The Scantum breathed differently after violence.
It always did.
After every clash, every near-death, every failure or survival, the ancient structure seemed to shift—adjusting its silence, thickening its air, as if recalibrating itself around the emotional residue left behind.
For Sahil, that residue was unbearable.
The infirmary smelled faintly of antiseptic stone and heated metal. Soft lights ran along the ceiling in thin lines, pulsing slowly, carefully—never too bright, never too dark. Designed for recovery.
Designed for people who needed rest.
Sahil hated it.
He lay still on the bed, his body wrapped tightly in reinforced bindings. Every small movement tugged at his ribs, sending sharp reminders through his chest. His shoulder throbbed dully, the ache deep and persistent, like something had been damaged but not broken.
That, at least, was honest.
The rest wasn't.
A weak current of wind curled around his fingers.
Not accidental.
Not unstable.
Perfectly controlled.
He watched it for a long time.
The wind didn't tremble. It didn't spike or fade. It responded exactly the way it always had.
Which meant only one thing.
My power didn't fail.
The thought sat in his chest like a weight.
He closed his eyes.
The memory came immediately.
Not the punches.
Not the blood.
The moment before everything went wrong.
The kick.
His body still remembered it—the precision, the balance, the exact angle of force. He had calculated distance, timing, airflow. His wind had reinforced the strike perfectly.
For one heartbeat, Rohan had reacted.
For one heartbeat, Sahil had believed.
Then—
A hand.
Calm.
Heavy.
On his shoulder.
No urgency. No anger.
Just certainty.
The realization had hit him harder than the ground.
This fight isn't happening on my level.
That was when his mind froze.
Not from fear.
From understanding.
Sahil exhaled slowly, feeling pain flare through his ribs.
"So that's it," he muttered to the empty room. "I hesitated because I understood."
The door opened quietly.
Sahil didn't turn his head.
"You shouldn't be standing," he said flatly.
Harun's footsteps paused. "You shouldn't be awake."
"Fair."
Harun moved closer, his steps careful, uneven. Sahil could hear it now—the subtle restraint in his movement. The way someone walks when they know pushing too hard might tear something inside.
"You look worse," Sahil added.
Harun huffed softly. "That's comforting."
Silence followed.
Not awkward.
Heavy.
Harun stood beside the bed for a long moment before speaking.
"They told me you were stable."
"They always say that," Sahil replied.
Harun nodded. "Yeah."
Another pause.
Sahil finally turned his head.
Harun's face was bruised, shadows sitting deep under his eyes. His jaw was set tighter than usual—not angry, just… controlled. Like he was holding something back.
"You didn't lose because you're weak," Harun said.
Sahil's expression hardened instantly. "Don't."
"I'm not saying it to comfort you."
"That makes it worse."
Harun clenched his good hand. "I saw your kick."
Sahil looked away again.
"Your wind pressure was clean," Harun continued. "No wasted output. No imbalance."
"Stop," Sahil snapped.
"You tried to end the fight."
The words cut through him.
Sahil went still.
Harun leaned forward slightly. "You aimed for a decisive conclusion. When it didn't work… your brain stalled."
Sahil swallowed.
"That's not hesitation born from fear," Harun said. "That's recalibration."
Sahil laughed once, quietly. "Recalibration gets you killed."
Harun didn't deny it.
"Team selection is today," he said instead.
"I know."
"You won't be removed."
Sahil closed his eyes. "That's not what I'm worried about."
Harun hesitated. Sahil felt it.
"You're going to be placed," Harun said carefully. "Not sidelined."
"That's just a nicer word."
Harun didn't argue.
At the door, he stopped. "You're not falling behind."
Sahil didn't respond.
"You're just walking without me now."
The door closed.
Sahil stared at it.
Not with anger.
With something closer to mourning.
The assembly hall felt larger than before.
Fourteen bearers stood spaced apart, the gaps between them deliberate. No one stood too close to anyone else. After Rohan, no one trusted proximity.
Harun's place was clear.
Sahil's absence wasn't.
Kunal stood beside Harun, metal fingers flexing softly. "Everyone's quieter."
"They should be," Harun replied.
Gohan stepped forward.
His presence still commanded the room—but there was something else beneath it now. Watchfulness. Calculation.
"Team formation is not about strength," Gohan said. "It is about sustainability."
Three symbols rotated behind him.
Names followed.
Team A.
Harun's name appeared.
He felt it settle—not pride, not excitement.
Responsibility.
Team B followed.
Then—
Team C.
Sahil's name appeared first.
Harun's chest tightened.
Gohan raised a hand before anyone could react.
"Team C is not incomplete," he said calmly. "It is adaptive."
The word echoed.
"One bearer remains."
The projection shifted.
ROHAN
No symbol. No formation.
"He will operate independently," Gohan said. "Under observation."
No one spoke.
After dismissal, Harun stayed behind.
"Sahil," he said.
Gohan's gaze sharpened slightly. "Would break if he stayed beside you."
Harun frowned. "He's strong."
"Yes," Gohan replied. "Which is why comparison would destroy him faster than failure."
Harun clenched his jaw.
"Let him become himself," Gohan continued. "Not your reflection."
Later, alone, Sahil stood.
Pain surged through him immediately—but he didn't fall.
Wind gathered around his legs, steady, controlled.
His power was still there.
So was his doubt.
"I didn't lose my strength," he whispered.
The wind stirred.
"I lost my certainty."
Outside, Harun moved forward.
Inside, Sahil stood still—choosing not to run from what he felt.
For the first time since the Scantum—
He wasn't chasing strength.
He was questioning it.
The Scantum did not rush its soldiers.
That was the first rule.
After the team assignments, no alarms rang. No gates opened. No urgent summons followed. The bearers were dismissed with nothing more than a single instruction:
"Rest. Observe. Prepare."
For Harun, that was the hardest part.
He sat alone on the edge of his bed, elbows resting on his knees, staring at the faintly glowing wall across the room. The light pulsed slowly, rhythmical—meant to calm the mind.
It wasn't working.
Every few seconds, his thoughts drifted back to the same place.
An infirmary room.
A quiet wind.
A friend standing when he shouldn't have been able to.
He clenched his fists.
"You're thinking too loudly," Kunal's voice said.
Harun looked up.
Kunal leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. The mechanical plates along his forearms shifted softly as he moved. Unlike Harun, he looked… comfortable.
"Didn't know you could hear thoughts," Harun muttered.
"I can hear tension," Kunal replied. "You're full of it."
Harun didn't deny it.
"They separated you two," Kunal continued. "You and the wind guy."
"Sahil," Harun said.
"Yeah. Him."
Harun looked away. "It was necessary."
Kunal raised an eyebrow. "You believe that?"
Harun hesitated.
"I don't know," he admitted.
Kunal nodded once. "Good. Means you're not lying to yourself."
Silence settled.
"So," Kunal said eventually, "Team A."
Harun let out a slow breath. "Frontline."
"More than that," Kunal corrected. "Expectation line."
Harun frowned.
"They're watching you," Kunal said. "All of them. The instructors. The analysts. Even the other teams."
Harun scoffed. "For what?"
Kunal's metal fingers tapped lightly against the wall. "To see if you break."
That hit deeper than expected.
Elsewhere in the Scantum, Sahil stood at the threshold of a different kind of room.
Team C's briefing chamber was smaller. Less polished. No projection arrays lining the walls—just a circular table carved from old stone.
Liam, Ezra, and Tamsin were already there.
They looked up when Sahil entered.
No judgment.
No pity.
Just curiosity.
"So you're the wind guy," Ezra said.
Sahil didn't react. "Sahil."
Tamsin studied him carefully. "You fought Rohan."
"Yes."
"And survived."
"Yes."
That earned a subtle shift in the room.
Liam nodded once. "Then you belong here."
Sahil blinked. "That's it?"
Liam shrugged. "Anyone who didn't face him wouldn't understand. Anyone who broke wouldn't be standing."
Sahil exhaled slowly.
For the first time since the fight, his shoulders relaxed a fraction.
High above them all, Gohan stood before a wide observation panel.
Beside him, another senior figure spoke quietly.
"You're pushing them quickly."
"They need to feel pressure," Gohan replied.
"And Harun?"
Gohan's gaze lingered on a particular feed.
"He will either stabilize others," he said, "or destabilize everything."
"And Sahil?"
Gohan paused.
"He will learn," he said carefully, "whether strength is about standing… or knowing when not to."