The crowd's noise still echoed in my head long after Zach's match ended. The cheers, the disbelief, the uneasy admiration — all blending into a strange kind of silence that pressed against my chest. The barrier shimmered faintly in the distance, cracked and scorched from the simulated carnage. Zach Monroe had won, and every student here had just learned what true ruthlessness looked like.
Ari was the first to break the silence.
"Pathetic," she said, leaning back in her chair with her arms crossed. "They had every chance to win. They just couldn't pull the trigger."
Rhea frowned, narrowing her eyes. "You call that winning? He let his teammate kill hostages to buy time. That wasn't strategy — it was cruelty."
"Cruelty gets results," Ari replied, tone smooth as silk and twice as cutting. "The world doesn't care about who smiles when they save someone. It only remembers who survives long enough to matter."
Juno exhaled sharply, half amused, half disgusted. "So we're praising psychopaths now? Great. Can't wait for you two to start applauding genocide next."
I said nothing. Not yet.
Because even as I wanted to side with Rhea's sense of justice, or Juno's dry skepticism, I couldn't stop thinking about Zach's precision. The way he commanded his squad — cold, efficient, unrelenting. There was no wasted motion, no hesitation. He'd used fear like a weapon, and everyone had fallen into his rhythm.
Was that wrong… or was that mastery?
I stared at the now-empty field, the faint smoke curling upward from the destroyed terrain. My reflection in the glass of the viewing chamber looked distant — composed, unreadable. But inside, a storm brewed.
"He played them," I said finally, voice even. "Every word, every action. He made the heroes doubt themselves before the fight even began. That's why he won."
Rhea turned to me, troubled. "You sound like you admire him."
"I admire the precision," I corrected. "Not the cruelty."
Ari smirked. "There's a difference?"
There wasn't an answer to that — not one that could make sense here.
The others began murmuring about their next match, wondering aloud whether we'd be heroes or villains next. The assignments hadn't been released yet, and that uncertainty hung heavy in the air.
Juno leaned her chin on her hand. "If we get hero roles, I'm not pulling punches. I'm not dying for holograms."
Rhea crossed her arms, still looking at the battlefield. "If we're heroes, then we act like heroes. We save who we can."
And me… I just watched them all. Ari, smiling faintly like she was savoring the chaos. Rhea, stubborn in her principles. Juno, detached but razor-sharp.
Three different answers to one unspoken question: How far would we go to win?
I felt the weight of leadership settle again — unwanted, but accepted.
Because if it came down to us being villains, then I had to ensure we played our parts perfectly. No hesitation. No mercy. No loose ends.
"Then we'll prepare for both," I said, standing. "Hero or villain, it doesn't matter. We'll adapt, like Zach did — but smarter."
Ari's eyes gleamed. "Now that's the Calla I like."
Rhea sighed but didn't argue. Juno muttered something under her breath about "moral bankruptcy," but even she didn't sound convinced anymore.
The board flickered to life then, projecting the next match schedule.
Our names hadn't appeared yet — but they would soon.
And when they did, I promised myself one thing.
We would not hesitate.
Not like they did.
—
The council chamber shimmered with cold light — a ring of glass and metal high above the Academy's combat dome. Holographic screens replayed Zach Monroe's victory in silence: the hostages, the blood, the hesitation of Silverfang's team before everything fell apart.
None of the council members spoke at first. The silence was not out of respect but calculation.
Finally, one of the sponsors — a sharp-suited man with a logo on his lapel — broke it. "That was… excessive."
"Effective," Soraya corrected without looking up from her tablet. "He broke them without wasting resources. That's what combat efficiency looks like."
Elowen nodded faintly beside her, her expression unreadable. "And realism. Villains won't play fair. If these students can't stomach simulated death, what hope do they have in real battles?"
Across the table, an elderly councilwoman grimaced. "You call that training? Those were children, forced to watch their peers die. This isn't preparation — it's desensitization."
The glass doors hissed open before the argument could grow.
Headmaster Silas entered, followed by Chrona — his presence enough to quiet the entire room. His coat trailed like a shadow as he took his seat at the head of the table.
"You all saw what happened," Silas began, voice calm, almost academic. "The current generation of heroes possesses power unmatched by any before them. You know what that means."
Chrona's gaze flicked toward him, uneasy. "That the villains will match them."
"Precisely." Silas folded his hands. "The world is changing faster than the public realizes. We don't have the luxury of raising idealists anymore. We need heroes who can make decisions that others can't — the kind that leave blood on their hands but save thousands in the process."
Several murmured agreements. A few averted their eyes.
One sponsor muttered, "You're suggesting we condition them for cruelty."
"I'm suggesting," Silas replied smoothly, "that we prepare them for reality. A hero's duty isn't to feel good — it's to win. If they cannot make sacrifices when the time comes, then they are not fit for the title."
Chrona hesitated, her usual conviction softening. "But… if they lose their humanity in the process, what have we really created?"
Silas turned his gaze to her — sharp, knowing. "A protector who will not break when the world does."
No one answered. The screens continued to loop Zach's last command — the hostages, the countdown, the blinding flash of simulated death.
Soraya finally rose. "Then we've done our job well," she said, tone clipped but proud. "They're learning what heroism actually costs."
Elowen followed her, offering a small, professional smile. "The spectators were… unsettled. But they'll remember it. And that's all that matters."
Silas inclined his head in approval. "You've both exceeded expectations. Continue with your student council oversight — the Bureau will be watching your careers closely."
As the two young women exited, the remaining council members exchanged uncertain looks. The Headmaster leaned back in his chair, watching the looping footage one more time.
"History," Silas murmured, almost to himself, "does not remember the merciful. It remembers the ones who win."