"Your week will be split into four key pillars," the instructor announced. "Theory, Physical Conditioning, Combat Training, and Mutation Control."
The schedule unfolded in neat grids—harsh and unrelenting.
Mornings would begin at six with endurance drills. Then came alternating blocks of academic theory, sparring rotations, and mutation compatibility exercises. Evenings, Lura explained, would conclude with one final challenge: simulation battles. Mandatory. Ranked. Public.
A lump rose in Malik's throat. Mutation control? What was he supposed to control? His greatest achievement so far was simply not dying.
Around him, classmates exchanged loaded glances. Some were already sizing up their rivals. Others tried to hide their unease.
"We begin today," Lura finished. "Welcome to your new life."
With that, the room emptied for breakfast.
---
The academy cafeteria resembled less a dining hall and more a tech-laden atrium—wide, sterile, futuristic. Chrome machines slid along ceiling tracks, serving nutrient-dense meals that tasted like compressed disappointment. Malik sat alone at the edge of a long, polished table, quietly chewing what he assumed was tofu.
Across the room, Xander was already laughing with students from Class 1B. Margaret caught Malik's gaze and offered a soft smile, but someone tugged her into another conversation before he could wave back.
His half-raised hand hung in the air, unnoticed.
---
Class 1E's first endurance test was held in the athletics dome—a vast stadium filled with shifting terrain and cruel imagination.
Their task? A five-kilometer run through biomechanical simulations. Sand dunes that swallowed your calves. Ice floors that turned legs into flailing limbs. Hills with gravity so dense, it felt like dragging your body through syrup.
Malik didn't run to win.
He ran because stopping meant sinking.
His lungs screamed. His thighs begged for mercy. He slipped on the ice. He fell in the sand. But he kept moving. Step by brutal step. Until, soaked in sweat and gasping like a drowning man, he stumbled past the finish line.
When he looked up, Lura was watching him.
Not with pity.
With curiosity.
---
Later that afternoon came combat class.
"Pick a partner," the instructor barked.
No one moved. No one looked his way.
Until finally, a student named Teff approached. He was tall, wiry, with arms that flexed like rubber tubing.
"Don't slow me down," Teff muttered.
The spar began. Teff lashed out with whip-like arms, trying to entangle Malik. He dodged one strike. Then two. On the third, he was caught at the ankle and slammed to the floor.
"Time!" Lura called.
She nodded toward Malik. "Not bad."
Whispers fluttered behind him like gnats.
He'd lasted longer than expected.
That night, Malik limped back into his dorm. His roommate, Peter, barely looked up from a glowing tablet.
"Rough day?" Peter asked.
Malik dropped onto the bed. "More like drowning."
Peter smirked. "You're here. That's more than most."
Malik turned toward him. "Do you think ranking really matters?"
Peter's eyes flicked to the ceiling. "Being last hurts the same in every section."
---
The next day, after another grueling drill and a lecture on planetary conquest history, a digital chime echoed through the halls.
Lura didn't look up. "Leaderboard updates are live. You may check your wristbands."
Malik didn't bother.
Why would he?
But then—
Gasps.
Shocked murmurs.
Teff turned to him. "Malik. Check your rank."
Malik tapped his wristband.
1st Place. Malik Barn. Ability: None Registered.
He blinked.
"What?" he whispered.
"Is that even allowed?" someone hissed.
"Must be a glitch."
Even Lura paused, her calm mask twitching just slightly. "Rankings are based on more than combat," she explained. "Endurance. Adaptability. Energy retention. Stress response. Combat instinct. Ability is only one measure."
It didn't help.
Now, everyone was looking. No one spoke to him directly—but eyes followed him everywhere. In training drills, students began mimicking his stance, his footwork.
Malik noticed.
He said nothing.
He wasn't invisible anymore. But he wasn't truly seen either.
Suspicion had replaced silence.
And for now, that was enough.
---
That night, Peter finally looked up from his tablet.
"You okay?" he asked.
Malik lay back on the bed, staring at the glowing ceiling.
"I don't know what's happening to me," he said softly. "But I think... it's just beginning."
Peter watched him carefully, as if about to ask what's beginning?—but the unsettled look on Malik's face told him even Malik didn't know.
"…What's your rank?" Malik asked, trying to change the subject.
Peter looked away. "One hundred and four."
Something in his voice cracked. Malik heard it. A rare ability. A strong fighter. And still below a boy with no registered power.
Peter didn't speak again that night.
---
The next morning, Malik kept his head low.
Just one normal day, he told himself. Let today's rankings clear the mistake.
But Nayak Academy was already buzzing. Students huddled around digital boards, pointing, whispering, laughing too loudly.
Malik walked faster.
Then he saw it:
Malik Barn – Rank: 500/500 | Ability: Undisclosed
Dead last.
Not just in Class 1E.
In the entire academy.
It wasn't a mistake.
It was a message.
And suddenly, the silence returned.
Not the kind born of ignorance.
But of doubt.
Not invisibility.
But something worse.
Fear.