fog thick enough to hide anything from stray debris to something actively hunting me.
I scanned quickly.
Fog density consistency: irregular.
Footsteps: three sources, different intervals.
Wind flow: disrupted. Something large was moving.
The Academy isn't testing awareness. They're testing threat prioritization under uncertainty.
Something lunged—
I dodged.
Something fell from above—
I sidestepped.
Something whispered from the fog—
I ignored it. Psychological bait.
The test ended suddenly, the fog peeling away like a curtain.
SITUATIONAL AWARENESS RESULT: HIGH
Better. Not exceptional. Less suspicious.
"Begin Test 3: Cognitive Adaptability."
This one was a nightmare.
Puzzles made of shifting energy grids. Logic problems that changed rules mid-process. Memory tasks layered with distractions.
But thinking was the one thing I never struggled with.
COGNITIVE ADAPTABILITY RESULT: SUPERIOR
Not as bad as "exceptional," but still too close to the line.
Finally, the lights dimmed.
"Begin Test 4: Will Instability Threshold."
I felt the pressure first—like hands pressing against my skull. Not physical. Mental. Emotional. Trying to push my thoughts off-balance, force impulses to the surface.
I took a slow breath.
They want to see how easily you break.
The pressure intensified.
I thought of the Rift.
The cold.
The silence.
The thing that watched me.
I didn't break then. I wouldn't break now.
WILL INSTABILITY THRESHOLD RESULT: STABLE
Good.
Finally, the last test.
"Begin Test 5: Rift Exposure Compatibility."
My chest tightened.
The air shimmered, and a pulse of energy—faintly familiar—washed over me. Like the Rift's echo. Like it was calling.
My hands clenched involuntarily.
Stay calm. Stay normal. Stay unremarkable.
But the system didn't relent. The energy surged, scanning deeper, probing—
Everything around me flickered.
The world dimmed.
For one terrible second, I felt the Rift again.
Watching.
Reaching.
Recognizing me.
Then it stopped.
RIFT EXPOSURE COMPATIBILITY RESULT: UNUSUAL
My stomach dropped.
Unusual was the worst possible outcome.
Unusual meant I'd be watched. Monitored. Investigated.
Perfect.
The corridor opened, releasing me back into the hall. Students staggered out, exhausted. Some cheered. Some cried. Some were carried out.
I kept my expression blank.
Inside?
I was already planning contingencies.
Because "unusual" meant the Academy now had questions.
And questions about me never ended well.