The senior's shadow covered Rafael's tray, making the air around the table heavy. Rafael's hand turned cold as he gripped his fork. He forced himself to look up.
The senior's purple emblem glowed faintly on his chest. His smile was thin and sharp.
The senior said, "Every year, there is one like you. Weak, disposable, easy to break."
The cafeteria grew quiet. Students turned to watch. No one stopped it.
Fredric put down his bread slowly. "Senior, with respect—"
"Quiet," the boy cut him off. "I'm not speaking to you, prodigy."
Fredric's jaw tightened, but he stayed silent.
The senior leaned down until his face was close to Rafael's. His eyes glowed faintly, power shifting under his skin. "Tell me, when you received that gray mark, did you finally understand what you are? Nothing. Dirt beneath our boots."
Rafael's palm shook. The black mist tried to slip out. He clenched his fist under the table until his nails cut his skin. His voice came out low and rough.
"And yet, here you are. Wasting your time on me."
Gasps ran through the crowd. Fredric's eyes widened.
The senior straightened. His aura spread through the room like pressure in the air. "You have a tongue. That's good. I'll enjoy cutting it out."
The senior tapped the table once. The sound was sharp, like a challenge. "I'll give you a choice, Rank-0. Kneel here in front of everyone and admit you don't belong. Or face me in the tournament. The choice is yours."
The cafeteria was filled with noise once again. Students whispered, some laughed, others shouted.
Fredric leaned close to Rafael. "Don't accept. Just walk away."
Rafael's chest burned. His mother's face appeared in his mind. Raven's smile. The whisper in his head.
Prey or predator.
He stood up slowly. His tray rattled as his hand left it. His voice was quiet but clear.
"I'll see you in the tournament."
The cafeteria exploded with cheers and shouts. Students were excited, already waiting for the future fight.
The senior smiled, pleased. "Good. Then I'll make sure you don't leave the stage alive."
He turned and left. The crowd slowly returned to noise, but many eyes still followed Rafael.
Rafael stood frozen, his fists trembling. The mist inside him stirred, restless.
Fredric grabbed his arm. "You're insane. Do you even know what you just agreed to?"
Rafael's lips moved in a whisper. "Maybe not."
But deep inside, he was determined.
'This is the beginning.'
***
The Academy tournament was an annual festival. Five teams, made up of students, participated in various events held. Sparring was also one of the events. Although several safety measures were taken, the situation remained dangerous. And Rafael just accepted the spar. Bringing himself face-to-face with a death sentence.
'Aghh... Damn! Now let's die. Fuck. I have only two months to prepare.'
After changing into combat dress, Rafael followed Fredric to the Arena, where the Hand-to-Hand combat class was supposed to be held. The Arena was made of a specialized alloy that made it hard for even a Purple-ranked student to do any damage. It was like a big stadium, the air inside was filled with the scent of metal and old sweat. Faint scratches and dents marred the alloy floor, traces of battles past, though the surface constantly repaired itself with a soft hum.
Students called it "The Cage" when the instructors weren't around. Here, power wasn't theory or technique on a dataslate—it was skin, blood, and instinct.
Rafael swallowed hard. The weight of what he'd agreed to still pressed against his ribs like a stone. Two months. Two months to not die.
Fredric kept a hand on his shoulder, "Hey, let's just prepare for the spar. We have got two months. Not enough, but enough to be forged to be alive."
Rafael nodded, though his throat was tight. Forged to be alive… The words tasted bitter, like iron on his tongue.
Students around him were still talking about the incident in the cafeteria. But Rafael tried not to give attention to them.
The chatter stopped as a pale, broad-shouldered figure entered the arena. He was wearing a sleeveless T-shirt and sports trousers, his muscles crisscrossed with deep scars that looked less like wounds and more like old maps of survival. His presence alone silenced the students.
His voice cut through the arena, "Welcome to Hand-to-Hand, Class C."
"Myself, Chronos. I will be instructing you all in hand-to-hand combat. But before I start anything, there are a few things you all need to set in your mind. Firstly, no use of Evolved abilities. No tricks. No energy bursts. Only your body, your reflexes, and your will."
Chronos let the silence stretch, his pale eyes scanning the room. "Out there," he said quietly, "when your power fails, when your tricks don't work… what will protect you? Your mind? Your instincts? Your body? If the answer is nothing, you will learn… the hard way."
Chronos stepped forward, his boots sharp against the alloy floor. "This arena is called the Cage for a reason. Here, only endurance keeps you alive. Your reflexes will save you—or fail you."
Strength I can earn. Techniques I can learn. I may be weak now, but I am not nothing. Two months… that's all I need to start building myself.
"Today, you will spar. Bare hands, no ability." Chronos said as he glanced at the students. "Pair up."
Fredric was suddenly looking for someone. And when he noticed Lyric, he paired with him. Rafael was a little bit afraid but not discouraged. He knew that defeat was inevitable, but he wouldn't fall without trying.
Just a few moments later, a brown-haired boy, Azure emblem, came to him. "Hey, wanna pair up?" He said with an arrogant grin, almost mocking.
'What is he up to? Doesn't matter. I just have to survive and learn. Huh? So it's basically watch and learn, right?'
Rafael straightened, forcing his shoulders back. "Fine," he said quietly. "Let's go."
The boy's grin widened, sharp and mocking. "Good. Don't hold back. I want to see if you even have a chance."
Everyone took their positions with their partners as the instructor called the first pair to the stage. It was two boys named Joe, an Emerald-ranked, and Hale, an Azure-ranked.
The first pair stepped onto the stage. Joe bounced lightly on his feet, muscles tensed, eyes sharp. Hale mirrored him, smirk fixed on his face, arms raised. The crowd leaned forward, anticipation crackling in the air.
Chronos's voice cut through the silence. "Begin."
Joe came in fast, throwing a flurry of jabs. Hale didn't dodge. He took the first punch on his forearm with a sharp smack, let the second glance off his shoulder, and the moment Joe overextended, Hale countered. It wasn't a sweep; it was a brutal, short shovel hook to the liver.
Joe's eyes bulged. All the air left his body in a pained gasp. He folded over, and Hale finished with a crisp, almost polite, cross to the jaw that sent him stumbling to the floor.
The fight was over in six seconds.
Chronos nodded. "Hale. You understand. Economy of motion. Let the impatient ones hang themselves." He looked at the gasping Joe. "You learned what a real punch feels like. That's your first lesson."
"Next, Fiyara and Luna."
The two girls stepped onto the mat. Fiyara's red hair was a tight, practical knot, her body coiled like a spring. Luna stood opposite her, calm, her feet set in a soft, ready stance.
"Begin."
Fiyara didn't circle. She exploded forward, a straight punch aimed at Luna's throat. It wasn't a probe; it was a kill-shot. Luna didn't parry. She slapped the punch aside with her forearm, the sound a sharp crack. The force of the deflected blow spun Fiyara slightly.
Instead of resetting, Fiyara used the momentum, turning the spin into a vicious back-fist. It was wild, telegraphed, but fast. Luna had to lean back, the knuckles whistling past her chin. A strand of her hair was cut by the passing strike.
Rafael leaned forward. 'She didn't block the force; she redirected it. She didn't move against the current; she flowed with it.'
Frustration flashed on Fiyara's face. She lunged again, a low kick aimed at Luna's lead leg. Luna didn't sidestep this time. She checked the kick with her own shin. The thud of bone on bone made Rafael wince.
But the block left Luna open for a half-second. Fiyara was already inside her guard, driving a palm heel toward Luna's chest. It was a solid, well-executed strike.
Luna didn't have time to redirect. She absorbed it, letting the impact push her back two stumbling steps, her breath leaving in a sharp hiss. But as Fiyara pressed her advantage, Luna grabbed the extended arm, pulled, and stuck out a foot.
It wasn't a graceful sweep. It was a trip. Fiyara went down hard, landing on her side with a grunt. She immediately scrambled, kicking out to keep Luna from following up.
The buzzer screamed.
Both girls were panting, sweat already beading on their foreheads. Luna had a red welt rising on her shin. Fiyara was clutching her ribs where the palm strike had landed.
The round was called for Fiyara on aggression, but it didn't feel like a clean win. It felt like a messy, painful draw.
'They're not perfect,' Rafael thought, a strange hope flickering in his chest. 'They're just better at recovering from their mistakes. I have to learn to do that. Flow, then trip. Read, then react.'
Several more sloppy, grinding matches went by. Rafael's eyes were raw from staring, trying to burn every feint, every blocked kick, every tired, desperate grapple into his mind.
'Two months. Not to become a predator. Just to stop being prey.'
The entity inside him was a silent, cold stone in his gut. He was afraid to poke it, to ask for its help. What would the cost be? Would it even help him train, or would it just demand a sacrifice he wasn't ready to give?
The whole arena was buzzing, cheers and laughter echoing after every clash.
Then, the instructor called the next pair.
The second they stepped onto the stage, the noise exploded. "Wooo!" "Fredric! Fredric!" "Lyric's gonna crush him!" The stomping of feet shook the alloy floor—BOOM! BOOM!—while claps and whistles rang through the air.
Two of the most powerful first years had arrived.
Fredric and Lyric.