After the mess with Super Intelligence, my plans shifted.
Before that, I'd been waiting.
Waiting for Maya to fully master her ability so we could climb together.
Waiting for the right timing.
Waiting for synchronization.
I'd built my pace around hers.
I was planning around her.
Relying on her.
I'll slow down. Let her catch up. Then we'll move together, I'd told myself more than once.
It had sounded noble in my head.
It had sounded smart.
It was neither.
After nearly cooking my own brain, something ugly surfaced—something I didn't want to admit.
I'd been limiting myself.
Not because I trusted her too much.
But because, subconsciously, I needed someone beside me before I was willing to move forward.
That was weakness.
My survival in this world would be decided by my strength.
Not Maya's.
Not Lucas's.
Not anyone's.
If I fell behind, it wouldn't matter how strong my allies were. They wouldn't be able to save me.
"Tsk… how did I even convince myself that was fine?"
The problem wasn't distrust.
It was comfort.
I'd been hiding my growth behind strategy.
And hiding forever was just a slower version of dying.
Climbing higher meant attention. More eyes. More hostility.
Fine.
Attention I could handle.
Helplessness? No.
I stretched, joints popping lightly as tension finally left my shoulders.
"Damn… staying in bed all day really messes with your head," I muttered.
"Nowhere like home."
…That was generous.
I'd spent exactly one day in my apartment before getting shoved into another world. Hardly enough to build nostalgia.
I dropped backward onto the bed. The mattress absorbed the impact with a dull thump.
For a moment, I stared at the ceiling.
Then I reached for my phone.
The Triangle's official portal loaded instantly. Of course it did. Full digital ranking systems, real-time fight archives, merit tracking, psychological flags hidden beneath the interface.
A military lab disguised as a school.
I logged in and opened the ranking board.
Lucas.
Still steady. Untouched.
Riven, Dhara, Raisel—all climbing, all consolidating positions.
Top 10 now.
Impressive.
Expected.
"Alright… who first?"
The First Challenge mechanic was ridiculous when you thought about it.
Your first official ranked match let you challenge anyone.
Rank 1.
Rank 5.
Even S-Class.
That was exactly why I'd stopped Maya from using hers recklessly.
Blowing your First Challenge was strategic suicide.
"Top 10 is annoying… Top 20 even more so…"
Technically, nothing stopped you from leaping upward.
Unofficially? Plenty did.
The "Lower-Rank Revolt" policy—an internal understanding encouraged by instructors to prevent pride-based slaughter. Too many students got crushed challenging elites too early.
Demoralized.
Broken.
Sometimes permanently.
"Top 30… that feels right."
High enough to matter.
Low enough to avoid mass hysteria.
I scrolled.
Dustin Trew — Rank 30.
Six fights. Six wins.
Clean record.
Consistent.
Not flashy.
Perfect.
I slipped my brass knuckles into my pouch and left the dorm.
Cafeteria
The cafeteria was louder than usual. Rankings always shifted the atmosphere. Energy clustered into invisible zones—class groupings, faction tables, influence circles.
Dustin wasn't hard to find.
White hair. Thick build. Class A2.
Laughing casually with friends, legs sprawled under the table like he owned the floor.
"…Three challenges in one day. You're screwed," one of his friends joked.
"That's what you get for losing to that B-Class kid," another added.
Dustin rolled his shoulders lazily, chewing on a potato like the world was slow enough for him to dominate at leisure.
I stepped up to the table.
"Dustin."
He looked up.
His gaze dropped to my badge.
Recognition.
Mild irritation.
"I challenge you to an official ranking match."
He studied me longer than necessary.
"I don't want to."
Fair.
I pulled out my student card.
"Doesn't matter. First Challenge."
His expression changed instantly.
The table shook when he stood.
"You little—fine. Let's fight," he snapped. "I'll kill you."
I almost laughed.
Predictable.
Emotional.
Easy to manipulate.
"We'll see."
You never enter a fight angry.
He already lost the mental battle.
Meanwhile — Lucas
"Hey, Lucas."
"Make it quick."
"It's about Dreyden."
Lucas paused.
That got his attention.
"What about him?"
Arlo grinned. "When rankings opened, he didn't fight. Then suddenly used his First Challenge. Beat Dustin. Now he's on his third match."
Lucas frowned faintly.
Dustin. Rank 30, somewhere down there. Not important.
"And?"
"He's already moving toward Top 20."
Lucas leaned back. "It's a ranking match. That's the point."
Arlo sighed. "You're boring."
Lucas ignored him.
But something tugged at him internally.
Every time he looked at Dreyden with Luck Point—
He saw white.
Not red.
Not yellow.
Not gold.
White.
Undefined.
When Lucas had invited Dreyden into his faction, the color had shifted to blue.
Neutral.
Which unsettled him more than red ever could.
"You should watch," the voice inside him murmured.
Lucas went still.
"You don't care about students," he said internally.
"This one is different."
Silence followed.
That silence bothered Lucas most of all.
"You want me to go that badly?"
"Yes."
"…You'll train me?"
"Yes."
Lucas's fingers tightened around the door handle.
Why Dreyden?
Threat?
Opportunity?
Or something worse?
"I'll see for myself," Lucas decided.
Arena
By the time I stepped into the arena, the crowd had tripled.
Apparently, chaining matches back-to-back turned you into entertainment.
First fight: nerves.
Second: noise.
Third?
Expectation.
Julien stood opposite me.
Level 6 ability.
Cloning.
Each copy split his magic energy thinner.
Effective early on.
Disastrous if mismanaged.
He grinned, confidence bordering on delusion.
"I hope you're ready," he sneered. "You've only beaten weaklings."
I tilted my head slightly.
He talked too much.
"After all," I said lightly, "you're pretty weak."
His composure snapped exactly as expected.
Good.
The referee stepped forward.
"Ready—"
His hand dropped.
"Start!"
Julien split instantly.
Two became four.
Four became eight.
Identical copies rushed outward, surrounding me in a tightening circle.
The crowd murmured.
Impressive visual.
Poor strategy.
Each clone pulsed with thinner magic density than the last. I could feel it without even activating Eyes of Truth.
"Overextension," I muttered under my breath.
Three clones lunged at once.
I stepped back half a pace, letting the first swing pass close enough to feel wind against my cheek.
Second clone aimed low.
I pivoted, heel snapping into its jaw.
The body dispersed like smoke.
Energy unstable.
Too thin.
The real Julien hesitated.
Mistake.
Two more rushed from my blind side.
Fire Fists flared—controlled, compressed.
Not a spectacle.
Just density.
I drove my knuckles straight through one clone's torso.
It shattered into particles.
Another dissipated mid-strike, magic destabilizing from the energy backlash.
The arena grew louder.
Julien's breathing deepened.
Eight copies again.
This time smaller.
Thinner.
Worse.
I advanced instead of waiting.
Closed space before he could complete the formation cycle.
He panicked.
Copies flickered unevenly.
I stepped through a collapsing gap, found the only body with consistent circulation—
And drove my fist straight into his solar plexus.
The impact folded him in half.
Clones vanished instantly.
Julien hit the ground coughing violently, trying to drag air into lungs that refused to cooperate.
Silence rippled across the arena.
Referee's voice cut through.
"Winner—Dreyden Stella."
Whispers erupted.
"Third win."
"He's not slowing down."
"He's not even exhausted."
I exhaled slowly.
I wasn't trying to prove dominance.
I was proving momentum.
Across the arena entrance—
Lucas stood watching.
Red eye focused.
Expression unreadable.
Good.
Let him watch.
Because I wasn't slowing down anymore.
If attention was the cost of growth—
I'd pay it in full.
And if the Triangle wanted to measure me—
It was about to need a bigger scale.