Margaret's Match – Class 1A vs. 1B
Margaret stepped forward in silence, her opponent already summoning waves of gravity distortion. The floor beneath her warped, cracked, buckled.
She didn't panic.
With a single gesture, her shield—a shimmering circle of translucent light—solidified at her back. Then another. Then six more.
They floated like petals around her as she closed the distance, walking straight through gravity fields like they were wind.
When she reached her opponent, she tapped his forehead gently with the edge of her palm.
Knockout. He collapsed from the feedback.
She didn't even break a sweat.
---
Peter's Match – Class 1B vs. 1D
Peter stepped into the ring adjusting his gloves. Across from him stood a flame manipulator, licking fire from her fingertips with a grin.
"I'm not going easy," she warned.
Peter smiled back. "Good. I was hoping to have some fun today."
His fight was chaotic. Screens blazed with reds and golds, explosions bursting mid-air as the flame user unleashed wave after wave of heat. But Peter wasn't a bruiser—he was an engineer of movement.
Every dodge fed data into his HUD. Every explosion taught him more.
Then, at just the right angle, he turned into a blur.
Stunned, she faltered. That's when he struck—with a compressed sonic dart to her temple.
She dropped.
Victory: Peter.
---
Frank's Match – Class 1C vs. 1A
Frank's fight wasn't pretty.
His mutation wasn't flashy—he could phase in and out, part shadow, part presence. His opponent was a dual-element user—light and sound. Dangerous.
But Frank cheated time.
He let himself get hit—then vanished, reappearing behind. Again. And again.
Every blow landed on an illusion. Every move was calculated.
And then—he touched the opponent's throat.
Silence.
Frank's voice echoed behind him. "Yield. Or I'll take the rest of your voice too."
The opponent collapsed, gasping.
Frank won.
But as he walked off the stage, he didn't smile.
---
Though Class 1A dominated the rankings, a few unexpected victories caught the Academy's attention:
A girl from Class 1D who controlled glass—she shattered her opponent's armor and reshaped it into shackles mid-fight.
A boy from 1E with no known power... who simply refused to fall. He took dozens of hits and kept getting up. A stamina mutant? A regen user? No one knew—but he wouldn't quit.
A duo from Class 1B and 1C who accidentally got matched together—only to combine their mutations mid-fight and take out a top-ranked student from 1A.
The bracket had begun to shift.
The safe bets were no longer safe.
---
Back to the Mimic:
With every match, the mimic's popularity surged.
He'd taken down a wind-speedster, a memory-link fighter, and a barrier mage—without ever looking tired. His expression never changed. Always calm. Always exact.
"He's... too polished," Margaret whispered.
Xander grunted. "He's never fought like this before."
Peter nodded slowly. "Even the way he stands is different."
Then Margaret's eyes widened.
The mimic fought like a phantom draped in Malik's skin.
Every move was calculated—precise, efficient, and hauntingly familiar. She didn't flaunt power. She used just enough. A burst of kinetic force to unbalance. A glance that faked vulnerability. A counter-strike that sent her opponent sprawling. Again and again, she walked off the stage untouched. Victorious.
And the crowd loved it.
"Malik Barn!" the announcers called. Cheers followed like thunder. The name echoed through the arena, a chant born from admiration, fear, and awe.
But Malik wasn't on the stage.
He sat in the shadows near the back, hood up, uniform altered just enough to pass for a volunteer tech assistant. Every muscle in his body was tight. He watched as he took another match—watched her copy his gait, his stance, even the way he tilted his head after a win.
"Damn, I'm good," he murmured, low.
His voice barely left his lips, but nearby students turned to stare. One tilted their head in confusion. "Did he just say—?"
But by the time anyone looked, Malik had leaned back, his face hidden under the visor of a maintenance helmet. Just another shadow. Just another nobody.
The mimic stepped off the arena floor, her breath steady. Not a drop of sweat on her face. Not a flicker of strain.
---
The rest of the group continued with their own battles.
Margaret froze the ground beneath her opponent's feet, launching ice-spikes that turned defense into offense. She dominated most of her matches. Her fourth match was harder—her ice clashed against fire, steam rising between them like a veil. She lost narrowly, slipping on her own frost in the final blow.
Every move she made was elegant, decisive—even when she fell, she did it on her feet.
---
Xander charged into his matches with brute confidence, fists glowing with raw strength. He broke barriers, shattered defenses, and in one round, threw his opponent clear out of the ring. But strength alone wasn't always enough. A psychic from 1A toyed with his movements, made his punches swing wide, and danced out of reach. He lost once. Then twice.
Xander didn't take defeat lightly. He didn't complain either. He walked off each time, jaw clenched, eyes scanning the mimic across the ring.
"She's not him," he muttered once to Margaret. "That isn't Malik."
---
Peter moved like a flicker of light. One moment there, the next—gone. Speed made him a nightmare to track. But even he had limits. Against opponents who could sense energy, see heat, or predict movement, he struggled to land decisive blows. Still, he hung on. Match after match, win and loss, he advanced further than anyone expected.
---
Frank fought like a shadow. Slipping into invisibility, reappearing behind opponents, using trickery and misdirection more than force. He barely scraped through the first few rounds—his opponents caught off-guard by his sudden vanishings. But his style relied too much on surprise. Once the competition adjusted, the wins became rarer.
---
And Malik?
He sat, eyes glued to himself. Or what looked like himself.
The mimic moved with grace. She dodged a fireball and turned it into a springboard, flipping over her opponent and landing behind them with a perfect sweep kick. The crowd erupted.
Malik's hands trembled. But it wasn't fear.
It was adrenaline.
"Yes," he mumbled, transfixed, raising his hands.
He wasn't speaking to anyone. Maybe not even to himself. But the words slipped out, reverent and amazed—as if seeing his own potential brought to life.
More students turned. Whispers bloomed.
But no one could place the voice. No one could find the source.
Malik had already disappeared deeper into the crowd, his breathing ragged.