The machine hummed, its sensors glowing faintly, waiting for the next victim.
"Next," Void said, voice like steel scraping stone.
A boy stepped forward, trembling but trying to stand tall. He climbed onto the treadmill as the assistants adjusted the console.
"Run."
He did. The machine beeped as numbers flickered across the screen.
5.4. 5.0. 5.2. 5.7.
Void didn't even blink. "Barely okay." His voice was flat, already dismissing the boy. "Next."
And so it began. One after another, they were called.
Some lasted seconds before stumbling. A tall girl with braids tripped at the first burst of acceleration and was dragged halfway off the belt, sparks flying from the sensors. Her score barely touched 3.1. Void's verdict: "Useless."
Another boy, stocky and broad-shouldered, surprised everyone. His scores ticked upward, steady and strong. 6.2. 6.5. 6.1. 6.4. Void's head tilted, a hint of acknowledgment. "Not terrible."
But for most, it was mediocrity. 4.9. 5.0. 5.3. 4.7. Dozens blurred into a pattern of shallow breaths, frantic footsteps, and numbers that failed to impress. Each time, Void's responses were clipped, merciless.
"Too slow."
"Average."
"Pathetic."
"Acceptable… barely."
Around the twentieth candidate, the crowd began to shift uneasily. Whispers rippled through the lines. Every stumble, every low score, every harsh dismissal seemed to pile more weight on the shoulders of those still waiting.
Then came a flash of brilliance. A wiry boy with sharp eyes darted across the treadmill like a blade slicing through air. He performed exceptionally in the other aspects too. The sensors screamed as his numbers lit up: 7.0. 7.3. 7.1. 7.4.
The crowd gasped. Even Void's lips curled, the faintest shadow of a smile. "Finally… something worth noting."
But his approval was short-lived. The next girl barely broke 4.0 before collapsing in a heap, sobbing as she was carried away.
By the thirtieth, exhaustion set in—not just for the runners, but for the watchers. Hope sparked now and then, when someone reached into the sixes, only for Void's voice to cut it down.
"Average."
"Below expectations."
"Forgettable."
Out of sixty, only a handful managed to rise above the tide. The wiry boy with sevens. The stocky runner with consistent sixes. One girl, lean and steady, who pulled 6.8 across her scores before collapsing into her mates' arms.
The rest blurred together, forgotten as quickly as their numbers appeared.
Another candidate staggered out of the gravity chamber, chest heaving, the silence that followed was heavy enough to crush stone. There were only seven people more to go.
The first of the seven stepped forward, and the atmosphere shifted.
Red hair streaked with black strands framed his face, dense in some places like shadows creeping over flame. His body was built from relentless training, shoulders squared, muscles sharp beneath his uniform. His black pupils gleamed with amusement, as though this was all a game made for him.
A smirk cut across his lips. "It's time for you all to see what ability truly looks like. Feast your eyes… and remember this name. I am Maxwell Von Ainsworth."
The declaration struck the crowd like a thunderclap. Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"Von Ainsworth…!"
"One of the Six—"
"Finally… one of the legacy families shows themselves."
Whispers spread in a frenzy. Even Void's expression shifted. The ever-present mask of disdain thinned, his face hardening into seriousness. His jaw tightened, and for the first time, the crowd felt that even he could not dismiss this so lightly.
Maxwell basked in the attention like a king among peasants, his smirk widening at the chorus of whispers.
He mounted the treadmill with leisurely confidence, moving as though he already owned the outcome. The assistants glanced at one another nervously before readying the console.
Void's voice cut through the murmurs, colder than steel. "Run."
Maxwell sprang forward, his legs pounding the belt in smooth, crushing rhythm. The sensors flared violently, straining to capture his pace. Numbers flickered rapidly across the console.
The scores rose, steady and commanding, until the final beep resounded.
8.3.
The chamber erupted in gasps. For the first time, a number in the eights blazed across the console.
Maxwell slowed, chest rising evenly, not a hint of strain on his face. He smirked at the stunned crowd as though he had merely confirmed what they should have known all along.
Void's shades tilted slightly, eyes narrowing behind them. His voice came low, tinged with something rare—respect.
"…As expected. The Ainsworth name does not disappoint."
The murmurs intensified—half reverence, half envy. Some whispered in disbelief, others clenched their fists in frustration.
Maxwell basked in it all. He moved seamlessly into the next trial: Strength. He hammered the weighted console with explosive precision. The numbers surged upward until they froze at 8.5.
No one dared speak.
Next came Endurance. Maxwell entered the capsule and the result: 8.0.
Finally, he approached the glowing ability panel. Without hesitation, he pressed his palm flat against the surface. The runes flared brilliantly, flickering with chaotic energy before settling.
8.3.
The crowd gasped yet again, some stepping back as though scorched by the sheer force of his presence.
Void's voice, for once, did not carry cold disdain. It was sharp, deliberate, heavy with recognition.
"That was… an extraordinary performance, Master Ainsworth."
Maxwell allowed himself a slow, deliberate smile. He gave a slight bow, then turned and strode back to his place in line, every step dripping with unshakable pride.