Later that evening, after a shower that barely scrubbed the industrial grime from his skin, Kai sat alone in his apartment, the pervasive loneliness of his situation settling over him once more. He had to face the inevitable: the public broadcast of the final Top 5 Academy acceptance ceremony.
He hadn't turned the comm on for the last two days, but he needed to see it now. He needed to witness the proof of the system he was fighting.
He activated the holographic display. The broadcast immediately filled his small room with the dazzling, sterile image of the Leading Star Academy's main auditorium. The crowd of elite parents and students was dressed in immaculate white and silver, their smiles practiced and perfect.
The announcer, a renowned academician with a velvet voice, was reading the final admissions. The names, accompanied by flattering biographical data, scrolled across the bottom of the screen.
Kai watched, his face a mask of careful neutrality. His heart, however, was thrumming against his ribs with a nervous energy he couldn't suppress. Despite the rejection chip, despite the scout, a small, irrational flicker of hope remained—the hope that his academic perfection might, against all odds, override his lineage.
On the screen, the scrolling ticker tape paused.
ZORE, KAI.
His name. For a brief, suspended moment, everything stopped.
The announcer cleared his throat. The smile on his face tightened, shifting from celebratory to apologetic.
"And now, we come to a difficult case," the academician began, his voice losing its natural warmth, adopting a measured, professional coolness. "While our systems have noted exemplary theoretical scores in Cultech diagnostics and unparalleled results in combat aptitude simulations for Mr. Kai Zore, the Astral Council requires absolute assurance of foundational adherence."
The words were a technical assassination.
"Due to irreconcilable differences in established foundational training, specifically his reliance on unaccredited, non-standardized Bio Energy methodologies, and a failure to provide proof of suitable lineage background, we must regrettably inform Mr. Zore that his admission to the Top Five Academies is not approved."
The refusal was delivered with the clinical precision of a scalpel cutting away a diseased organ. It wasn't an emotional outpouring; it was an act of bureaucratic violence.
Kai felt the breath leave his body. It wasn't the surprise; it was the sheer, brutal confirmation of his permanent exclusion. His genius, his hard work, his perfect scores—they were irrelevant. The single, most important criterion was the one he could never fulfill: acceptable background.
The announcer immediately pivoted back to a student with lower scores but a father in the Arbitral Council, his voice returning to its cheerful cadence. The world moved on without him.
Kai stood motionless, the holographic display casting a cruel, mocking light on his face. The grief wasn't a loud explosion; it was a cold, quiet implosion—a sense of profound betrayal by a system that claimed to value merit but only worshipped status.
He walked over to the terminal, his movements slow and deliberate, and pulled up the detailed rejection file. It contained the exact language: "Failure to maintain standardized meridian flow...Evidence of unauthorized energy pathways..." They had been watching, and they had rejected his very method of existence.
His eyes scanned the file until they landed on a small section detailing the mathematical disparity between his scores and the accepted students. He was, measurably, better than almost everyone they had just admitted.
The quiet, devastating grief suddenly hardened. He didn't feel anger; he felt a chilling, focused resolution. They had drawn the line. They had told him exactly what he needed to destroy.
He reached down and picked up the lead-weighted training rods he'd used earlier. He looked at the shattered piece of mirror on the floor of his dojo corner.
He wouldn't yell. He wouldn't smash anything. He would simply work. He would channel this humiliation, this betrayal, into the design of the Apex Suit. It wouldn't just be an Apex Suit; it would be an apology for his existence, delivered with overwhelming force.
His wrist-comm suddenly gave a small, unassuming ping. It was a quiet notification, a tiny whisper against the public scream of the broadcast. He ignored it. It was too small to matter. He had a lifetime of work to do.