The academy's bell had never sounded like this before. That deep, resonant gong — heavy as a funeral drum — rippled through the stone corridors and stirred something primal in every student and instructor alike. It was a summons not to class, but to battle. A declaration that nothing hereafter would be the same.
"Students of Nayak Academy," the voice boomed, cold and official over the intercoms, "Prepare for the Continental Trials. The top five combatants from each class will advance to represent the nation. Training ends today. Every move counts from now on."
Whispers exploded into murmurs, murmurs into shouts — a tidal wave of tension crashing through the first-year classrooms.
Malik stood with his class, 1E, before the sparring arena. It wasn't just any arena. It was a shifting battleground: rocky crags, dense synthetic forests, swirling sand pits — a crucible forged to test more than strength. This was where survival instincts were honed, where the capable rose and the weak fell into obscurity.
Instructor Lura's voice sliced through the tension. "The top fighters will be chosen not only by skill, but by instinct, adaptability, and resilience. The Continental Academy does not train the strongest — it trains the most capable."
Malik glanced up at the glowing holoscreen flashing the combat brackets:
Interclass Combat Trial — Round One:
Malik Barn (1E) vs. Meira Nyako (1C)
Meira moved like a whisper of winter — fluid, sharp, unpredictable. Her ability to phase through solid objects was a nightmare to counter. But Malik didn't falter. He had studied her. He had a plan. Or so he thought.
The match began with a furious exchange. Meira's frost blade sliced through the air, missing Malik by inches. Then, mid-dodge, something flickered — a glitch in his own body. His limbs betrayed him, numb and trembling. The arena lights flickered violently.
Malik stumbled backward, heart pounding. Meira paused, eyes narrowing.
"Are you—?"
Before she could finish, a silent, needle-thin beam shot through the air — invisible to Malik but not to others. It zipped toward his neck.
Peter reacted instantly. With a blur of motion, he vaulted over the barrier, hands slicing the air like whip cracks. His mutation flared, speed surging as he reflected the shot harmlessly away.
The crowd gasped. Chaos erupted. Security rushed in, dragging Peter back as the trial was suspended.
Later, in the quiet of the infirmary, Malik sat frozen, replaying the moments.
"You okay?" Peter leaned against the door, arms crossed.
"You saved me."
"Cowards don't get to win."
Malik frowned. "Did you see who fired the shot?"
Peter's face darkened. "No. But someone's scared of you. Or worse — they already know."
"Know what?"
Peter didn't answer.
---
The incident was buried beneath layers of false reports: "System glitch. Projector malfunction. Trial match postponed."
But Malik and Margaret both knew the truth.
"Assassination attempt," Margaret said later, voice cold, cornering Malik in the map wing.
"Why cover it?"
"They want you gone quietly. No martyr, no hero."
Malik looked at his hands — the hands that could steal power but only when fear drowned logic.
"I can't keep running," he muttered. "I need to understand what I am before they finish the job."
Margaret nodded. "Then let's find out."
---
That night, the old greenhouse—forgotten by most—held a secret council.
Malik pushed open the cracked door to find Xander seated on a wooden bench, Frank leaning against a pillar, Margaret thumbing through a notebook, and Peter perched like a juggler with too many secrets.
"Thanks for coming," Malik said.
"Don't get sentimental," Frank grunted. "We're not a club. We just want you alive."
Peter smirked. "That was actually heartfelt, Frank."
Xander cut in, "We dug through everything. Student logs. Mutation genomes. Off-limits instructor files."
"And?" Malik asked.
Xander's brow furrowed deeper. "Nothing. No record of a mutation like yours. No pattern. Your signature flickers. The scanners can't classify you."
Malik sank down. "So I'm a ghost."
"No," Margaret said firmly. "You're something new. Which makes you dangerous—to them."
Frank pulled out a worn device. "Snuck this from Lura's lab. We're running tests. Our way."
Xander nodded. "Sparring, simulations, mental pressure drills."
"We'll provoke it," Margaret added. "Not to hurt you. But to see how far it goes."
Peter raised an eyebrow. "You good with that?"
Malik swallowed hard. "Better here with you than alone when it counts."
---
First test: adrenaline surge. Peter blitzed with lightning speed, Xander charged. Malik dodged, blocked. No spark.
Second test: emotional pressure. Margaret projected an illusion — an attack on his mother. Breath hitched. Eyes wide.
Nothing.
"Still too controlled," Frank muttered.
"I know it's real," Malik insisted. "But when I expect it, it won't come."
Frank thought aloud, "Not just danger. Unpredictability. Real fear is not knowing where it'll hit. Like war."
Margaret whispered, "It activates when your survival instinct overrides logic. When your body chooses to protect itself, not your mind."
They tried again: Peter darted, Frank faked footsteps behind. Xander feigned panic.
Margaret gasped, "Something's happening!"
Malik spun. For a heartbeat, time slowed—not literally, but perception warped.
His hand brushed Xander's arm. Xander froze, eyes wide, power gone.
Silence.
"I touched him," Malik breathed. "I didn't mean to. But when I thought he was the real danger, his power came to me."
Xander rubbed his arms. "My light turned off."
Frank paled. "You stole it."
"No," Margaret corrected. "Mirrored it. Maybe temporarily."
Peter nodded slowly. "Like a siphon."
Malik muttered, "It works when I'm threatened. I can't control it."
---
Outside, shadowed against the cracked greenhouse wall, a figure turned from the half-open window and tapped a device.
"Subject confirmed," a voice whispered. "He's not dormant. He's a threat."
Far below the academy, in a hidden chamber, a screen flickered on.
The Head of School watched the feed, grim and silent.
Behind him stood a silver-clad figure, masked, voice colder than ice.
"Shall we eliminate him now?"
"No," the Head replied, turning to the window. "Let him rise."
He clasped his hands behind his back.
"Let the world see the flame before we extinguish it."
---
The game had begun. And the flame was burning hotter than anyone realized.