Frank, as usual, remained in the shadows, muttering, "They're escalating. That was a warning, not a trick."
"But why wear my face?" Malik asked. "What does it mean?"
Silence.
Then Margaret's voice, low and certain: "We don't know yet. And that's exactly why you have to compete. Stay visible. Stay grounded."
Peter nodded reluctantly. "The postponed Trials begin tomorrow. The Continental Training Academy only takes the top fifty. You can't sit this one out."
Malik exhaled, his throat dry. "Great. I'm from the weakest class with a power I can't even show on command. What could go wrong?"
---
The Next Morning: Competition Grounds
Nayak Academy's lower stadium had been transformed into a tiered arena, its jagged stone floors rearranging with each round. Floating platforms hung overhead for aerial types. Holo-screens beamed live rankings above the crowd.
Every first-year was here. Five classes—A through E. Five hundred students. Only fifty would advance.
The announcer's voice boomed through the arena:
"Welcome to the Nayak Continental Preliminaries! Battles are one-on-one. No killing. Knockout or surrender ends the round. Begin!"
Excitement. Nervousness. A slow wave of adrenaline rippled through the lower-ranked classes like a cold wind.
Class 1A dominated immediately. Xander's duel was precise, brutal. A single gravity crush left his opponent gasping for air. Margaret's display was elegant—her ice ability still unmatched.
Class 1B, with Peter, held strong—smart, calculated victories, his speed outpacing his challengers.
Class 1C saw Frank's fight go strangely quiet. His opponent lunged—then dropped, clutching their skull, whispering nonsense. The match ended without a visible blow.
From Class 1D, only a handful made it past round one.
Class 1E—Malik's class—struggled. Students were either underpowered or untrained. By midday, morale sank. Only two from his class had managed a win. Malik wasn't one of them. Not yet.
Then his name was called.
"Malik Barn vs. Keiran Vos. Arena 3."
He stood, heart pounding. The crowd turned. Whispers returned—That's the ability thief. That's the one from the Ceremony.
Malik muttered, "Why couldn't I get someone from 1D?"
Across the field, Keiran from 1A cracked his knuckles. A fire manipulator with metal-reinforced skin—basically a living forge.
"Just my luck," Malik sighed.
He made his way down to Arena 3. But then he froze on the steps, one foot hovering above the next stair, as someone else stepped confidently onto the arena stage.
The cheers began instantly.
"Go, Malik!" someone shouted from the stands.
Peter grinned from their box. "About time he got serious."
Even Margaret let out a small breath. "He's calm… That's good."
Xander leaned forward. "Let's see what he does."
But Malik wasn't on the stage.
He was here. On the steps. Watching.
And yet—there he was. Standing tall in the ring. Moving with his gait. Tilting his head the same way. Even the idle gesture of rolling one wrist before combat… it was him.
A perfect imitation.
Malik's breath caught. The world spun too fast, too loud, too bright. His stomach dropped.
No one knows. They think it's me.
He could barely hear the proctor announcing the match—his name echoing through the stadium like a mockery.
The mimic didn't hesitate. He raised a hand in greeting. Smiled slightly. Just enough to seem composed. Even Keiran didn't question it—just grunted and flared his metal fists.
Malik stood frozen, blood rushing in his ears. His mind raced.
How is she doing this?
Why now?
What if she wins? What if she loses?
What will they think when I walk down after the fight's over—
Which of us will be real?
Panic flickered in his chest like a flame without air. He glanced toward the group.
They were watching her. Watching him—or who they thought was him—with pride, with faith, with belief.
Not a single eye turned to the real Malik still standing on the stairs.
He was a ghost in his own life.
And the match was about to begin.
"Start," the proctor called.
Malik stared in awe. The mimic was his movement, but improved—fluid side-steps, precise dodges, and when an opening came, a clean punch ended the match.
"Malik Barn," the proctor announced. The crowd cheered the winner.
---
The Next Day
The arena buzzed with the raw tension of battle—mutation energy sparking in the air, cheers ricocheting off the glass walls, and dust rising with every impact.
Round by round, names were called. Students marched forward with the weight of their future on their backs. The reward was clear: the top 50 would advance to the Continental Training Academy—the gateway to the real fight—the Universe Duel. Everyone wanted a spot. Few would earn it.
And "Malik Barn" was climbing fast.
The mimic moved like water with a blade's edge—controlled, graceful, ruthless. His next opponent was a tank-class mutant from Class 1C, a bruiser who could harden his body into living stone.
The fight lasted a few minutes.
The mimic dodged effortlessly, even taunting with a slight yawn mid-combat before placing a hand on the opponent's shoulder.
The moment of contact ended it. The mimic's body pulsed with unnatural light. Stone spread up his arms. And then—snap. A blast of force sent his opponent crashing into the barrier wall.
Knockout.
The crowd erupted.
In the viewing bay, Margaret blinked. "Did you see that reaction time?"
Peter frowned. "That was... cleaner than usual. No hesitation."
Xander narrowed his eyes. "He's never been that flashy before."
But they said nothing more. Why would they? Malik was winning.
But the real Malik watched from a shadowed corner behind the staging steps, fists clenched.
He felt like he was sinking into the earth.
Each victory by the mimic stole more than applause—it stole him.
---
Xander's Match – Class 1A vs. 1C
Xander stood at the edge of the ring, a quiet storm brewing beneath his skin.
His opponent, a kinetic redirector from 1C, smirked as projectiles of force began to orbit around him like small satellites. The crowd knew this kid—he could turn energy back tenfold.
But Xander didn't rely on energy blasts. He moved. Clean, aggressive, tight forms—like someone born to lead armies, not just fights.
He lunged low, baiting a redirect—then pivoted mid-air, twisting behind the boy and locking him in place with a pressure-point blow.
It wasn't glamorous. It wasn't explosive.
But it was flawless.
He won.