I don't know how it happened. Somewhere between Ari's over-explaining, Rhea's steady nodding, and Juno's sharp commentary, I ended up being "appointed" squad leader.
Leader. Me!
Fine. If they wanted me to steer, I'd steer. Just don't blame me if we all crash.
I didn't argue, didn't protest. Not out loud. I just let it slide, the way you let rain run down your coat instead of bothering with an umbrella. Fighting it would've only dragged the moment out longer.
When the announcement finally came, it was clinical. Squad names called, then the squad leaders. Everyone filed toward the stage.
The first squad was called, the "villains":
Squad Aetherstrike.
Their leader, Zach Monroe — Hero Name: Aetherstrike. Affinity: Kinetic Redirection.
I felt my lip curl before I could stop it. Aetherstrike. The name sounded noble, almost mythic. But the boy behind it? Nothing but rot dressed in gold. A predator who thrived on control. Zach was never a hero—not in the way it mattered. He liked seeing people beneath him, liked crushing the weak until they broke. And what of the strong ones he couldn't break? He hated them more than anything. I knew his type far too well.
His second-in-command: Devon Lin — Hero Name: Infernaut. Affinity: Molecular Acceleration. Dangerous, volatile. A single brush of his hand could send matter spiraling into combustion.
The next two followed:
Riley Cortez — Hero Name: Shockjaw. Affinity: Neuro-Electric Disruption. His nervous system could override others', sending jarring shocks through muscles, freezing them mid-motion. A sadist in training.
Mira Halberg — Hero Name: Widowthorn. Affinity: Toxin Bloom. The girl's veins carried her weapon—every breath she exhaled, every cut she shed could spread poisons crafted from her own blood.
A fitting group of villains, through and through.
But then, their opponents. The announcer called with equal weight:
Squad Radiant Edge.
Crimson Spire's pride, their "heroes."
Leonard Graves — Hero Name: Silverfang. Affinity: Metallokinesis. His control of metal rivaled steel-bending legends.
Selina Vance — Hero Name: Solflare. Affinity: Solar Pyrokinesis. She wielded flame drawn from sunlight itself, bright and relentless.
Damian Holt — Hero Name: Ironveil. Affinity: Density Manipulation. He could shift the weight and hardness of any material—skin, armor, stone, didn't matter.
Kaori Watanabe — Hero Name: Tempest Gale. Affinity: Aerokinesis. Wind bent at her call, slicing or shielding as she willed.
The crowd buzzed. Radiant Edge versus Aetherstrike's squad. Heroes against villains, neatly packaged.
I didn't mind the match-up. In fact, it was perfect. Zach looked the part of a hero, but I knew better. Let him play villain—it suited him.
The crowd stirred as they walked out. To the onlookers, this was entertainment. For the rest of us? A study in survival.
The arena began its transformation. Holographic panels shimmered into place, generating a terrain that spread out in impossible scale. The floor rumbled beneath us, metal shifting as if alive.
An urban wasteland unfolded. Shattered skyscrapers leaned against each other like broken teeth. Streets were cratered, littered with overturned cars and steel beams twisted into grotesque shapes. A blackened sky loomed overhead, clouds simmering with faint violet light—the system's way of simulating a storm without giving us the rain.
The air smelled faintly of smoke and rust, a sensory trick that made the illusion feel too real. My throat prickled as though I'd inhaled ash.
Scattered across the ruined streets were the "hostages"—humanoid mannequins rendered with disturbing accuracy. Some were trapped under rubble, their hands reaching out from beneath slabs of broken concrete. Others were bound and gagged inside glass-front shops or huddled in half-collapsed subway entrances. Their muffled cries played on loop, an eerie chorus that wormed under the skin.
Every corner, every building, was a potential choke point. Every open street was a killing field. The simulation didn't give you space to breathe—it wanted you hunted, pressured, forced into choices.
The objective was clear: villains guard, heroes rescue. But clarity didn't make it simple.
From where I stood, watching the stage and the shifting terrain, I felt that familiar chill coil in my chest. Excitement, dread, fascination—all mixed together.
I wanted to see how they'd fight.
I wanted to see who would break.
And I wanted to see, more than anything, if Zach Monroe would finally get exposed for the fraud I already knew he was.
The stage was set. The countdown began.
And the game was about to start.
* * *
The barrier shimmered around the battlefield, sealing eight students inside a world sculpted by sorcery and machines. The simulated terrain stretched like a shattered city block—burnt-out husks of buildings, cracked pavement glinting with embedded shards of metal, and a single plaza where a makeshift camp had been built. Within it, tied to steel posts and surrounded by illusory flames, lay the "hostages."
Above, an artificial sun glared through a pale dome, its heat oppressive, its light unnatural.
The villains moved first.
Zach Monroe—Aetherstrike—strode from the plaza, his steps unnervingly casual, his golden hair catching firelight. His gaze scanned the perimeter like a predator already certain of its kill. He rolled his shoulders, and the faint ripple of kinetic force coiled around his arms. Every strike against him would be turned back twice as hard.
Behind him, Infernaut dragged a hand along the wall of a ruined building. The concrete sizzled, then liquefied, melting into molten rivulets. His affinity, molecular acceleration, made matter dance to his speed—burning, vibrating, collapsing at his whim. Heat shimmered around him like a mirage.
Shockjaw stalked the edge of the plaza, jaw twitching with an erratic grin. Blue sparks crawled up his arms, fingers flexing. Every movement screamed anticipation—waiting for the moment to latch onto someone's nerves and twist them into paralysis.
And Widowthorn stood like a shadow at Zach's side. Veins pulsed black along her arms, her breath faintly tinted violet. Every exhale was venom. She let a single drop of blood trickle down her wrist and blossom into a writhing thorn-vine laced with toxin, wrapping her fingers like claws.
The crowd of sponsors and heroes outside watched, some with awe, others with unease.
Then the heroes entered.
Silverfang was first, his metal-shaping affinity already alive. Shards of steel lifted from the ground at his command, orbiting him in controlled arcs like wolves circling prey. His silver eyes gleamed with quiet determination.
Beside him, Solflare ignited. Sunlight itself bent to her call, flames licked her arms, her hair haloed in burning radiance. She raised her palm and a flare cracked the air like a miniature sunburst.
Ironveil marched steady, his skin gleaming like iron, then softening to flesh again in seamless transitions. With a thought, he hardened stone rubble into shields, his density-shifting aura rippling out to reinforce his allies' cover.
Tempest Gale hovered lightly on a current of air, her short hair whipping in the breeze she summoned. The wind hissed around her like a living creature, ready to cut, crush, or lift.
They faced each other across the ruined street. The thirty minutes had begun.
Silverfang launched forward first. Steel beams ripped from collapsed scaffolding and spiraled into spears, darting straight for Zach.
Aetherstrike smirked, raising a hand. The spears bent mid-flight—redirected—and whistled back toward Silverfang. The boy barely shifted them aside with a grunt of effort, his affinity straining against Zach's counters.
Infernaut seized the distraction. His hand slammed into the pavement, accelerating its molecules until it glowed red, then white-hot. A fissure of molten stone raced toward the heroes.
"Cover!" Ironveil barked, planting himself at the front. His body turned black-steel dense, the wave of molten rock splashing against him like water against a dam. He grunted from the heat but held firm, buying the others seconds.
Tempest Gale swept her arms outward, wind whipping into a vortex that scattered toxic fumes drifting from Widowthorn's direction. The air hissed as her gale shoved Mira's poisonous breath aside, but the thorn-wielding girl only smiled and flung her wrist forward. Black vines shot across the field, spines glistening with venom.
Solflare ignited. "Burn."
A jet of searing solar fire roared, disintegrating the vines mid-air and lighting the plaza in crimson-orange. Widowthorn hissed but inhaled deep, exhaling a cloud of violet mist that twisted unnaturally in the updraft, forcing Kaori to push her wind harder.
"Careful," Solflare warned. "Her poison rides the air."
Shockjaw struck then.
He blurred forward, sparks crawling up his limbs, and slapped a hand to Ironveil's side. Ironveil stiffened instantly, body seizing. Blue-white electricity spiderwebbed through his nervous system, locking his joints. His density warped erratically—skin hardening, softening, then stone again as his control spasmed.
Silverfang snarled, ripping a steel beam from the ground and hurling it like a javelin at Shockjaw.
But again—Zach.
The beam spun in mid-air, force rechanneled and slammed back at Silverfang with bone-breaking speed. Silverfang barely caught it, metal groaning under his grip, his knees buckling.
The villains pressed forward.
Infernaut carved a molten barricade between the heroes and the plaza where the hostages lay bound. Widowthorn's vines crept around the barricade, wrapping the hostages' throats—an explicit reminder of what failure meant.
The heroes hesitated.
Silverfang's mind raced. If they went all in on offense, the villains could simply harm the hostages. But every second they stalled, Zach's squad tightened its grip.
Solflare launched high, flames bursting like wings. "I'll burn them out—"
"No," Silverfang snapped, his orbiting metal intercepting a redirected blast of his own spears. "They'll use the hostages as shields. We need precision."
Below, Shockjaw dragged his fingers across Ironveil's arm again, making Damian's muscles twitch uncontrollably. Damian forced his density into his legs to anchor himself, bellowing through the pain, "Don't… let me slow you down!"
Tempest Gale whipped the air into slicing currents, forcing Shockjaw back, her eyes locked on the hostages. But the vines around them pulsed tighter, Widowthorn smirking in the haze.
Then Zach's voice cut through the clash, cruel and calm.
"Tick, tock, little heroes. Save them or fight us. But you don't get both."
The crowd outside hushed.
The trial had become a crucible: a test not of strength, but of choice.
The heroes stood surrounded—Solflare's flames burning bright, Silverfang's steel trembling against Zach's redirections, Ironveil half-paralyzed, Tempest Gale struggling to keep poison at bay.
And in the plaza, the hostages gasped as vines constricted tighter.
The whistle of the simulated wind carried the unspoken question:
Would they sacrifice victory for morality, or sacrifice morality for victory?
* * *
They call this a festival.
I call it a slaughterhouse.
And right now, I own the knives.
Silverfang and his band of bright-eyed idiots look so noble out there—posturing, sweating, trying so desperately to be symbols. Their eyes flick between me, the bomb and the hostages. I can taste their hesitation, the way their so-called ideals gnaw at them.
That's the problem with heroes. They think mercy is a virtue. I know better. Mercy is weakness wearing perfume.
"Come on," I taunt, my voice slicing through the ruined cityscape. I can feel the barrier echo it back, amplifying me. "Don't keep me waiting, silver boy. Your steel wolves look hungry. Want to see what they can do?"
Silverfang snarls but doesn't move. Good. Let him stew. Let him think. Thinking is the leash I tighten around their necks.
Behind me, my squad is perfect. Flawless.
Infernaut crouches near the molten barricade, palms still glowing with simmering white fire, ready to reshape the battlefield with a flick. Shockjaw paces in electric staccato, every twitch of his grin daring someone to come close enough to be fried. Widowthorn—sweet Mira—waits like a coiled serpent, her poison-laced vines tightening around the hostages' throats.
They don't question me. They don't hesitate. They obey.
And that's why they'll win.
I let the silence stretch, then flick two fingers toward Mira. No words needed. She understands.
The thorn-vine constricts. One hostage convulses, blood spraying from their mouth as the toxin floods their veins. The scream that follows—it's perfect. Realistic, raw, amplified through the simulation's cruel fidelity. The hostages thrash, gagging, sobbing. The heroes freeze.
Even though the system insists they're not "real," the way their bodies jerk, the way their voices crack… it feels real. That's what matters.
One hostage down.
I take a slow breath, savoring the iron tang of simulated blood. "Oh, don't look so shocked. Did you really think this was all for sport? This is training. Heroes don't save everyone. Heroes choose who dies. I'm just helping you practice."
Solflare burns hotter, her hair a corona of fire. But she hesitates. She can't scorch the vines without burning the captives too. She knows it. I know it. That knowledge is my weapon.
Time ticks. I let it. I want it. The bomb's timer glows a sickly red at the center of the plaza: 10:00.
"Tick, tock." I raise my voice so they all hear. "Eight little hostages, tied up neat. How many can you save before the clock runs dry?"
I pace toward them, slow, deliberate, a king in my court of ash. "Widowthorn."
Another vine twists. Another hostage writhes, gagging on their own scream, before going limp. The smell of poison thickens the air.
Silverfang flinches this time. His steel shards tremble, orbiting him like a storm of guilt.
Seven left.
"Again."
Mira doesn't blink. She tightens her claws, and the third hostage breaks in a choking gasp. Then another. The crowd outside shudders in their seats, but I don't care. Let them squirm. Let them watch what heroism looks like stripped bare.
Five left.
The bomb ticks: 08:56.
I grin, baring teeth. "Here's the deal, silver boy. Every two minutes, one dies. Unless…" I drag out the word, savoring their faces. "…you surrender. Drop the flames, the steel, the wind, the bravado. Kneel, and maybe—maybe—I'll let them live."
Shockjaw laughs, sparks spitting between his teeth. Infernaut smirks, molten eyes glowing. Widowthorn smiles faintly, serene as death itself.
My squad is perfect. Their silence screams loyalty.
Across the line, the heroes falter. Solflare flickers. Tempest Gale's wind shudders. Ironveil shakes under his own failing nerves. Silverfang's jaw locks, eyes darting between his team, the hostages, the bomb.
They're crumbling.
And I savor every second.
Because this isn't about winning the trial. This is about proving the truth: heroes are weak, fragile, hypocritical things.
And I'm here to break them.
The bomb ticks: 08:00.
And their decision is still waiting.
—
I didn't like Zach.
I don't think anyone did.
But watching him now… god, I had to admit it. He was good.
Not good in the heroic sense. Not good in any way the academy would ever endorse. But good at being what he was—a villain, through and through. No restraint. No hesitation. No cracks in his mask. Every word he spoke bled cruelty, every gesture was sharpened to break the heroes' will.
And it worked.
Silverfang and his squad stood frozen on the other side of the barrier, shackled by their own ideals while Zach gutted them one hostage at a time. His squad didn't falter either—Shockjaw, Infernaut, Widowthorn. Perfect in their roles. The way they moved when he moved, obeyed when he gave the slightest signal. They weren't a team. They were an extension of him.
It was… terrifying.
I had wanted to be the monster in the shadows. To slip between the cracks, unseen, building my legacy piece by piece. Zach wasn't subtle. He wasn't silent. He was thunder, he was a spectacle. And as much as I hated him, I admired it.
The heroes looked broken.
And then Zach raised the stakes.
"If you don't act now," he said, voice echoing cold across the simulation grounds, "the bomb goes off. And every other civilian scattered across the city burns with it. So decide. Do you save a handful, or let them all die?"
Silverfang froze. His steel wavered in the air around him, trembling with the weight of command. The hesitation was like blood in the water. Zach circled it, smiled at it, and tore it wide open.
And then—finally—Silverfang snapped. He barked the order.
The heroes surged forward.
And the plaza erupted.
Infernaut flung up walls of molten stone, splitting their formation. Tempest Gale's winds clashed against it, screaming like a hurricane. Solflare burst like a miniature sun, fire slamming against Infernaut's shield, carving holes through his armor of heat.
Shockjaw was everywhere—snapping forward in erratic lightning arcs, leaving streaks of scorched earth and twitching bodies where he struck. His laughter was jagged electricity, splitting the rhythm of the fight.
Widowthorn was precise, her vines curling around the last hostages, dragging them into the fray as shields. When Solflare's fireball screamed toward her, she jerked a hostage into its path. The flames consumed them, and the scream that followed wasn't simulation—it was theater so brutal it may as well have been real.
The heroes cracked. Their movements faltered, hesitated. Their moral code, their "do no harm," turned into chains.
Zach thrived on it.
He met Silverfang head-on, steel against his blades, sparks and echoes filling the arena. Zach never looked strained, never looked like he was fighting for survival. He looked like he was performing. Every smirk, every cutting word was designed to carve deeper into Silverfang's spirit.
"You're too slow."
"Too soft."
"You'll never save anyone like this."
Each line was another hammer against the hero's resolve.
The timer bled red across the battlefield. Three minutes. Two. One.
And then the siren sounded.
The bomb detonated in simulation. Fire swallowed the plaza. Civilians—holographic or not—died screaming.
The heroes collapsed in the ashes, their team scattered, their masks broken. The hostages—what remained of them—were twisted, burned things.
Zach stood tall at the center of it all, his squad arrayed around him like the four horsemen of a false apocalypse. Victorious. Grinning. Cruel.
He hadn't just beaten them. He'd humiliated them.
The arena went quiet, suffocating under the weight of his victory. Every student watching knew it. His squad wasn't just skilled. They were inevitable.
And I—watching from the sidelines, my heart coiled tight in my chest—felt something bitter and sharp.
Admiration. Envy.
Zach had set the stage, commanded it, and destroyed his enemies without blinking. And as much as I hated his smugness, I wondered:
Could I do the same?
Could I bend the game, bend my team, bend the world itself into victory the way he had?
Because if not… then maybe I'd always be in the shadow of monsters like him.