The first container hissed open, the metallic smell of the sea mixing with the faint, lingering sedative in the air. One by one, the lids of the five—or was it six?—containers were lifted, releasing clouds that swirled lazily before fading into the cavernous tunnel. Somewhere beyond, the ocean crashed, muted and distant, as though it, too, had been silenced in anticipation.
Riven's eyes opened first. His executive coat hung neatly over his tailored suit, dark and precise, an armor that seemed almost comical against the trembling children around him. He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, noting every detail: the slick stone walls, the flickering lights along the tunnel, the faint hum of machinery beneath his feet. He moved with practiced calm, as though he had been here before—though he hadn't.
Hundreds of children were emerging now, thousands in total. 1000… maybe even 1500. Some stumbled, coughing, clinging to each other. Others froze, wide-eyed, hands pressed to the damp walls. And then there was her.
She stirred in the container beside him, pink and red hair falling across her shoulders in a soft wave. Violet eyes blinked slowly, taking in the scene. Her white crop top and pink shorts were oddly casual for the situation, yet somehow she carried herself with quiet awareness, legs crossed tightly to her chest as she shivered—not from cold, but from the sudden confinement and the unknown ahead. Their eyes met for the briefest moment. Recognition? Perhaps curiosity. Neither spoke.
The tunnel seemed to stretch endlessly, carved deep into the cliffside along the seashore. The stone was slick, damp with sea mist, and the arches above loomed high like silent watchers. Whispers floated through the air, fragmented questions and nervous murmurs. Where are we? Why are we here? Some voices cracked under tension; others were swallowed by the cavernous echo.
Riven said nothing. He observed, calculated. His lips curved into a faint, subtle smirk that none would notice in the chaos around them. This wasn't random. It was deliberate. A test, an invitation, a trap—he didn't care which. He would survive it.
From the far end of the tunnel, faint lights began to glow, casting long, wavering shadows along the walls. Footsteps echoed, soft but deliberate. One by one, children were guided forward, the shadows swallowing their movements as if the tunnel itself were alive, watching them.
Some of the children trembled. Some whispered, some wept quietly. And somewhere deep inside him, a small, almost imperceptible thrill stirred in Riven's chest.
This was only the beginning. Deep underground, far from the surface, the first threads of Summit Foundations were already tightening around them. And somewhere in that darkness, the true trial was waiting.
The tunnel finally opened into something unimaginable. Light poured down from a vast artificial sky above, clouds drifting lazily, the sun hanging perfectly in place, casting warmth over the underground city. The children blinked, shielding their eyes, mouths half-open in disbelief.
It wasn't just a city. It was a whole world under the ground, perfectly designed and enormous. Streets stretched in every direction, lined with countless shops and towering structures, but in the center—rising like a mountain of marble and steel—stood the school. Summit Foundations. Massive. Monumental. Every inch radiated power, authority, and control.
Despite the guards' stern presence, the children could hardly contain themselves. Excited whispers, laughter, shouts—some even ran ahead, their giddiness impossible to restrain. Riven walked with his usual composed air, coat swaying slightly as he took in every detail, while Yolanda, still hugging her legs, let her violet eyes roam over the sprawling city, a small smile tugging at her lips. There was wonder in it, yes, but also calculation—she noticed everything, cataloging potential allies, threats, and the scale of the opportunity.
The guards' voices cut through the excitement. "Move ahead. Straight to the compound. No detours."
Reluctantly, the children obeyed. The streets, though wide and lavish, were orderly, almost too clean, too perfect. The air smelled faintly of polished stone and something metallic, like electricity humming beneath the city.
Finally, they reached the school compound. From the outside, it already looked like a palace. Massive gates of reinforced steel and shining crystal opened slowly, revealing an enormous courtyard that stretched farther than the eye could see. Every inch was immaculately designed; fountains, statues, and carefully arranged gardens gave the space an almost ceremonial aura.
And then they entered.
The interior was beyond comprehension. A grand meeting hall spread out like a cathedral of intellect, with balconies rising several stories high. Around them, over ten thousand classrooms branched out, invisible from the courtyard, yet all buzzing faintly with activity. The scale was overwhelming. Even Riven's sharp eyes took a moment to adjust. The sheer number of students, the symmetry of the architecture, the precision of the space—it was impossible to process all at once.
The children, for the first time, felt the weight of Summit Foundations. Excitement mingled with fear. They were no longer in a tunnel, no longer in a container—they were somewhere beyond the ordinary, somewhere that demanded greatness.
Riven's mind raced. Strategies, alliances, threats—all of it unfolded in an instant. And next to him, Yolanda's violet eyes sparkled with that same mixture of awe and calculation. Both understood, in different ways, the same truth: this city, this school, was not a playground. It was a battlefield.
The massive doors swung open, and the children were swallowed by the hall. The ceilings soared impossibly high, lost in shadows, with intricate balconies lining the walls, hundreds of eyes—observers, perhaps—watching. The floor itself seemed alive with echoes of every step, magnifying the tension.
Riven's coat shifted as he walked, suit immaculate, eyes scanning everything. Yolanda followed, her violet gaze sharp, taking in every detail: the architecture, the subtle hum of unseen machinery, the way the light hit the polished floors. Every element whispered control, dominance, and power.
And then, he appeared.
Richard Thomas. The headmaster. Multimillionaire, master psychologist, manipulator, and the man who had watched Riven since he was five. Standing on the podium at the far end of the hall, his presence radiated authority. Not the kind that demanded respect through fear alone, but the kind that burrowed into the mind, whispered suggestions, and made them question themselves.
The children felt it immediately—an invisible pressure on their thoughts, like a subtle tide pulling at the edges of their consciousness. Even the bravest faltered slightly under the weight of his gaze.
He spoke. The voice was smooth, deliberate, hypnotic:
"Welcome… to Summit Foundations. Look around you. Do you see the walls? The ceilings? The doors? They are more than stone, more than steel. They are mirrors… mirrors of your potential, your ambition, your fears. Each of you has come here not by chance, but because somewhere, deep inside, you already knew you were… extraordinary. And yet, do you feel it? Do you truly understand what that means?
You are not normal children. You are minds sharpened like blades, waiting to cut through the mediocrity of the world. Your intellect is a weapon, your strategy a shield, your very will the forge that will temper you—or burn you.
Some of you will crumble under observation. Some of you will adapt, and others… will rise, reshaping everything around you without ever speaking a word.
Here, every thought is measured. Every hesitation noted. Every secret—yes, even those you do not consciously remember—can be seen. I know. I always know. And I will watch. Not to punish… unless you fail. Not to guide… unless you prove worthy.
You will obey, yes—but not blindly. You will calculate. You will deceive. You will manipulate. Because in this place, survival is not granted, it is taken. And what is survival, if not the proof that you are… superior?
Fail the final exam, and there is no second chance. Not here. Not anywhere. Death is the final teacher, and it is… absolute.
So ask yourself, now, quietly, deep inside: Are you ready? Can you endure the eyes that watch, the thoughts that pierce, the trials that will break most of you? Or will you… fade into whispers, forgotten, while others rise above?
Yes. That is the path that awaits most of you. But perhaps, just perhaps, there are those among you who will not falter. Those whose minds are sharper, whose wills are unyielding, whose instincts are honed to survive.
Look around you. These walls, this hall, the light above—they are not mere architecture. They are instruments, mirrors, reminders. Every choice you make, every glance you cast, every hesitation or confidence—it will be seen, measured, judged. And I will see it all.
Do not delude yourselves. This is not a place of comfort. This is a place of awakening… and of reckoning. You may wonder what you must do. You may think your cleverness, your talent, your courage will be enough. But it will not. Only those who understand the rules before they are spoken… only those who anticipate the unseen, who manipulate the unseen, who master the silent currents that flow beneath every word and gesture… only they will endure.
And yes… fear will come. Fear is the key that unlocks your mind. Let it sharpen you. Let it guide you. Let it whisper the truths you are too naive to hear otherwise. Fear is not weakness. It is a tool. Learn it. Master it. Bend it to your will.
This is not a school. This is a crucible. And every lesson, every trial, every observation… exists to push you beyond the ordinary. To separate the clever from the foolish. To expose the brilliant and discard the weak.
So ask yourselves: will you rise, or will you vanish quietly, leaving nothing but echoes of what could have been? Choose wisely. Every thought, every movement, every fleeting emotion is your test. And I… I will watch. Always."
The hall seemed to shiver with his words. Some students gasped; some froze. Riven's eyes glimmered—not fear, not awe—but calculation. Yolanda's lips curved into a subtle, almost imperceptible smile. The others trembled, whispering to each other, already absorbing the invisible web of manipulation woven around them.
Richard's gaze swept the room, lingering fractionally on each child. They felt as if they were being pulled inside his mind, their thoughts gently prodded, their ambitions subtly redirected, their fears… magnified.
And then, silence. The words lingered in the air like smoke, a subtle intoxicant that made hearts race and minds whirl. Every student understood one truth clearly now: Summit Foundations was not a school. It was a crucible. And the headmaster was its fire.
"Please… you all may proceed to Room No. 57."
The words echoed through the grand hall, bouncing off high ceilings and polished floors, leaving a heavy silence in their wake. Then, almost like a dam breaking, the students stirred. Whispers rippled through the crowd. Nervous laughter, soft gasps, the rustle of shifting feet—it was a wave of human emotion, chaotic and uncontrolled.
Riven stepped forward calmly, coat swaying slightly with each measured step. Around him, children jostled one another, some stumbling, others wide-eyed, trying to process the enormity of the hall. He didn't speak. He didn't need to. His eyes, sharp and calculating, absorbed everything: the way some students held back, the way others tried to appear confident, the subtle tremor of fear in almost everyone.
Yolanda walked beside him, legs still crossed in that instinctive, almost defensive posture. Her violet eyes flicked over each student, cataloging their posture, reactions, and expressions. There was excitement in her gaze, yes—but also calculation. Every glance, every nervous shift, every whispered question was data. She would remember it all.
The corridor leading to Room 57 stretched ahead, wide and impossibly long, lined with polished stone and silent observers. Guards flanked the path, their expressions unreadable, motionless. Cameras—subtle, almost invisible—tracked each step, each flicker of expression. The students had no idea they were being measured already, scanned by hidden AI systems monitoring IQ, emotional resilience, memory, and adaptability.
The children's chatter continued, but the tension undercut every word. Some whispered about the test. Some tried to comfort one another. Some simply walked in stunned silence. Riven noticed them all, noting the strongest, the weakest, the fearful, the cunning. His mind already began planning.
Yolanda's lips curved in a small, knowing smile. She understood instinctively that this was more than a test of intellect. This was a test of composure, of perception, of subtle influence. She matched her pace to Riven's, silently acknowledging the unspoken truth: they would be leaders here, whether anyone else realized it yet or not.
Room 57 loomed at the end of the corridor—a simple, unassuming door, almost mundane compared to the grand hall—but the weight behind it was palpable. The children could feel it, though none could articulate why. Something about the room seemed… deliberate. Controlled. Observing. Waiting.
With each step, the noise of the hall faded behind them, replaced by the low hum of the city beyond and the soft echoes of footfalls. The first real test of Summit Foundations was about to begin, and even before they opened the door, every student knew—deep down—that nothing here would ever be ordinary.
The pods opened with a soft hiss, releasing the first batch of students. Groggy murmurs spread like whispers through the hangar-like room. Eyes blinked, students stretched, some stumbled as the sedative fog lifted.
A mechanical voice echoed gently from the walls:
> "Students evaluated. Identity cards generated. Apartment assignment pending. Please proceed to the designated corridors."
From hidden panels, each student received a sleek, metallic identity card. Smooth, cold to the touch, with only a number and a QR code. Nothing else. No names of roommates. No hint of who shared their living space.
Riven picked up his card, glancing at the number. He didn't think much of it—it was just another piece in the calculation of patterns, potential, and observation. Yolanda, nearby, received hers, violet eyes narrowing slightly as she examined the card, unaware it matched his.
Students whispered to one another, comparing cards, speculating on who they might be paired with. Some laughed nervously. Some checked their cards repeatedly. The truth was simple: no one would know their partner until reaching the apartment. The AI's design kept anticipation—and tension—at a maximum.
Riven tucked his card carefully into his coat pocket. He continued through the corridors, measured steps, calm, observing every student. Yolanda walked beside him, also unaware that the number on her card aligned perfectly with his. They moved independently, yet fate—or the AI's design—would soon bring them together.
Finally, the doors to Apartment 69 slid open. Inside, the apartment was sleek, minimalistic, and built for two. Riven entered first, scanning every detail: subtle sensors, hidden cameras, and the quiet hum of AI observation.
A soft chime announced another card scan. Riven's card and Yolanda's were read by the system—and finally, the AI revealed the pairing. The realization came silently as the apartment confirmed its occupants: two high-potential minds, now sharing the same space.
Yolanda stepped in moments later. Their eyes met, and for the first time, each realized the other was their assigned roommate. No words were necessary. The subtle acknowledgment in a glance spoke volumes—strategy, observation, alliance, and instinct all silently confirmed.
The AI's system quietly continued its calculations, assigning the remaining students to their apartments while these two now prepared for the challenges awaiting in Room 400, Class 4.