The hallway never fully recovered after Octave's defeat.
The smoke eventually thinned. The heat faded back into sterile ventilation. Students smoothed their uniforms and adjusted their posture, trying to look unaffected.
But the silence had changed.
Before, it was nervous.
Now, it was obedient.
No one shifted too quickly. No one whispered above a breath. Even the stray flickers of uncontrolled magic disappeared, forced down by instinct.
Fear had reorganized us.
Fifith clapped once.
The sound cut through the corridor with clean authority.
"Physical capability test begins now. Stay where you are. Move only when I call your name."
No speech about potential.
No reassurance about fairness.
Just instruction.
Students nodded automatically, as if we'd all signed an invisible agreement to survive the next ten minutes.
"Talia State."
A girl with short black hair stepped forward. Her back was so straight it looked painful.
The metal door opened.
She disappeared inside.
It sealed.
The wait stretched long enough to let imagination do damage. Then a large screen descended from the ceiling with mechanical precision.
[Talia State — 80 Stat Points]
[Grade: Advanced]
A wave of murmurs spread through the crowd.
Eighty was good. Respectable.
Strong enough to build on. Not strong enough to dominate.
You could live with eighty.
The screen retracted.
"Dreyden Stella."
My name wasn't shouted.
It didn't need to be.
Every nerve in my body reacted anyway.
I stepped forward, aware of the shift behind me. Hundreds of eyes followed—not curious.
Evaluating.
Inside the chamber, the air felt cooler. Controlled. Like a laboratory pretending to be neutral.
A stone pedestal stood at the center. A glowing handprint shimmered on its surface.
Fifith didn't look at me.
"Place your hand on the panel."
I swallowed and pressed my palm down.
The stone vibrated softly.
Then—
Energy shot up my arm like cold lightning.
It mapped everything. My channels. My core. Circulation flow.
For half a second, paranoia flared. Could it see deeper than numbers? Could it register fear? Intent?
The screen behind us lit up.
[Dreyden Stella — 100 Stat Points]
[Grade: Elite]
The air didn't go silent.
It suspended.
Somewhere behind the door, someone whispered, "What…?"
One hundred meant perfect base distribution.
It meant clean genetics. Balanced growth potential.
It meant attention.
Fifith slowly lifted his head.
His eyes didn't study my score.
They studied my name.
"You," he said evenly. "Are you related to John Stella?"
There it was.
The actual test.
John Stella.
Top-ranked esper. Clan head. Public symbol of strength.
The man who erased Dreyden at ten.
My throat tightened before I could stop it.
"No."
The word felt clean.
True enough.
He watched me a few seconds longer than necessary, measuring angles—height, shoulders, bone structure. Looking for resemblance.
I refused to shrink.
Eventually he grunted, satisfied or bored, and pulled a lever beside him.
A portal of swirling white light opened behind his frame.
"Go through."
No acknowledgement of Elite.
No congratulations.
Of course not.
This wasn't admiration.
It was scrutiny.
I stepped forward and entered the light.
The world unraveled like pages torn from a book.
Sound returned first.
"Huh? One arrived early."
"Lucky. First one gets clean parameters."
Vision settled.
I stood in a larger chamber—more refined, more official. Bright white floor. Overhead lights too clinical to be comfortable.
Two proctors waited.
An older man with tired, analytical eyes.
And a woman with bright pink hair and a practiced, reassuring smile.
"Welcome to the Triangle, Dreyden," she said warmly. "You've passed the first stage. You're in the Elite Testing Area."
Elite.
The word carried weight now.
Expectation. Projection. Liability.
The older proctor gestured toward a reinforced sandbag secured to a steel base.
"Skill display. Full output. Show us what you can do."
Not control.
Not finesse.
Impact.
I stepped forward. My palm tingled faintly.
Fire Fists.
Never used.
Strength: twelve.
Toughness: fifteen.
Magic Energy: thirty.
Enough, in theory.
I closed my eyes and replayed Octave's circulation pattern in my mind.
Core → shoulder → forearm → compression → ignition.
The flame wasn't the core.
The flow was.
I inhaled deeply and pulled.
Energy surged too fast.
FWOOM—
Fire exploded around my arm, aggressive and unstable. It wasn't a steady burn; it was hungry.
Pain shot up to my elbow. Heat bit into skin.
"Damn—"
I compressed it.
Forced structure. Contained expansion.
Held it instead of letting it devour oxygen.
Then I swung.
BANG.
The sandbag snapped backward violently. The reinforced base screeched across the floor several feet before stabilizing.
The chamber vibrated.
Silence followed.
The digital readout beside the bag flickered as numbers climbed.
Rapidly.
Higher.
Faster.
It stabilized at:
165,983
The number meant nothing to me.
The proctors' faces did.
Shock sharpened their posture. The older man blinked twice, as if suspecting system malfunction.
The pink-haired examiner straightened slowly. "That's… unusually high."
My arm gave out.
I dropped to one knee as smoke curled faintly from my sleeve.
Reckless.
I had over-pulled to compensate for inexperience.
"Relax," the woman said, kneeling beside me.
A soft green light enveloped her palm.
"It's called Short Time," she explained calmly. "Localized rewind."
Heat unwound.
Skin restored.
The pain dissolved as if someone had pressed undo on reality.
I flexed my fingers in disbelief.
"…Thank you."
She smiled slightly. "You're supposed to tell me your skill now."
I stood carefully.
"Am I?"
She studied me for a moment longer than casual politeness required.
Then she laughed quietly. "No. But most students volunteer it."
I stayed silent.
The older proctor made a notation on his tablet.
"Assignment confirmed. Class A1."
That landed heavier than the score.
Class A1.
Main-cast territory.
High visibility.
High competition.
High casualty rates.
"Proceed to uniform fitting."
I walked through the side door.
The changing room was quiet in a different way—anticipatory rather than fearful.
I slid into the gray uniform. A thick gold stripe ran across the chest.
The badge activated instantly.
Dreyden — 165,983 pts
It looped like a headline.
I met my reflection.
The face staring back looked composed. Controlled.
Not frightened.
Which was strange.
Because I was.
The door opened again.
A red-haired boy stepped in, casual confidence radiating off him.
"Yo. Liam Strayford. Class B."
He extended a hand.
I took it. "Dreyden. Class A."
His eyes flicked to my badge.
"Bro. That's insane."
I shrugged lightly. "Got lucky."
He snorted. "Luck doesn't spike numbers like that."
Before I could respond, the door opened again.
Dhara Silvius entered.
White hair. Impeccable posture. The kind of calm that isn't nervous suppression—it's early confidence shaped by privilege.
She didn't look at either of us.
She didn't need to.
Behind her followed Riven Dogers, uniform folded over one arm. His expression was relaxed, but observant.
Liam waved.
Dhara ignored him completely.
Riven offered a polite nod in my direction.
The temperature in the room shifted subtly.
Hierarchy was tangible here.
It pressed into the space.
Moments later, the proctor returned.
"Students. Line up."
We obeyed.
At some point during testing, we had stopped being applicants.
The door ahead slid open, revealing a bright structured corridor.
Organized. Waiting.
I stepped forward with the others.
Once we crossed that threshold, we weren't guests anymore.
We were components.
And machines don't care how brave you feel.
Only how useful you are.
I adjusted my sleeve.
Class A1.
Let's see how long I last.