Morning came too early and not early enough.
Hermes had barely slept. Every time he closed his eyes, memories surfaced—Alexander's memories, mostly. The Excalibur breaking apart. Six figures wreathed in power so dense it warped space. His Core shattering like glass. Dying hurt less than people thought, turns out. It was the knowing that killed you. That moment of absolute certainty that everything was ending.
He'd gotten a second chance, though. Somehow.
Now he just had to not waste it.
The academy's morning bells rang at dawn—actual physical bells, huge brass things that echoed across the entire complex. Hermes was already dressed by the time the third chime faded. Black uniform, silver trim, perfectly pressed. He looked like every other student, which was exactly the point.
Blend in. Stay quiet. Don't get noticed.
His Core had other ideas.
It pulsed beneath his sternum as he walked to the evaluation arena, restless and hungry. Black lightning wanted to crack the air around him, announce his presence, make everyone understand what he was. He clamped down on it hard. Forced it into submission with mental walls he'd been building for two weeks straight.
*Not yet,* he told it. Told himself. *Soon. But not yet.*
The arena was massive—easily half a kilometer across, with tiered seating rising up on all sides. Thousands of students filled the stands, while hundreds more waited in organized lines on the arena floor. Faculty members in dark robes moved between them, checking names, assigning positions. Everything militarily precise.
Demons loved their hierarchy. Structure. Order. It would've been almost human if they weren't all sporting horns and glowing eyes.
"Selenarch!" Someone called his name. A dwarf in faculty robes, clipboard in hand, looking annoyed. "Hermes Selenarch, you're in Group Seven. Move."
Hermes moved. Found his group near the eastern wall—twenty students, all looking varying degrees of nervous. Cyrus was there, practically vibrating with anxiety. The elf from yesterday stood at the back, arms crossed, expression unreadable.
"Alright, listen up." The faculty member—a demon with scars crossing his face like a roadmap—addressed them without preamble. "Combat evaluation. Simple rules. You'll face an opponent matched to your approximate rank. Win, lose, doesn't matter. We're measuring power output, control, technique, adaptability. Don't try to fake it. Don't hold back too much. We'll know."
Someone raised their hand. "What if we hurt someone?"
The scarred demon smiled. It wasn't comforting. "You're at Genesis Academy. Injuries happen. Medical staff are standing by. Anyone not willing to risk pain should leave now."
Nobody left.
"Good. First match—Vale versus Thorn. Get up here."
Cyrus went pale. "Oh no. Oh no no no—"
"Move, Vale!"
He stumbled forward, nearly tripping over his own feet. His opponent was a demihuman—wolf variant, maybe—bigger and clearly more confident. They faced each other in the center of a marked circle while the faculty member backed away.
"Begin!"
It lasted maybe thirty seconds.
The demihuman came in fast, claws extended, aiming for center mass. Cyrus threw up a shield—barely—that cracked on impact. He tried a counterattack, some kind of fire bolt, but it fizzled pathetically. The demihuman swept his legs, pinned him, and that was it.
"Vale—Rank 5. Thorn—Rank 4. Next!"
They cycled through matches quickly. Most were predictable. The strong dominated. The weak got crushed. Standard power assessment stuff that Alexander had seen a thousand times in human academies.
Then the elf went up.
Her opponent was a demon, Rank 3 by the look of him, cocky smile plastered across his face. He probably expected an easy win. Elves weren't known for raw power—they relied on speed and precision.
The match started.
The demon lunged. The elf wasn't there anymore. She'd moved—impossibly fast—and her practice sword caught him across the back. He spun, snarling, threw a wave of force that should've flattened her.
She was already moving again. Three strikes in rapid succession: ribs, shoulder, throat. Each one perfectly placed. The demon tried to keep up, couldn't, and the elf finished it with a sweep that put him on his back.
Ten seconds. Maybe.
The arena went quiet.
"Impressive," the faculty member said, and he actually sounded it. "Aerith Silverwind—Rank 3. Comprehensive combat training, excellent technique." He made a note on his clipboard. "We'll be watching you."
The elf—Aerith—returned to the group without expression. But Hermes saw it. That tiny flicker of satisfaction in her eyes.
She was good. Really good. Better than Rank 3 should be.
Hermes filed that information away.
More matches. More evaluations. The pattern held—rank determined outcome almost every time. Almost. There were occasional surprises. A Rank 4 dwarf who fought like he'd been doing it since birth, adapting so fast his Rank 3 opponent couldn't land a hit. A demihuman who weaponized her fox illusions so effectively that her technically stronger opponent spent half the match swinging at phantoms.
Then they called his name.
"Selenarch versus Mordain. Up."
Hermes stepped forward. His opponent was pure demon, tall and broad, with horns that curved back like a ram's. Rank 3, definitely. Probably high Rank 3. He looked at Hermes and smiled.
"Don't worry, kid. I'll make it quick."
Hermes didn't respond. Just took his position in the circle, loosened his shoulders, and reached for his Core. Carefully. So carefully. Like handling explosive ordinance.
"Begin!"
Mordain came in hard—direct, brutal, leveraging his size advantage. A hammer blow of force that would've cratered the ground if it connected.
Hermes sidestepped. Barely moved at all, really. Just enough. Alexander's muscle memory translating perfectly to his new body.
Mordain adjusted, threw a combination—fist, elbow, knee—each strike backed by Core-enhanced strength. Any one of them would've ended the fight.
None of them landed.
Hermes moved like water. Minimal effort, maximum efficiency. Thirty years of combat experience compressed into split-second decisions. He wasn't faster than Mordain. Wasn't stronger. He just knew exactly where to be and when.
Frustration crossed Mordain's face. He pulled back, charged his Core, and unleashed a blast of raw power that lit up the arena.
This was the tricky part.
Hermes could've dodged. Could've absorbed it. Could've countered with his own power and turned Mordain into a crater. Instead, he took the hit—sort of. Let it graze his side, spun with the momentum, and used Mordain's own force against him. A palm strike to the solar plexus, perfectly placed, that disrupted his opponent's Core flow just enough.
Mordain went down gasping.
The arena was silent for three full seconds.
Then the faculty member whistled low. "Well. Selenarch—Rank 3. Exceptional technique. Mordain—Rank 3, but you need to work on adaptation." He scribbled furiously. "Next!"
Hermes returned to his group on legs that felt slightly unsteady. He'd held back. A lot. But he'd also had to show enough skill to justify his supposed Rank 3 status without revealing anything close to his true power.
Walking a tightrope blindfolded.
Aerith was watching him. That same assessing gaze she'd used on the crowd yesterday. When their eyes met, she didn't look away.
Great. She suspected something.
The evaluations continued. Hermes tried to focus on them, on cataloging other students' abilities and weaknesses. But his Core was acting strange. It kept pulsing, sending little jolts through his nervous system. Like it was... irritated? Angry he'd restrained it?
That couldn't be normal.
Another match started. Then another. The day dragged on, sun climbing overhead, temperature rising. They broke for lunch—barely, just enough time to grab rations and water—then returned for round two.
"Advanced testing," the scarred demon announced. "For those who showed promise in the morning session. We'll be evaluating specific abilities, unique skills, potential specializations."
He read off names. Aerith's was called. Three others from their group. And, because the universe apparently hated him, Hermes's.
They moved to a smaller arena equipped with monitoring equipment. Crystals embedded in the walls—recording devices, probably. Measuring instruments. Several faculty members waited, including one that made Hermes's skin crawl.
Older demon, thin, with eyes that saw too much. Another Rank 0, maybe. Or close to it.
"Interesting crop this year," the old demon mused. He looked directly at Hermes. "You. Selenarch. Your file says you had a violent Core awakening three weeks ago."
"Yes, sir."
"Violent awakenings are rare. They usually result in death or permanent damage." Those too-keen eyes didn't blink. "Yet here you are. Healthy. Fighting above your supposed rank. Curious."
Hermes's heart hammered. Kept his expression neutral. "I was lucky, sir."
"Mm. Luck." The old demon smiled thinly. "Show me your Core signature."
This was it. The moment where everything either worked or fell apart spectacularly.
Hermes reached inward. Found the carefully constructed barriers he'd built around his true power. Let just enough leak through—Rank 3 level output, steady and controlled. Nothing special. Nothing threatening.
The monitoring crystals glowed soft blue.
The old demon frowned. "That's all?"
"Yes, sir."
"Curious," he repeated. But he moved on. "Silverwind. You're up."
Aerith demonstrated her techniques with mechanical precision. Speed work, blade forms, mana control. All textbook perfect. The faculty made appreciative noises.
Then it was back to Hermes.
"Combat scenario," the scarred demon said. "Three opponents, Rank 4 level, synchronized tactics. Survive for two minutes."
Three constructs materialized—crystalline warriors with glowing cores, moving in perfect coordination. Training golems. Advanced ones. They spread out, flanking positions, cutting off escape routes.
Professional.
"Begin."
They attacked simultaneously.
Hermes moved. No thought, pure instinct. Ducked under the first strike, deflected the second, used the third attacker's momentum to throw him into his partner. Alexander's training was so deeply ingrained it might as well have been breathing.
But these weren't simple opponents. They adapted mid-combat, learning his patterns, adjusting their tactics. Within thirty seconds they'd analyzed his style and started countering it.
Impressive. Also annoying.
Hermes ramped up his effort. Not his power—never his power—but his technique. Applied pressure to weak points in their formation. Exploited the microsecond delays in their coordination. Made them react instead of act.
One minute passed.
The constructs intensified their assault. One feinted high while another went low, the third circling for a killing blow. A trap. Well-executed.
Hermes saw it coming three moves ahead. Stepped into the attack instead of away, caught the lead construct's strike, and redirected it into the second one. They collided, stumbled, and he put them both down with precise strikes to their cores.
The third construct hesitated. Just for a fraction of a second. Evaluating.
Hermes used that hesitation. Closed the distance. Single strike to the core, perfectly placed, and it shattered.
Time: ninety seconds.
The arena fell silent again.
"Well," the old demon said slowly. "That was unexpected."
The scarred demon was staring at Hermes like he'd sprouted wings. "Where did you train?"
"Nowhere, sir. Just... instinct?" Hermes tried to look confused. Like he didn't understand what he'd done. "My father was military. Maybe I picked things up?"
"Your father was a logistics officer."
Right. That.
"I meant... he told me stories?" This was going badly. "And I've always been good at patterns?"
The old demon approached. Got close enough that Hermes could feel the weight of his power pressing against his skin. "You're hiding something."
Hermes's Core flared. Just for an instant. The black lightning tried to surface, to defend, to attack—
He crushed it. Brutally. Forced every last trace of power back down into nothing.
"I'm not hiding anything, sir. I'm just trying to survive."
The old demon studied him for a long, terrible moment. Then nodded. "Perhaps. We'll be watching you, Selenarch. Closely."
"Yes, sir."
They dismissed him. Hermes walked out of that arena with his heart racing, his Core thrashing against his control, and the absolute certainty that he'd just made a mistake.
Too good. He'd been too good. Drawn attention he couldn't afford.
Aerith caught up to him in the hallway. "That was impressive."
"Thanks." He kept walking.
She matched his pace. "Where did you really train?"
"I didn't."
"You fight like you've been doing it for decades." Her green eyes were sharp. Calculating. "Nobody moves like that naturally. Nobody."
Hermes stopped. Looked at her. "What do you want?"
"The truth." She crossed her arms. "There's something off about you. Has been since I first saw you at the spaceport. Like you're..." She paused, searching for words. "Like you're wearing someone else's face."
His blood went cold.
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"Yes, you do." Aerith leaned closer, dropped her voice. "I've spent my entire life learning to read people. It's how elves survive in demon territory. And you, Hermes Selenarch, are the worst liar I've ever seen."
She was too perceptive. Too smart. And now she was a problem.
Hermes met her gaze steadily. "Even if you were right—which you're not—what would you do about it?"
Aerith considered him. "Nothing. Yet. Everyone has secrets here. Mine is that I'm not supposed to be here at all." A slight smile. "Elves and demons aren't exactly allies. My presence is... politically complicated."
"So why tell me this?"
"Because you're interesting. And I think we might be able to help each other." She stepped back. "Think about it."
Then she was gone, disappeared into the crowd of students flooding the hallways.
Hermes stood there for a moment, processing. His carefully constructed plan to stay unnoticed had lasted exactly one day. The faculty suspected him. Aerith suspected him. And his Core was still thrashing like a caged animal.
This was fine. Everything was fine.
He made it back to his room, locked the door, and finally—finally—let his control slip.
Black lightning exploded across his skin. It crawled up the walls, scorched the ceiling, made the air taste like ozone and rage. His Core pulsed with power that could've leveled the building if he'd let it.
But he didn't. Just held it there, let it burn, let it rage, until the pressure eased.
Then he pulled it all back in. Bit by bit. Until nothing showed.
Hermes collapsed on his bed, exhausted in ways that had nothing to do with physical exertion. This was going to be harder than he thought. Staying hidden while gathering information. Keeping his power concealed while learning to use it. Playing human—no, demon—while planning revenge against entities that could shatter planets.
Outside, the academy bells rang for dinner.
Hermes closed his eyes and tried to remember why he was doing this. The faces of the six Supremes. The Excalibur breaking. His crew dying. His life ending.
Right. That's why.
He got up. Straightened his uniform. Buried every trace of Alexander Smith beneath the mask of Hermes Selenarch.
And went to dinner like nothing was wrong.