The walk through the Triangle felt longer than it should have.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Dhara, Riven, and I followed Instructor Oscar down a wide corridor lined with reinforced glass panels. Behind each one, motion never stopped—sparring rings, simulated urban ruins, volleys of magic slamming into barrier shields. Students bled. Students healed. Students pretended they weren't afraid.
"You three are the last batch of the year," Oscar said cheerfully, like he wasn't escorting us into a social war zone. "Bit behind, so pay attention."
Behind.
Not academically.
Socially.
Behind meant the race was already running. Alliances had already formed. Rivalries were already seeded. Rankings—real or imagined—had already settled into the bones of the place.
The Triangle wasn't a school.
It was an ecosystem that recalculated itself every hour.
And we were late variables being introduced mid-equation.
Oscar kept walking, gesturing lightly as if this were a museum tour.
"Training arena on the left. Combat simulations to the right. Library down that hall. Dormitories north wing. Recuperation chambers east wing." His tone stayed bright. "Don't wander into restricted zones. You won't enjoy what happens."
That last part didn't sound like a joke.
Dhara moved with the same composed focus she'd had in the exam chamber—chin level, stride steady, as if the Triangle was just another room she deserved to be in.
Riven nodded along, memorizing the layout without looking like he was trying.
I studied everything like it was a map of future injuries.
Traffic flow. Blind corners. Camera angles. The way instructors positioned themselves so they could watch two places at once. The way students unconsciously cleared a wider path for certain uniforms.
I'd written Dreyden's sheet with this place in mind. I'd pictured the hallways a thousand times.
But imagination didn't capture pressure.
Eventually Oscar stopped in front of a white door with gold lettering.
1A
My classroom.
Oscar smiled like a friendly uncle. "Your homeroom teacher knows you're coming. Try not to cause trouble."
That was funny.
Because trouble here didn't need intention.
It needed proximity.
He left without another word.
Dhara opened the door and stepped inside as if she'd been expected.
Riven followed with the same calm ease.
I paused for one controlled breath.
Then entered.
The shift was immediate.
Dozens of heads turned.
Not welcoming.
Not hostile.
Assessing.
My badge spoke before my mouth could.
Dreyden — 165,983 pts
The number scrolled calmly across the digital panel on my chest, as if it didn't have the power to rearrange the room's social math.
High enough to disrupt.
Low enough to still be challenged.
What I saw in their eyes wasn't awe.
It was recalibration.
My pulse tightened.
Every person here was either future competition… or future disaster.
Then I saw him.
Lucas Væresberg.
Black hair. A red right eye that didn't match the other. A posture that looked relaxed until you paid attention—until you noticed how ready his weight distribution was, how his hands rested like they'd never been empty.
His badge read:
228,943 pts
That number didn't feel like a score.
It felt like a warning label.
Strongest in A1.
Ahead by a margin wide enough to change how people planned their lives.
A few seats forward—
Raisel Silvius.
White hair falling perfectly. Purple eyes steady, unreadable. Her badge:
202,223 pts
Controlled strength. Inherited power. The kind of growth that didn't spike—it rose cleanly, like it had never struggled.
She didn't look impressed by me.
She looked calculating.
And in the back—
Jayden Black.
Perfect posture. Perfect expression.
Watching.
He didn't avert his gaze when I glanced his way.
That was worse than hostility.
Hostility announces itself.
Watching is quiet.
Mr. Lean set a tablet down on his desk.
Sharp features. Glasses. Voice measured like a scalpel.
He scanned the room once, then pointed without ceremony.
"You. You. You."
Three students stood awkwardly near the center rows.
Lean didn't raise his voice.
"First, I apologize. But you are expelled from Class 1A."
The reaction hit instantly.
"W-what?"
"Sir—please—"
"That's not fair!"
Lean sighed, almost tired.
"Fair?" he repeated, as if the word had to be tested for meaning. "You want to discuss fair?"
Silence spread like a stain.
He pointed to their badges.
145,617
149,023
152,433
Then he gestured slightly in our direction.
Dhara.
Riven.
Me.
"All over 160k," he said calmly. "One over 220k."
No one missed who that was.
"You had thirty days of resources. Thirty days of structured growth. You were warned recruitment season was not over." He let the pause sharpen. "And yet… you remain replaceable."
Replaceable.
The word hit harder than expelled.
One student's hands shook. Another chewed the inside of his cheek so hard the muscle jumped. The third simply stared at the floor like it had become the safest place to look.
"Go," Lean said. "Before I decide Class B suits you better."
They left.
No one spoke.
No one protested.
Not because we agreed.
Because we understood.
Class A1 wasn't a title you earned permanently.
It was rent you paid in output.
Lean adjusted his glasses, turned back to the tablet, and resumed as if three lives hadn't just been rerouted.
That was the real lesson.
We weren't students.
We were assets on probation.
After class, clusters formed immediately—fast whispers, private conversations, glances that snapped away the moment you noticed them.
I didn't linger.
My goal wasn't fitting in.
It was acceleration.
In the original novel, Lucas found a discarded manual behind the academy—a cheap-looking text most students overlooked. He read it, learned the fundamentals, then tossed it aside like it didn't matter.
But one detail mattered.
It increased five magic points per full circulation cycle.
Five.
At this stage, that kind of scaling was obscene.
I needed it.
Four hours later, after circling behind training complexes and following memory more than logic, I found the location.
An unused maintenance passage beyond the main combat wing. A narrow corridor that smelled faintly of metal and old disinfectant.
And someone was already there.
A boy in a gold-striped A1 uniform stood with the manual open, flipping pages carefully. Not core cast. Not one of the approved submissions I recognized.
Supplemental.
He shouldn't have been here this early.
"…Of course," I muttered.
If he memorized even half the book first, my edge shrank.
That wasn't acceptable.
I stepped forward.
"That's mine."
He blinked. "What?"
I didn't argue.
Fire Fists ignited around my hand—not flaring wildly like my first attempt, but compressed. Controlled. Tight enough to feel dangerous.
I struck.
BAM.
He flew backward and hit the wall hard enough to cough. The book skidded across the floor.
"What the hell!?" he shouted, scrambling.
I grabbed the manual instantly.
He staggered up—
—and something shifted.
His stance mirrored mine. Same foot angle. Same shoulder tilt. Same timing, as if he'd watched the motion and copied it faster than thought.
Magic sparked around his hand.
Fire.
But not the same.
Not Fire Fists.
He launched forward.
Our flames collided, sparks spitting across the concrete in sharp bursts.
"You copying me?" I snapped.
"You copied Octave earlier!" he shot back. "I copy attacks! That's my skill!"
Copy attacks?
No.
I watched closely, forcing focus past adrenaline.
His flow didn't imitate a skill signature.
It imitated motion feedback—input to output, action to reaction. Like his body recorded the physical sequence and replayed it with energy attached.
Not copying the ability.
Copying the method.
I canceled my flame mid-swing, stepped inside his guard, and grabbed a fistful of his hair. He yelped, stumbling as I pulled his head down just enough to break his balance.
"Tell me exactly what your skill does," I said quietly.
"You already know!"
"I know what you think it does," I corrected. "That's not the same thing."
He froze.
Not from fear.
From realization.
His flames fizzled, unstable, as if his own understanding had been the scaffold holding them up.
"…Whatever," he muttered, furious. "Keep the stupid book."
I released him.
He backed away, eyes sharp, anger and caution mixing in equal measure.
One thing landed in my mind with cold clarity:
He didn't react when I referenced the webnovel earlier.
No confusion. No recognition.
He wasn't from Earth.
He was native.
Which meant the system wasn't just adapting.
It was generating.
When he finally stormed off, my interface flickered.
[Congratulations! You acquired the skill book: Action and Reaction {0}]
I felt it slide into the Library like a volume finding its shelf.
Two copied skills.
Back-to-back.
Both unplanned.
Both disruptive.
And definitely not subtle.
I looked down at the manual in my hands again.
Magic Control.
Five points per proper circulation cycle.
Scalable.
Quiet.
Safe.
"That's more important," I murmured.
Flashy skills drew attention.
Control built foundations.
And right now, I needed foundation more than spectacle.
The Triangle believed it controlled growth—rationed power, assigned ceilings, rewarded predictability.
But I had just stepped outside its assumptions.
And if the world was evolving—
Then so was I.
I turned the first page.
And started reading.