Kilos and the rest of his cellmates were back in their cells. The appearance of each of them was different from when they left. A strange quietness had settled among them, one born not only from fatigue but from the weight of uncertainty. They all had their individual thoughts, swirling emotions, and questions about what had just happened out there with Lucas and the officers.
Kilos, unable to hold it in, decided to break the silence. Now that they were no longer under immediate observation—so they believed—he spoke in a very low tone, "Why were we labelled Stubborns?"
No one answered immediately. They simply glanced at each other, uncertain. Nobody knew the real answer, but throwing around suggestions might help ease the tension, or at least spark conversation.
"It's the belief they had," Garet, the fourth among them, replied at last. His voice was dry, somewhat dismissive.
"What belief?" Kilos asked quickly. His voice had a curious edge to it. In fact, everyone leaned in slightly, wanting to hear Garet's full explanation.
"Maybe… you troubled them," Garet said with a look of disdain that didn't go unnoticed.
"They expected us to just wait," Kilos replied, frustration evident in his tone. His body temperature rose along with the pitch in his voice. "To just sit and accept whatever fate they chose for us."
Unbeknownst to them, every cell had been fitted with hidden surveillance—tiny cameras and listening devices that relayed their conversations far beyond the four walls.
"I really can't take this. I know Lucas was responsible for such a name. One day, I'll have to confront him," Kilos said, his expression intense and confrontational.
He glanced around, silently seeking the support of his cellmates. Would they share in his ambition?
But somehow, everyone instinctively knew it was unsafe to speak openly about such sensitive matters. Even Kilos began to feel the weight of his own words. A moment too late, he realized he had said something better left unsaid.
For reasons beyond comprehension, he hadn't known any of the boys before. But now, he had exposed a dangerous part of himself—his willingness to rebel.
"I'm sorry. I take that back," he muttered, though he didn't really expect anyone to respond. He only hoped the surveillance—if there was any—would overlook his rashness.
The tension from his retracted statement lingered thickly in the air. The more silence they maintained, the more aggravated the atmosphere became.
Many things were not permitted at this academy. One of them was precisely what Kilos had raised: rebellion.
Suddenly, the cell door slid open again. Men in uniform stormed in swiftly and without warning. Kilos and his roommates were handcuffed and led out in silence. No explanation, no words—just metal against wrists and the hum of fluorescent lights as they were moved.
The elevator display read: Level 4.
In the hall they entered, various types of military-grade training equipment were arranged meticulously. But their destination was in front of a massive punch-bag, suspended from an overhead rail system.
None of the boys truly understood what was happening—but they would, eventually.
A massive man, with rippling muscles and an unshakable presence, stepped forward to greet them.
"Pleased to meet you," Lucas said to the man, who nodded in return. This was Baxter.
Baxter was the officer in charge of the facility. Once one of the military's most formidable assets, his current duty was to determine the strength of new students and periodically report their development to the academy authorities.
Both men moved toward a table positioned at a strategic corner and began their exchange.
"This set of students are stubborn and dangerous," Lucas began with a voice heavy with finality. His tone bore no room for argument.
It was clear that this batch was to be handled with exceptional caution. If they wouldn't cooperate, force was an acceptable option.
"We know how to handle such," Baxter replied, though his face showed concern. "But I think this is too urgent."
"They're not just dangerous," Lucas continued, placing a document on the table, "...their DNA is something else entirely."
Baxter skimmed through the records. His eyes widened in shock. The moment he finished reading, he handed the documents back with a quickness that betrayed his nervousness.
"Why did you bring them to me?" Baxter asked, clearly uncomfortable.
"No, don't be afraid. They don't know the full details. And I intend to keep it that way," Lucas responded.
"Okay," Baxter said hesitantly as he turned to observe the boys more carefully. Hiding their true identities was a perfect strategy—it was like parading lions in the skin of kittens.
"Remove the cuffs and let's get to business," Baxter commanded. The officers obeyed.
Baxter moved over to the heavy punch bag and gestured for one of the boys to step forward.
Garet was first. Tall and built like a tank, he charged toward the center and launched a heavy blow against the bag. The meter lit up: 2…4…6…8.
Garet's strength registered at 8—a solid performance.
The highest score in this test was ten, even if the bag had swung further, it would still cap at that limit.
"You did well," Baxter said plainly, his tone carefully neutral. Encouragement was rationed in this place.
"Lantern Monroo," Baxter called for the next student to take his turn.
Lantern's approach was precise. Baxter noted his movement immediately—Chatkaline.
But something was off. Lantern hadn't prepared his fist. If he struck the bag recklessly, the resulting injuries could be severe. Baxter raised his hand to stop him.
"Hey—" he said stopping him.
Bang! It was too late.
Lantern had smashed the punch bag with his head.
The room fell in stunned silence.
"Did he just kill himself?" Someone whispered from the background
"He broke his skull!" Baxter exclaimed with fright.
But nothing of the sort happened. Lantern stood tall, completely unfazed. The bag, which was engineered to simulate extreme combat resistance, swung hard. He didn't even flinch. He had used his head instead of his fist.
"Are you alright?" Baxter asked, still not entirely believing what he was alright.
"I'm good," Lantern replied, his expression unchanged.
The reading machine stopped at number ten. Lantern walked back without a word. All eyes followed him.
Now it was Kilos's turn. He felt the weight of expectation—he hoped to land somewhere around 7. Maybe that would earn him a seat at the table.
"Let's see what you've got," Baxter said with a grin that hinted at curiosity.
He looked at the record in his hand to see Kilos' latent data. He was impressed about what he saw so he thought of something of huge from the tamer.
"Do you think I can do this?" Kilos asked, battling the doubt within.
"Disaster!" a mocking thought echoed in his mind.
"Forget it, I can!" he yelled back at the inner thought in his mind.
Perhaps he hoped to drown out the fear with sheer determination.
Kilos summoned all his energy into his fist and aimed for it.
But...
Crack! Cracker!! His bone sounded!
The sound was horrifying. Kilos screamed in agony. He had shattered his phalanges and arm bones. Pain radiated across his entire arm.
Baxter and Lucas watched in silence, both stunned.
Kilos staggered back, clutching his broken hand. The reader showed 3.
"What a waste of time," Lucas muttered to himself.
The fourth boy stepped up. Score: 5.
The last scored 6.
"Kilos is just a crap—he doesn't fit to be with us," Lantern said with a sneer.
The irony was bitter. This same Lantern had helped Kilos earlier. Now, he scorned him without mercy.
"I knew he was weak. That fainting episode wasn't random," Garet added, throwing salt on the wound.
"I don't ever want to see Kilos with us again," Lantern declared, casting a cold glare to discourage any disagreement.
On their return, an officer arrived and placed a new information at the front of the cell. He removed the old one.
"If you behave well and prove yourself worthy, you will soon walk freely like the other students," he said as he poked his head through the openings.
Without waiting for a reply, he turned and left.
The new label reads:
THE SPECIALS.