The first week was the worst.
Elijah's body screamed at every sunrise. Kat didn't ease up, not even slightly. Every morning before class, she would trap him inside her gravity field and run him through a gauntlet of drills designed to crush his spirit before breakfast. Push-ups, wall runs, vertical adhesion tests, all while his limbs felt like they were shackled to lead bricks. His muscles burned, his fingers cramped, and his mana channels throbbed like infected nerves.
But slowly, something changed.
The soreness didn't vanish, but he began to move through it. His control over his sticking ability sharpened—what once took full concentration became instinct. His breathing during mana flow stabilized. By the end of the second week, he could scale a wall blindfolded and stick to it upside down for five minutes without slipping.
Kat never praised him aloud, but her subtle adjustments told the story. The pressure would lighten slightly when his posture was correct. Her nods became more frequent. She started spacing his water breaks further apart.
And once—just once—he caught the tiniest upward twitch at the corner of her mouth.
After morning drills, classes passed in a blur. Enhancer Techniques with Clancy remained brutal, but Elijah stopped feeling like dead weight. Clancy no longer barked corrections at him every five minutes. Occasionally, the old juggernaut even grunted in approval. Just once, he told Elijah, "You're bleeding less. Good sign."
Afternoons and evenings belonged to Tim. Their joint sessions became a weird sort of ritual—equal parts chaos and camaraderie.
One night they sparred on the roof using enhanced mobility patterns. Another, they practiced vibration-nullified grapples on gym mats in the dark. Tim insisted it was "important for stealth." Elijah was pretty sure he just forgot to book a training room.
"You're improving," Tim said, panting after one session. "Still clumsy, but like… confidently clumsy."
"Thanks," Elijah wheezed. "That's the nicest thing anyone's ever said while pinning me to the floor."
Tim grinned. "Well, if Claro doesn't kill me first, I'll have t-shirts made."
The scoreboard updates became their shared addiction.
Week 2:
Elijah: #298
Tim: #113
Claro: #99
Week 4:
Elijah: #295
Tim: #106
Claro: #99
Claro's decline was slow, but noticeable. He was still technically in the top 100, but his frustration was mounting.
During sparring drills, he hit harder than necessary. Once, he shattered a training dummy's reinforced shoulder joint, earning a sharp reprimand from Clancy.
"Overcompensation isn't power," the instructor growled.
Claro didn't answer. He simply stared across the room—at Tim and Elijah.
Tim had become a threat. And the fact that Elijah was even moving up the board at all? Humiliating.
The second month brought new breakthroughs for Elijah.
His adhesive techniques grew more advanced. He learned to stick only select parts of his body—fingertips, heels, elbows—allowing for smoother transitions in combat. He developed a unique sidestep maneuver that let him use stick points as pivots to redirect motion mid-sprint. Clancy even let him demo it for a few first-years during class.
But the real shift came from Kat.
Their morning sessions grew longer. She added complex balance drills—scaling rotating columns, hopping between unstable platforms, sticking to shifting surfaces while under her gravity field. When Elijah faltered, she didn't berate him. She explained. Briefly, bluntly, but clearly.
"You're compensating too much with your right leg. Trust the adhesion and adjust your center. Like this."
She showed him. Once. Perfectly.
And, for the first time, Elijah realized something else about her.
She wasn't just powerful. She was precise.
Not just strong, but elegant. Calculated. Disciplined in a way that made brute strength look amateur.
That morning, after one of their toughest sessions yet, Elijah sat panting on the mat.
"You ever get tired of being better than everyone?" he asked, half-joking.
Kat was silent a moment. Then: "Yes."
Elijah blinked. "Wait. Really?"
She didn't elaborate. Just handed him a towel and walked away. But her silence lingered with him all day.
That evening, Elijah's resonance journal contained a single line that he subsequently crossed out because it was too cringe:
"She's not made of ice. She's made of stone that learned how to stand upright."
Week 6:
Elijah: #290
Tim: #103
Claro: #99
Tim was catching up.
He was running nightly burst drills, refining how his vibration power interacted with his muscles during high-speed maneuvers. His movement became sharper, more efficient. He stopped wasting energy and started weaponizing it. One of his new techniques—"Pulse Whip," as he called it—used vibrational energy to launch small projectiles with slingshot force.
"Think I could vibrate someone's teeth out of their head if I aimed right," he bragged.
Elijah just gave him a tired thumbs-up. "Call it the Tooth Fairy Special."
Even Kat started raising an eyebrow when Elijah executed complex drills correctly on the first try. Not that she ever said anything.
One morning, after Elijah completed a flawless gravity-aided backflip dismount onto a vertical wall, Kat stood silent for a full three seconds before nodding.
"That'll do."
Coming from her, it felt like a parade.
Week 8:
Elijah: #289
Tim: #101
Claro: #99
Tim hovered just outside the top 100.
Claro hovered just inside.
The pressure built.
And the cracks began to show.
The calendar turned again.
Weeks blurred into routines. Elijah's life became a metronome of sweat and soreness.
Every morning before the sun rose, Kat was waiting. Gravity drills, movement under compression, increasingly complex coordination sets—every time he showed improvement, she increased the difficulty without a word.
But Elijah had adapted.
He learned to keep a small reserve of mana tucked near his chest for stability. He stopped fighting the gravity and instead worked with it, learning when to tense, when to flow, when to stick and when to release. Adhesion was no longer just "sticking" — it was sustaining control over the chaos of motion.
Evenings with Tim became a second classroom. They trained on Clancy's obstacle course together, sharing pointers, tracking their stat improvements like sports fanatics.
"If I can vibrate just a little tighter, I might finally break 90 meters on the strike cannon," Tim muttered one evening.
"Or you'll shatter your knuckles again," Elijah replied, dangling upside down from a climbing rig by a single adhesive finger.
Tim scoffed. "Wrist bones grow back. Rank doesn't."
They laughed, but the pressure was real. Each week, the updated rankings hit the cafeteria like a slap. Elijah was clawing his way up in single digits—291, then 288, then 283. Tim crept closer to Claro—now just one rank behind at 100.
Claro noticed.
He became more volatile in training. Where once his style had been confident, now it was rigid. Paranoid. Every time his rank dipped or a peer passed him, he requested extra combat drills. But his improvement slowed, and frustration leaked from every word he spoke.
"They're rigging the updates," he snarled one day after a session. "There's no way that idiot Thomas is catching up to me."
He shoved a sparring dummy so hard it cracked the wall behind it.
His instructor said nothing. Everyone else just gave him space.
⸻
Elsewhere, in the Gravelle Estate
Kat stood straight-backed in the conference room. Lucien lounged at the head of the table, flipping through a holo-slate while the official rankings pulsed faintly behind him.
"So. Ten more points in two months," Lucien said, not looking up. "An impressive climb. Statistically insignificant, but very determined."
Kat didn't flinch. "He's progressing."
"If you say so." He finally glanced up, eyes gleaming. "You do realize you're the only Gravelle who's ever struggled with a leadership assignment? It's almost refreshing."
Kat's hands tightened behind her back.
"It's almost like they assigned you someone untrainable on purpose," Lucien continued. "A challenge to humble the crown jewel. A reminder that our name doesn't guarantee results."
She met his gaze. "You're enjoying this."
"A little," he admitted, smiling. "It's not often I get to outpace you. Just trying to savor the moment."
Kat held her ground. "Then enjoy it while you can."
Lucien's smile flattened. "You better hope he gives you a reason to climb with him, Kat. Otherwise, when the family looks back on this year… they won't see his failure."
He stood, straightened his coat, and walked past her.
"They'll see yours."
⸻
The training wing hummed with the low, electric quiet of midnight mana systems—empty, cold, still.
Claro Varnis stood shirtless at the center of a shattered practice circle, arms lined with flickering veins of translucent blue crystal. His breath came in short, angry bursts, each exhale fogging the air around him.
He slammed his palm into the reinforced dummy again.
Crack.
Crystalline plates spread up his shoulder like angry frost. The surface of his forearm shimmered with jagged armor as he forced more mana into the layer—too much.
The dummy's chest caved in under the blow.
He didn't stop.
Again.
Again.
Again.
Every strike made the internal vibrations worse, made his joints ache from the imperfect channeling. He could feel the resonance drifting. His control was slipping.
I'm not slipping, he told himself. Everyone else is just getting propped up.
A shard snapped off his right elbow with the next hit. Blood welled beneath it, warm and ugly against the cold gleam of his crystallized arm.
He staggered back, panting.
The leaderboard update flashed in his mind like a curse:
#99 – Claro Nova
#100 – Timothy Thomas
Just one rank.
Just one wrong move.
His mana pulsed again—wild this time. He tried to stabilize it with a breath, but the pressure was mounting. On his joints. In his chest. At home.
"If Gravelle's girl can elevate a zero, what excuse do you have, Claro? Stop embarrassing the family. You were raised to lead, not coast."
Claro hadn't responded.
What could he say?
Kat never even acknowledged him. She didn't need to. Her presence was enough to eclipse his completely. Even now, she was gaining respect for turning some pathetic sticky-fingered Epsilon into a possible contender.
And Claro?
He was glass.
Cracking.
He slumped onto the floor beside the broken dummy, letting the mana crystal recede from his limbs. His muscles throbbed in protest. His hands were scraped raw from overtraining. And yet, the worst pain came from the whisper he couldn't shake:
If I lose to them… what am I worth?
——-
By the end of the fourth month, Elijah had plateaued just past 280. His scores were rising—but so was everyone else's. The bar never stopped moving.
One night, he sat on the rooftop overlooking the academy grounds, knees drawn to his chest, watching the stars pulse between the clouds. The chill in the air whispered of winter approaching.
Kat sat beside him—not speaking, just present. After a long silence, Elijah finally said:
"You think I've hit my limit?"
Kat didn't answer at first.
Then, simply, "No."
Elijah looked at her.
"You don't say much unless you're angry or annoyed. How do you know I'm not maxed out?"
Kat's gaze remained forward.
"Because you're still trying," she said. "Most people stop the moment it gets hard. You get louder."
Elijah snorted. "Loud is the only thing I've got."
"It helps," she said quietly. "Some of us never had it."
For a moment, the silence wasn't cold. It was mutual.
By the time snow dusted the rooftops of the Academy, four months had passed.
Elijah had trained like a man possessed.
Every day was a new limit pushed—under Kat's relentless drills, under Clancy's brutal regimens, under Tim's chaotic encouragement. His body hurt in ways he'd never imagined possible, but he no longer flinched from it.
He welcomed it.
In the last week before the exams, the energy on campus shifted.
The usual lunch chatter quieted. Students walked faster. Classrooms buzzed with whispered strategies. Instructors grew curt. No one smiled without tension behind it.
The Awakening Exams were coming.
And they would decide everything.
⸻
Elijah and Tim walked together toward the dorms after a final joint session in the main training yard. The sun dipped low, painting the horizon in bruised purples and burning orange.
Tim cracked his neck and winced. "You realize Clancy tried to make me pass out today?"
"I think that's just his way of saying he believes in you," Elijah said, wiping sweat from his brow.
Tim grinned. "So we're both limping into this?"
"Hell yeah."
They walked a little longer in silence.
Then Elijah asked, "You think we're ready?"
Tim looked up at the sky.
"I don't know," he said. "But I know we're better than we've ever been. And I know I'm not letting Claro keep that 99th spot without a fight."
Elijah smirked. "So basically… same plan, more violence."
"Exactly."
⸻
That night, alone in his dorm, Elijah activated his status screen one more time.
"Status."
The familiar soft pulse radiated from his sternum. This time, the display glowed brighter.
[GovStat – User Profile: Elijah Eneri]
Age: 14
Tier: Upper Initiate
Class Pathway: Enhancer (Adhesive Subtype)
Registered Ability: Sticky Fingers [Epsilon Tier]
Mana Core Stability: 57%
Mana Capacity: 84 Units
Vitality: 15
Strength: 10
Endurance: 16
Dexterity: 18
Control: 27
Stat Total: 86/100
Skill Nodes:
– Basic Adhesion Flow [Mastered]
– Anchored Pivot Maneuver [Reliable Execution]
– Wall-Hold Pulse Shift [Battle-Ready]
– Cling-Surge Disruption [Unstable – Experimental]
Current Ranking (Age 14 Cohort): #281
(Next update: 7 days – Exams Pending)
Performance Tags:
– Noticeable Growth Trajectory
– No Elemental Affinity Detected
– Mentor Assigned [Kat Gravelle]
– Exam Eligibility: Confirmed
He stared at the numbers.
So much work. So much pain. And still… only twenty slots gained. He was still 281 out of 301.
But his hands weren't trembling anymore. His breathing was steady. The glow of mana lingered in his veins like a promise waiting to be fulfilled.
And when he looked in the mirror now?
He saw someone who could fight.
"Most improved medal," he whispered. "Let's make it impossible for them to ignore me."
"Last year's winner of the award jumped 50 ranks in the competition. That's my baseline. I need to outpace that somehow."
From outside his window, the Academy bells chimed once.
Seven days to go.
The spark inside him didn't flicker this time.
It burned.