Just as he reached the chair and was about to sit down, someone's foot shot out and kicked it away.
Ares found himself falling toward the floor, his meal still balanced in his hands.
But he didn't fall.
The chair clattered away, but Ares moved like water flowing around a stone. His body shifted with such fluid precision that it seemed choreographed—left foot sliding back, right foot pivoting forward, his center of gravity adjusting as if he'd rehearsed this exact scenario a thousand times.
His tray remained perfectly level. Not a single drop of soup disturbed the surface tension in his bowl.
The teenager who had kicked the chair stared in open shock. His mouth hung slightly open, confusion replacing the malicious satisfaction he'd expected to feel.
Around them, conversations died like candles being snuffed out. Dozens of eyes turned toward the unfolding scene, teenage faces hungry for drama in the confined space of the ship.
Ares straightened slowly, his steel-gray eyes settling on the bully with the cold intensity of winter fog. When he spoke, his voice was quiet enough that those nearby had to strain to hear it.
"Clumsy of me to trust a stranger's proximity."
The words carried no heat, no anger. They were delivered with the same tone someone might use to comment on mildly disappointing weather. Somehow, that made them infinitely more unsettling than any shouted threat could have been.
The bully recovered from his surprise with visible effort. His face flushed red as snickers echoed from his companions at a nearby table.
"You think you're better than the rest of us, village boy?" The bully's voice carried across half the cafeteria now, drawing even more attention. "Just because you got lucky with some S-rank awakening doesn't make you special."
Ares set his tray down on the table with deliberate care, each movement precise and unhurried. When he turned to face the larger boy fully, something in his posture changed. Nothing dramatic—just a subtle shift in weight distribution, a slight adjustment in the angle of his shoulders.
To most observers, he still looked like a calm teenager avoiding a confrontation.
But the bully's friends suddenly found reasons to take small steps backward.
"Special?" Ares repeated the word as if tasting something mildly distasteful. He was once again shocked by how quickly information could spread. "No. I'm exactly as unremarkable as I appear to be."
His eyes never left the bully's face, but somehow managed to convey the impression that he was simultaneously studying everything and everyone in his immediate vicinity.
Like a predator stalking it's prey...
The larger boy's confidence wavered for a moment before his pride reasserted itself. He'd built his reputation on intimidating others, and backing down now would shatter that image completely.
"Then maybe you need a reminder of where you stand," the bully growled, his hands curling into fists.
Around them, the cafeteria had gone completely silent. Even teenagers at distant tables had stopped eating to watch the confrontation unfold. The tension in the air was thick enough to swim through.
"Marcus, just leave it," one of his friends whispered urgently. "He's not worth the trouble."
But Marcus—apparently the bully's name—was already committed to his course of action. Years of successful intimidation had taught him that backing down was weakness, and weakness was blood in the water.
He lunged forward with a haymaker punch that telegraphed its intention so clearly it might as well have been announced by a town crier.
Ares moved.
Not quickly—that would imply haste or urgency. Instead, he flowed like liquid mercury, his body simply occupying a different space than it had moments before.
The punch whistled through empty air with enough force to seriously injure anyone unlucky enough to be in its path.
As Marcus stumbled forward, overbalanced by his own momentum, Ares's hand moved in a precise, economical motion. Two fingers pressed against a specific point on Marcus's shoulder with surgical accuracy.
Thud.
The larger boy dropped to his knees as if someone had cut his puppet strings.
"What—" Marcus's voice came out as a strangled gasp. His right arm hung completely limp at his side, nerveless and unresponsive. "What did you do to me?"
Ares studied him with a detached interest.
"Temporary nerve disruption," he explained in the same tone he might use to discuss the weather. "The paralysis will fade in approximately eight minutes. Perhaps nine, given your body mass."
He paused, tilting his head slightly as if considering a minor mathematical problem.
"Though I should mention that the technique becomes progressively more permanent with repeated application. Something to keep in mind for future reference."
The threat was delivered so calmly, so matter-of-factly, that it took several seconds for its implications to fully register. When they did, Marcus's face went pale beneath his flush of humiliation.
The entire cafeteria was also shocked. The huge boy had been taken down in one move?
Among the many shocked faces, the youths from Galley smirked with pride. They weren't the least bit surprised by the outcome.
Anyone foolish enough to challenge their teacher in close combat was destined to lose. There was no doubt about it!
-----
Ares finished his meal while fielding questions and comments from his former students, accepting their praise with the same calm gratitude he'd always shown. But he was acutely aware of the changed atmosphere around them.
Word would spread quickly through the ship. By the time they reached their destination, everyone would know about the incident. That would bring both advantages and disadvantages.
On one hand, it might discourage others from testing him unnecessarily.
On the other hand, it would mark him as someone worth watching. Someone potentially dangerous.
He'd have to be more careful about future displays of ability.
When he finally returned to his room, the corridors buzzed with whispered conversations that died abruptly whenever he passed. Eyes followed his progress with newfound wariness and respect.
The quiet boy from Galley who'd awakened an S-rank bloodline was apparently also a martial arts prodigy capable of casually dismantling opponents twice his size!
He spent the remaining hours of their journey alone in his room, using the solitude for something he'd been meaning to attempt since his awakening.
Manual stat training.
According to the village shaman's lessons, it was theoretically possible to increase physical attributes through pure effort and determination, without relying on enhancement crystals or magical assistance.
The process was incredibly slow and became exponentially more difficult as one's base stats increased, but it was possible. At least, till one reached their stat limit.
Most people considered it a waste of time when crystals provided immediate results. Why spend weeks of grueling effort for a single point increase when the right crystal could grant the same improvement instantly?
But Ares had always believed in maximizing every advantage, no matter how small.
He began with basic exercises—push-ups using only his fingertips, bodyweight squats held in perfect form until his muscles screamed in protest, isometric holds that pushed his endurance to its limits.
The movements felt hauntingly familiar, like his body was remembering routines from somewhere else. His form was instinctively perfect, his breathing patterns optimized for maximum efficiency.
After an hour of steady work, he could feel the subtle burn in his muscles that indicated genuine exertion. But more than that, he could sense something deeper happening. A gradual increase in the density of his muscle fibers. A slight improvement in the efficiency of his cardiovascular system.
It would take days or weeks to see a single point increase in his Strength stat this way. But every fraction of improvement mattered when the margins of victory could be measured in heartbeats.
He was midway through a set of one-handed push-ups—his free hand balanced a glass of water on his back without spilling a drop—when the ship's movement pattern changed.
Instead of the steady forward motion they'd maintained all day, he felt the subtle shift that indicated they were beginning their descent.
A soft chime echoed through the ship's walls, followed by Captain Thorne's voice carried through the magical communication system that connected every room.
"All passengers to the main deck. We're approaching EagleBeak Mountain."
Ares finished his exercise set with deliberate precision, cleaned the sweat from his face and hands, and made his way through the ship's softly glowing corridors.
On the main deck, hundreds of teenagers crowded against the windows and observation areas. Their conversations created a buzz of nervous excitement that grew louder as the ship's destination came into view.
Through the transparent walls, Ares understood why.
EagleBeak Mountain rose before them like nature's own fortress, its peak disappearing into clouds that seemed permanently anchored around its summit. The mountain wasn't the tallest in the Sanga range, but it commanded attention in ways that had nothing to do with simple height.
The rock face was nearly vertical—a sheer cliff that looked impossible to climb without specialized equipment and years of experience. Strange formations jutted out at irregular intervals, some that might serve as handholds for the desperate or skilled, others that appeared ready to crumble at the slightest touch.
Wind-carved gouges and weather-stained ledges told stories of countless failed attempts and the mountain's complete indifference to human ambition.
But what immediately drew every eye was the base of the mountain.
The plateau stretched out like an enormous natural amphitheater, and it was already occupied. Hundreds of teenagers were scattered across the cleared ground, their temporary camps creating a patchwork of colors and banners that spoke of different locations, different villages, different hopes.
"Sweet merciful ancestors," someone whispered near Ares. "Look at all of them."
The numbers were staggering. If their ship alone had collected roughly three hundred teenagers, and there were already hundreds more waiting below, the total number of hopefuls was far larger than anyone from Galley could have imagined.
The Stormcrest settled onto the plateau with barely a whisper of displaced air, its magical propulsion systems bringing them to a perfect landing that felt no different from stepping onto solid ground.
As the passengers began disembarking, Ares got his first real sense of the scale they were dealing with. The plateau was enormous—easily large enough to hold several thousand people with room for organized activities. From the evidence of the existing camps, it had been designed to do exactly that.
Teenagers streamed off ships that had landed throughout the day, each group adding to the growing crowd of hopefuls.
But before anyone could begin organizing themselves or asking questions about what came next, something changed.
The massive crowd began to quiet, conversations dying away in expanding ripples of silence. It started near the base of the mountain and spread outward like a stone dropped in still water.
A figure had appeared at the cliff's base.
He didn't walk into view or emerge from behind cover. One moment the space was empty, the next moment he was simply there, as if reality had examined the situation and decided he belonged in that exact spot.
The man was tall and lean, with the kind of presence that commanded attention without visible effort. His hair was silver despite his apparently middle-aged appearance, and his simple clothes somehow conveyed more authority than any elaborate uniform could have managed.
When he spoke, his voice carried across the entire plateau without him appearing to raise it above conversational level.
"Welcome to EagleBeak Mountain."
The words settled over the gathering like a physical weight. Twenty-five hundred teenagers fell silent as if a spell had been cast over them. Even the wind seemed to pause in deference to his presence.
"I am Darius, head of this camp."
His gaze swept across the massive crowd with unhurried deliberation, and Ares had the deeply unsettling feeling that those eyes had somehow cataloged every face in the gathering even though he knew it was almost impossible.
"You represent the most promising young awakeners from across this region," Darius continued, his tone conversational despite the vast audience. "Each of you has demonstrated potential worthy of consideration."
A pause that seemed to stretch for eternity.
"However."
That single word fell into the silence like a boulder dropped into a quiet pond. The ripples of its implication spread through the crowd, creating a tension so thick it was almost tangible.
"The EagleBeak camp can accommodate exactly five hundred students."
The number hit the gathering like a physical blow. Ares heard sharp intakes of breath, muttered curses, and the soft sounds of dreams beginning to crumble. Around him, faces went pale as the mathematics became clear.
Twenty-five hundred candidates. Five hundred positions.
An eighty percent elimination rate.
"The selection process," Darius announced with the same casual tone he might use to discuss the weather, "is elegantly simple."
He gestured toward the impossible cliff behind him without turning around.
"Behind me stands EagleBeak Mountain. The first five hundred individuals to reach the summit will be accepted into the camp. Everyone else will be returned to their homes with our gratitude for their effort."
Another pause, this one heavy with the weight of inevitability.
"There are no rules regarding how you reach the top. There are no restrictions on what methods you may employ. Cooperation is permitted. Sabotage is expected. Violence is anticipated and will not be penalized unless it results in permanent injury or death."
His smile was sharp as winter wind.
"The only requirement is that you arrive among the first five hundred. Nothing else matters."
The silence that followed was profound. Ares could practically hear the sound of strategies forming, alliances being considered, and moral compromises being weighed against ambition.
"You may begin," Darius said quietly, "when I am no longer here."
Without another word, he simply vanished. Not teleportation, not superhuman speed—he was just gone, as if he had never existed at all.
For perhaps three heartbeats, the plateau remained frozen in stunned silence.
Then all hell broke loose.
Twenty-five hundred teenagers erupted into motion simultaneously, a human avalanche of desperate ambition charging toward the base of the impossible cliff.
The sound was like thunder—thousands of feet hitting the ground in unison, voices raised in determination and desperation, the clash of bodies as the slower movers were trampled by those quick enough to seize early advantages.
The race for EagleBeak Mountain had begun. And only five hundred would see it end.