DREVAN'S Point of View
The moment my boots clicked against the polished aisle, the arena erupted.
"Drevan! Drevan! Drevan!"
The chant ricocheted off the circular walls, mingling with the collective heartbeat of over three hundred students. High-pitched screams of admiration, whistles, and laughter combined with the subtle undercurrent of envy and rivalry. Some students pressed against the edges of the seating tiers, craning their necks, faces flushed, hair disheveled from excitement. A few boys murmured curses under their breaths, others gawked openly, unable to disguise the awe that danced in their eyes.
I let it wash over me. The chaos, the noise, the energy—it was familiar, expected, almost… boring. Yet there was a rhythm to it, a predictable pattern in the chaos. Every movement, every gesture, every whisper was cataloged in my mind.
Selvra, seated beside me, Rank Four, observed silently. Her posture was flawless, spine straight, hands resting lightly in her lap, fingers twitching ever so subtly. Her eyes scanned the crowd, noting micro-expressions, the shift of weight, the flicker of excitement or fear in the students around us. When she glanced at me for a split second, her lips curved faintly—a micro-smile, both warning and playful, possessive and analytical. I acknowledged it with the tiniest nod. She didn't need confirmation; this was understood.
The arena itself was vast, circular, and intimidating. Tiered seating wrapped around the combat floor, each row higher than the last, giving every student a perfect vantage point. In the center, five distinguished chairs marked the apex: Ranks One through Five. I occupied the first, Selvra the fourth. Ranks Two and Three were absent today, leaving symbolic voids in the hierarchy. Even empty, the spaces carried weight, a reminder of the ladder each student aspired to climb.
And then I saw her.
She moved through the chaos like water flowing through cracks in stone—long, dark hair cascading and slightly sweeping with her motion, almost alive with each step. Her tactical uniform clung to her frame, fitted but flexible, tailored to allow every movement with precision. She was taller than most of her peers, lean and lithe, seemingly clumsy but deliberate, calculated. Her eyes, dark and emotionless, blank but sharp, scanned the arena, assessing the scene with a detached, almost unnatural awareness.
I leaned back slightly against the chair's polished edge, arms crossed. 'Unranked. Yet she shifts the balance of the crowd, moves with a precision far beyond her status.'
The students noticed her too, whispers weaving through the tiers:
"She's unranked?" a girl murmured, eyes wide.
"No way… she moves like Rank Ten," another whispered.
"She's too calm… gives me the chills," a third added.
I cataloged each remark—the curiosity, admiration, subtle fear. Accurate observations, all.
Selvra's gaze flicked to me, sharp. "She's… intriguing. But I wouldn't trust her fully."
I gave a subtle nod, acknowledging the caution. 'Agreed.'
The sudden shrill of a whistle cut through the noise, slicing the arena into focus. Tactical training had begun. Pairs assumed positions, the floor came alive with fluid motion, fists striking pads, mats scraping, bodies pivoting and countering in rapid, precise sequences.
Then he appeared—the arrogant Rank Fifteen, confidence radiating like heat. He strode toward her with a smug grin, his aura screaming superiority.
"New girl," he sneered, voice carrying across the floor. "Don't think your tricks will work here. I'm Rank Fifteen for a reason."
She didn't flinch, didn't even blink. Eyes met his for a fraction of a second—blank, calculating, lethal.
"Is that all?" she murmured softly, voice calm but carrying across the arena.
His smirk widened, tilting his head. "Bold. I like that. But you're still going down."
The crowd leaned forward, whispers rising like a tide:
"She's unranked, fighting a Rank Fifteen?"
"Her calmness… it's unnerving."
"She's hiding something big."
He lunged, a powerful strike aimed to intimidate, overcompensating for his ego.
She moved—sidestep, pivot, redirect. His fists clipped air. One motion, one subtle shift, and his balance faltered. The crowd gasped audibly.
I observed. 'Weight distribution, pivot timing, micro-adjustments in stance. She neutralizes threats, not for show, but with tactical precision.'
He attempted another strike, more desperate, more forceful. Again, she redirected, caught his wrist, twisted, and with a flick of her hip sent him staggering. He caught himself, muttering under his breath, eyes wide with disbelief.
"She's unreal!"
"How is she unranked?"
"Did you see that pivot? Like she's predicting him!"
Selvra's hand brushed her chin, fingers flexing. "Impressive," she murmured. "Not something expected from an outsider."
I allowed a faint, controlled nod. Analytical, composed. 'Agreed. Curiosity piqued.'
The Rank Fifteen's arrogance faltered, replaced with fury. "Lucky… you're lucky…" he hissed, backing away.
She adjusted her hair, dark strands sweeping sharply with the motion. Her aura lingered, subtle but tangible—a warning, a promise, a question.
The crowd buzzed, analyzed, speculated. She had disrupted expectations. Everyone underestimated her.
And yet, I still did not know her name.
Selvra's gaze softened slightly but remained alert. "She's dangerous. And she doesn't know it yet," she said quietly, enough for me alone to hear.
I cataloged it, storing, noting, predicting. Potential. Dangerous. Intriguing.
Several student groups whispered among themselves:
"Did you see that? She didn't even blink."
"She's unranked! How can that be?"
"Her control… it's unnatural."
Another group eyed me and Selvra. "I think Rank One noticed."
"Of course. He notices everything."
"She survived the first test… barely. But that aura… it's unsettling."
The tactical session wound down. Students murmured, whispered, speculated. She had left her mark without even trying. Unranked, mysterious, yet undeniably skilled.
And she had captured my attention—not through charm, not through words, but through raw, calculated presence.
A final glance across the arena: her hair caught the artificial light, long strands flowing with subtle grace, tactical uniform fitted but flexible, eyes dark and unreadable. Her aura radiated calm lethal potential.
Who is she? And what is she capable of?
No one could answer that yet. But one thing was certain: she had arrived.
And the arena would never be the same.