The room didn't ask permission.
It never did.
One moment the arena was whole—an uneasy truce of bodies, mana, and nerves—and the next, the facility decided it wanted something else. Platforms slid apart with a low, grinding hum that vibrated through the soles of Quinn's boots. Walls shifted laterally, massive panels gliding like tectonic plates obeying a silent command. Mana-threaded veins in the floor dimmed, then flared, tracing new patterns that carved the space into something sharper. Purposeful.
A division.
Everyone felt it, even the ones who couldn't explain why their skin prickled or why their breath caught for half a second. It was like standing on a fault line just before it split—no explosion, no warning. Just inevitability.
Agent Vale stood exactly where the line would form, hands clasped behind her back, posture immaculate. The chaos around her might as well not have existed. She looked like someone who'd watched the end of the world happen and decided it had been mildly inconvenient.
"You've all been observed," she said calmly. "Measured. Catalogued."
The word catalogued landed wrong. Like they were inventory, not people.
A ripple of unease moved through the trainees—some shifting their weight, others unconsciously flaring mana or tightening their stances. Vale didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The room itself seemed to lean toward her words.
"Your survival during the Wave did not make you equal," she continued. "Your evaluations merely confirmed what we suspected from the beginning."
Her gaze swept the arena slowly, deliberately, like she was counting flaws in the architecture.
"There are two primary paths of post-Wave adaptation that we've observed over the past month."
The floor beneath her boots lit up.
A thin line of light ignited at Vale's feet and stretched outward, slicing the arena cleanly in half. It wasn't decorative. It wasn't subtle. It burned with quiet authority, a boundary that felt heavier than steel.
"This line," Vale said, "is not symbolic."
The glow intensified, humming faintly as mana flowed into it.
"Step to the left if you can consciously sense mana," she ordered. "If you can feel its flow, pressure, density—or influence it through intent."
Quinn's chest tightened.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Then a few people stepped left immediately, faces pale but certain. Others hesitated, hands flexing, brows furrowed as they searched for something they weren't sure they'd ever felt. One girl closed her eyes, took a breath, then stepped left with visible relief—
as if she'd just confirmed she wasn't imagining it.
Quinn didn't hesitate.
The moment his foot crossed the line, the air changed.
Not dramatically. Not violently.
It thickened.
Mana responded like it recognized him, a subtle hum settling into his bones, familiar now in the way a heartbeat was familiar. The pressure wasn't hostile. It was aware. Like the room had turned its head and acknowledged his presence.
He exhaled slowly.
Others joined him until roughly half the group stood on the left side of the divide.
Vale didn't comment.
"Step to the right," she said, "if you cannot sense mana—but your body has undergone physical alteration due to exposure."
She spoke clinically, like she was listing components.
"Muscle density increase. Reflex acceleration. Structural reinforcement. Enhanced endurance. Speed."
She paused.
"Strength without awareness," she added. "Adaptation without control."
Riley stepped right.
No hesitation. No second glance.
The space on his side felt different—not lighter or heavier in mana, but dense with mass. With weight. Bodies that knew how to move, how to hit, how to take hits and keep going. The air felt… compressed. Like momentum waiting to happen.
Quinn watched Riley's back for a moment longer than necessary.
Riley didn't look back.
The line dimmed once everyone had chosen.
No one crossed it again.
"Understand this," Vale said. "Neither path is superior."
A few scoffs broke the silence. A few relieved breaths followed.
"Mana manipulation offers versatility, range, and exponential growth potential," she continued, eyes on Quinn's side. "But it is volatile. Unstable. And lethal to the untrained."
Her gaze shifted to the right.
"Physical adaptation offers reliability. Speed. Durability. Combat instinct. But without refinement, it caps early—and breaks easily."
The words hung there, heavy and unapologetic.
This wasn't encouragement.
It was a warning.
"You will train separately," Vale said. "Different methods. Different metrics. Different instructors."
That word—instructors—landed harder than Quinn expected.
Power didn't scare people.
Authority did.
The air behind Vale distorted.
Not like a Rift—no tearing, no screaming reality. This was cleaner. Controlled. Like something stepping through the world instead of ripping its way in.
A woman emerged.
She was tall, willowy without being fragile, posture straight in a way that spoke of discipline rather than rigidity. Her dark hair was pulled back into a high knot, and her eyes were calm—too calm—reflecting mana like a still lake reflected a storm without ever rippling.
Mana didn't cling to her.
It obeyed.
It flowed around her body in perfect harmony, bending subtly as if reality had decided she was a fixed point not worth arguing with.
Several people on Quinn's side stiffened.
He felt it immediately.
Depth.
Not pressure. Not intimidation.
Understanding.
"This instructor will oversee the mana-sensitive division," Vale said. "You will learn what she can do in time."
The woman inclined her head—not a bow, not a smile.
Acknowledgment.
On the other side, the air cracked.
Not with mana.
With force.
A man stepped forward like the ground itself had pushed him up. Broad shoulders. Thick forearms. Scars layered over scars—old white lines crossed by newer ones, like a map of fights survived rather than won.
There was no mana aura around him.
None at all.
And yet—
The floor beneath his boots groaned softly, like it knew better than to protest.
"He will oversee the physical adaptation division," Vale continued. "You will learn his capabilities soon enough."
Riley's shoulders squared without him realizing it.
The man noticed.
His grin was sharp and unapologetic.
Vale stepped back, ceding the space.
The woman spoke first.
Her voice was smooth, controlled—dangerous in the quiet way deep water was dangerous.
"My name is Lyra Voss," she said. "If you're standing on this side of the line, it means the world responds when you listen closely enough."
Her gaze swept over them, lingering for half a second on Quinn.
"I will teach you how to listen better," she continued.
A pause.
"And how not to drown in what answers back."
A few people swallowed hard.
Then the man laughed.
Loud. Unrestrained.
"Name's Garrick Hale," he said. "If you're on my side, congratulations."
He cracked his neck, joints popping like gunfire.
"You survived without mana holding your hand."
A couple of trainees bristled.
Garrick's grin widened. "Relax. I'm impressed."
He leaned forward slightly, eyes sharp. "I'll teach you how to move faster, hit harder, and stay alive when everyone else panics."
He shrugged, casual as talking about the weather.
"And if you break?"
Another shrug.
"We'll put you back together. Or bury you."
No one laughed.
Vale observed them both, expression unreadable.
Satisfied.
The line between the groups remained—
bright, clear, uncrossed.
Quinn stood among those learning to command power.
Riley stood among those becoming power.
Different paths.
Same destination.
And neither of them intended to be left behind.