Raiden Alaric

An Association staff member stepped in front of the group. Silver trim on his uniform, transparent tablet in hand, face locked in professional mode. His tone was quick, efficient, and practiced. He looks like a Gerald. I'll call him Gerald.

"You all received a bracelet at check-in. That number is your testing order."

He raised his wrist to show a black band just like ours, flat with a small digital display glowing in blue.

"You're group four-twenty. The chamber will call you one at a time by flashing your number above the entrance. When you see it, you go in."

He swiped something on the tablet.

"The bracelet tracks your vitals and aura output during each exam. It's reinforced. Don't try to break it or remove it. If you do, you're disqualified. Not that you'd be able to. It even takes effort for a Blue Rank to break it."

I looked down at mine.

69.

Nice.

He kept going without waiting.

"This test measures three things: clarity, control, and endurance. You'll enter the chamber and exude your aura to full capacity. No fighting, no channeling, no manipulation—just raw flow. The longer you hold it without loss of control, the higher your score. If it fluctuates too much, it'll cost you."

A soft tone echoed from the chamber door.

The first number flashed on the display above the chamber: 001.

A guy a few spots down from me stood up. Human. Eighteen like the rest of us. Average height, athletic frame, short brown hair. He had a focused, maybe slightly forced, expression.

We were all wearing the same standard-issue tracksuit, black with gray paneling and the A.A. emblem stitched at the collar. Breathable, reinforced, and probably not cheap. It kept everything uniform, but it didn't stop people from carrying themselves differently.

Someone trained this guy for that walk.

He stepped toward the chamber as the doors slid open. A clean hiss of air escaped before they sealed shut behind him.

A flat voice echoed overhead. "Step onto the platform and wait for the signal."

The center platform lit up faintly once he stepped onto it, a soft white ring pulsing outward beneath his feet. Recessed projectors adjusted to his position, locking him in place.

"Begin."

He dropped into a wide stance. Shoulders loose. Hands at his sides. His aura kicked in within seconds.

It expanded smoothly, no spikes, no loss of control. A spherical flow radiated outward from his chest. Textbook technique. Full coverage. No directional shaping. His limbs didn't adjust to the flow. It was just steady output, nothing more.

I watched the external monitor update in real time. Clean projection. No rhythm shift. That meant no correction control. His training enabled him to project his aura in one solid form and hold it, which was fine… if all he wanted to do was to pass.

Chronos would've called it a "good start," then made me redo it with weights on my back and anchors on my legs.

The guy held his projection for about twenty seconds before the system chimed.

He stepped off the platform, kept his flow stable until he was clear, then let it drop. Smooth exit.

The doors opened again. He walked out, same pace, same posture.

His score appeared on the leaderboard to the right.

82.4 — Silver-Tier Output: Above Standard

A glowing green bar stretched beside it, labeled: Rank Placement: 1st

No surprise there. He was the first to go.

The display pulsed once, then held steady.

Someone off to my left leaned forward. "What's the scale?"

Gerald didn't look up from his tablet. "Standardized tier system. Scores range from zero to one hundred. Each range determines your aura proficiency grade."

He tapped the side of the screen, and a breakdown appeared on the wall display next to the leaderboard.

A.A. Aura Output Grading Scale

95 to 100 — Platinum-Tier

: Elite Performance (Violet)

90 to 94.9 — Gold-Tier

: Exceptional (Gold)

80 to 89.9 — Silver-Tier

: Above Standard (Silver)

70 to 79.9 — Bronze-Tier

: Standard (Bronze)

60 to 69.9 — Iron-Tier

: Below Standard (Yellow)

Below 60 — Failed Classification

: Insufficient or Unstable (Red)

"Platinum is rare," Gerald said. "Usually triggers ambassador review. Gold opens access to the upper-tier academies. Anything below Iron is an automatic fail unless you're sponsored."

A few people glanced around after that. The first examinee returned to his spot, ignoring the attention.

I leaned back again and looked at the board.

Eighty-two-point-four.

A strong start.

More numbers flashed across the display.

More people walked into the chamber.

I watched.

A beastkin with ash-gray fur and a long tail flared his aura wide, fast, aggressive. He held it for ten seconds before it frayed at the edges. Overextended. Tried to show off. Score came back in the low seventies—Bronze-Tier: Standard. Looked disappointed.

The next was an elven girl with short-cut hair and a chip on her shoulder. Her projection was tight, focused, and rotated slightly—some kind of spiraling control pattern. It wavered at the halfway mark, then corrected. 83.1 — Silver-Tier: Above Standard.

Not bad.

A drakeblood kid stepped up after that, scales faintly visible across his neck and shoulders. His pressure hit the glass, steady and strong, but his flow was unstable. It pulsed in irregular intervals, like his heart and aura weren't on speaking terms. 67.5 — Iron-Tier: Below Standard. He didn't look surprised.

One after another, the chamber processed them. Most fell into Bronze. A few touched Silver. None cracked Gold.

Then 68 stood up.

Something shifted when he moved.

It wasn't his walk. His posture was calm, unbothered. But his presence was unique. There was no visible aura. No subtle bleed. Nothing. And that was the part that stood out.

He didn't suppress it like someone trying to hide. He suppressed it like it was natural.

Controlled.

Deliberate.

His tracksuit looked the same as the rest of ours, but the way he wore it felt sharper. White hair, tanned skin, gold-flecked eyes. He looked ahead as he walked, didn't acknowledge anyone. Not out of arrogance, just focused.

The chamber opened.

He stepped in.

I straightened up slightly without realizing it.

I'd been half-paying attention this whole time.

Now I wasn't blinking.

He paced his steps, not rushing. Shoulders set, posture efficient. No wasted energy. He stood on the platform and rolled out his stance like it was muscle memory, feet apart, knees slightly flexed, hands loose at his sides.

The system prompted him.

"Begin."

His aura activated immediately.

It came out in layers, clean, deliberate, and dense. Chrome yellow. Sharp and concentrated, almost metallic in how it caught the light. It didn't sputter or drift. It spread outward like pouring molten gold, steady and fluid, coating the surrounding space with exact coverage.

No feathering. No leak at the seams. The edges of it were too smooth to be accidental. Like he'd polished them.

Every movement of his body aligned with the flow, shoulder tension shifting pressure down his spine, weight distribution stabilizing the core output. He wasn't just projecting; he was managing a system. The slight pressure adjustments with each breath showed the aura's synchronization to his respiratory rhythm.

The readout on the wall caught up fast. Strong signal. No overexertion. No collapse.

He wasn't reaching for more. He didn't need to. This wasn't someone showing off. This was someone doing exactly what they meant to.

My eyes tracked the inner layer of the aura, how it curled behind his back but didn't bleed over, how it lifted from his arms without disrupting the field. There was a tight modulation between his limbs and center mass. That kind of balance wasn't instinct. It was precision.

And I was going to take it.

All of it.

I felt the edge of a grin pulling at my face.

I was already thinking about how I'd convert the structure, adjust it to my body, and compress the shape to use mid-fight. My brain was in overdrive, chewing through every movement and storing the entire interaction like it owed me money.

The timer hit the mark. He cut the flow immediately. No residue. No overextension.

He stepped off the platform and left the chamber like nothing happened.

His score appeared a moment later:

92.6 — Gold-Tier Output: Exceptional

That's when the noise hit.

People around me started talking all at once. Some were inaudible murmurs, others were borderline yelling. A few cursed under their breath. One of the twins in the back whistled. Two of the beastkin turned to each other and started arguing over whether he was already part of a sect.

Even Gerald at the front looked up from his tablet and blinked twice, visibly thrown off. He scrolled something on his display, probably double-checking the system didn't glitch.

The number was real. His control was incredible. The crowd couldn't stop reacting to it.

I said nothing. Didn't join in.

I just kept watching #68 return to his spot, calm, like the attention didn't exist. That told me more than the test did.

I adjusted my shoulders and glanced at the screen.

I was next, and I was still grinning.

Then, to my excitement, a number appeared above the chamber entrance.

69

I stepped forward.

Before entering, I looked across the row to where #68 had returned. He hadn't shifted positions. Still standing near the edge of the group, posture straight, eyes forward.

I gave him a grin on my way past.

He glanced back and raised one eyebrow. No reaction beyond that.

I kept walking.

Didn't need a reaction.

I had what I came for.

The doors opened as I stepped forward.

Cool, filtered air met me head-on. The chamber's interior was quiet, the quiet that felt built, not natural. Seamless walls curved around me with no visible seams. The lighting was even. They designed every aspect of the space for precision. No distractions. No variables.

The platform lit up at the center. I stepped into position.

Shoulders balanced. Knees set. Breath steady.

"Begin," the system said.

I didn't move right away. I adjusted my footing slightly, kept my posture relaxed, but locked in.

Then I brought my aura forward.

It came smoothly, no push, no flare. Just a clean projection drawn from the center of my body and distributed outward.

But this time, I wasn't just running my usual cycle.

I'd watched #68 carefully. The way he managed his output, the way he layered control into his stance and split the load between core and limbs. It wasn't flashy, but it was efficient. His pressure didn't spike or drift because he wasn't dumping everything out at once. He let it move with him.

I mirrored that now. Pressure bled through my legs, reinforced through my spine, then rotated forward through my arms. I adjusted my rhythm to match the shifts, micro-correcting every second based on how it moved through each zone.

It felt smoother than any projection I'd done before.

My aura stayed close to my body, evenly shaped, no excess bleeding into the chamber. The edges were sharper, denser. The color stayed steady, deep blue, uniform, not fading. I layered additional pressure into my lower stance to test structural response. No instability. No drop.

The sensors lit along the chamber walls, capturing readouts in real time.

Chronos drilled this control into me, but now I was pushing past what he showed. I'd only seen someone else do it once, and already I was improving on it.

This was why I paid attention. This was why I watched everyone that came before me.

Every technique I saw, every flow I broke down, I turned it into mine.

I wasn't designed for average. Nor was I made to meet the standard. My purpose was ensuring they raised it. I will become the exception.

The timer continued ticking. The flow stayed stable.

I adjusted one more node through my left side, rerouting excess back into my spine, locking the projection in a closed loop. That added another layer of feedback I could monitor directly. Most wouldn't catch it. Most weren't watching for that kind of refinement.

But I wasn't trying to pass. I was testing how far I'd come. And how far I still planned to go.

The tone finally chimed.

I let the aura dissipate in one controlled release. No drift. No burnout. Just full shutdown.

I stepped off the platform. The doors opened.

As I walked out, the noise hit. Not quiet murmurs, actual noise. People talking over each other, calling out scores, trying to make sense of what they just saw. A few glanced at me, others stared at the leaderboard. One person near the wall let out a short, stunned laugh. Another whispered something about "no fluctuation in the entire cycle."

Gerald at the terminal leaned in toward his screen. Then he reclined, seemingly unsure whether he was impressed or concerned.

I looked at the leaderboard.

95.1 — Platinum-Tier Output: Elite Performance

The number held steady at the top of the screen, violet-lit and unmistakable. I didn't blink.

Platinum.

The number stayed locked in place.

I kept my eyes on it for a second longer, then let my shoulders relax. The weight I'd carried into this room wasn't there anymore. This is what all my work was for. However, I won't be satisfied with this alone.

I looked away from the board and scanned the crowd.

That's when I saw him.

#68 was still near the back wall.

His posture hadn't changed, but his expression had. He was watching the board, then me, then back again. There was a slight pause in the way his eyes tracked the display. His focus didn't drift. It locked.

He hadn't expected it.

I looked directly at him. He met my eyes.

I gave a small grin and tilted my head once, not a taunt, just a quiet acknowledgment.

I returned to my spot without looking at anyone.

The conversations hadn't stopped. If anything, they'd picked up. A few people were still talking about the number. Others were quiet, probably recalculating their expectations.

I leaned against the wall again and let my eyes drift back to the leaderboard. A few more examinees had already gone after me. Bronze. Bronze. Silver. Bronze. Nothing close.

There were still a lot of numbers left. I checked the sequence and did a quick count.

Probably forty more to go.

I let out a slow breath, slid down to the floor, and crossed my legs. My back rested lightly against the wall. It wasn't for show. I wasn't tired.

I just had time.

With the projection cycle still fresh in my head, I dropped into meditation. Kept the flow tight. Controlled. No projection this time, just internal cycling. Suppression. Adjustment. Rebalancing. Every breath fine-tuned the loop I'd just executed. Every moment I sat in it gave me more insight into how it could be refined further. Chronos was planning on teaching me some Aura Forging and Tempering Techniques. So this will help that process, I'm sure.

My body relaxed. My awareness didn't.

Movement nearby.

One, then two. Then more. The shuffle of feet. The subtle shift in attention. I kept my eyes closed but stayed alert.

People were approaching.

Of course they were.

I kept my breathing even. The footsteps didn't stop. Close range now. Probably half a dozen. Wait, yeah, seven.

I opened one eye. Seven, as expected. All standing in a loose semicircle around me.

The one in front was a stoneborn, skin like carved basalt, arms folded, expression unreadable. His number was still coming up. He hadn't tested yet.

Next to him was a dryad girl, tall, green-tinged skin, hair braided with small amber stones. Her gaze flicked between me and the leaderboard like she was still doing the math in her head.

On the other side, a beastkin boy with fur over his arms and neck stood with his hands in his pockets, eyes narrow, tail twitching slightly. I didn't need to ask what kind of personality that meant.

Behind them were two high elves, both sharp-featured and almost too polished for the tracksuits. One of them had his arms behind his back, like this was a formal introduction. The other looked like he was waiting for an excuse to speak first.

And then there was a girl I didn't recognize. Human, maybe. Average height. No strong pressure. She stood just behind the dryad with her arms crossed and her weight shifted to one leg like she had no idea why she was here.

I said nothing. I opened my other eye and raised an eyebrow. The stoneborn was the one who spoke.

"Was that a fluke?" he asked.

It wasn't an insult. It was a genuine question. I didn't answer right away. Still deciding if I felt like making this conversation easier, or harder.

I kept my back against the wall and let the question hang for a second.

"Guess not," I said.

The dryad shifted her weight. "What did you do to keep your flow from shaking? You didn't even blink."

"Stayed balanced."

The beastkin narrowed his eyes. "That's it?"

"Pretty much."

One of the high elves stepped forward. He had the posture that screamed 'noble household with too much free time.' His expression said he was waiting for an excuse to be unimpressed.

"Are you seriously going to act like this is normal?" he asked. "You think just being… balanced gets you a Platinum rating?"

I gave a half-shrug. "Worked out for me."

The second high elf, same uniform, same sharp features, cut in. "What he means is that technique that refined doesn't happen by accident."

"I know what he meant," I said. "Still answered."

The first high elf's jaw tightened. "You don't need to be smug about it."

I didn't move.

"Wasn't trying to be."

Before he could say anything else, a voice cut through from the side.

"You're one to talk about, smug Renith."

A dark elf approached from the edge of the group. Lean silver hair tied back, an expression somewhere between bored and amused.

He stopped next to the dryad and crossed his arms.

"Maybe worry less about his attitude and more about your score."

Renith turned toward him. "Excuse me?"

"You placed fifty-third," the dark elf said. "Just accept it."

That shut down the noise fast.

Renith didn't respond. The others looked between the two, trying to decide whether to get involved or pretend they weren't standing there.

I adjusted my wrist and leaned my head back against the wall. I wasn't part of that conversation anymore.

But I'd have to monitor Renith. His posture had shifted just enough to register. Weight forward. Hand twitch near the hip. It was subtle, but not accidental.

If this had been anywhere else, he would've thrown a strike. Seems like he uses a blade.

The crowd started thinning near the chamber door. A few more scores flashed across the leaderboard, most of them Bronze, a handful Silver.

Then Gerald stepped forward, tablet in hand, voice raised just enough to cut through the chatter.

"That concludes the first evaluation—Aura Verification. The next test will begin shortly. Before that, we'll display the top five performers from this group."

The leaderboard refreshed.

Top Five:

#69 — 95.1 — Platinum

#68 — 92.6 — Gold

#34 — 88.9 — Silver

#17 — 87.3 — Silver

#02 — 85.0 — Silver

No names. Just numbers.

A few people glanced my way again. Some didn't bother pretending.

I stayed where I was, back still against the wall. The others were dispersing now, moving toward the next staging area. I didn't just yet.

I was still being stared at.

The shy dryad from earlier, the one with the amber-braided hair, was still standing nearby. Not with the group. Not walking off yet. Just… watching.

I looked down at my chest, then back up at her.

"Do I have something on my shirt?"

Her eyes widened, and she looked away immediately.

"I—no, I just—" she tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, then spoke quieter. "You have a beautiful aura."

I blinked once.

Wasn't expecting that.

"Thanks," I said, casual. "Is this how Dryad's flirt?"

Her blush deepened, and she turned away quickly, vanishing into the rest of the examinees before I could say anything else.

The crowd began moving again, funneled toward the opposite end of the testing hall. Signs lit up above a set of reinforced doors, labeled in bold text:

PHASE TWO – REFLEX / REACTION

I stood, stretched once, and followed the group.

The hallway wasn't long, but panel lighting and floor sensors lined it.

We were led into the next room, a rectangular chamber built for movement. Padded flooring, dark alloy walls, rows of recessed holes across every surface. Each port was about five inches wide. They lined the walls, ceiling, and even parts of the floor. On the floor was a circle that was roughly eighteen feet in diameter.

I already knew what they were for.

Gerald stepped up in front of us, tablet in hand, voice even.

"This is the Reflex and Reaction test. One at a time, you'll enter the chamber. When the timer starts, projectiles will launch from randomized positions at increasing speed."

He tapped once, and a diagram lit up behind him.

"You'll have thirty seconds to avoid as many as possible within the designated circle. Projectiles are padded and non-lethal. Don't bother trying to block them. Just focus on movement."

Someone in the back raised a hand.

"How's the scoring work?"

Gerald nodded like he was expecting the question.

"You start at one hundred percent. Each hit deducts points. You also lose points for wasted movement, delayed reaction, and bad positioning, staying in high-risk zones or making inefficient dodges."

He glanced around the room.

"Precision is the goal here. The higher your score, the better your tier. Top five are displayed. That's all you need to know."

The first number appeared on the chamber screen.

#01

They stepped inside. Doors closed.

Gerald tapped the timer.

3… 2… 1

The test began.

The projectiles launched one at a time. At first, the shots came low and wide. Then higher. Then mixed. The sequence wasn't overwhelming yet. It was feeling for thresholds.

The first examinee managed the opening few with minor stumbles. Then they hesitated on a high-left angle, took two hits back-to-back, and didn't recover in time. From that point on, it was just survival. By the final five seconds, they were off rhythm and moving too much.

The timer hit zero. The projectiles stopped.

They stepped out, jaw tight, rubbing one shoulder.

Gerald marked the results, and the display updated.

#01 – Precision Score: 71.4% – Bronze Tier

Not bad, but not enough.

#02 followed.

Faster off the start. More aggressive footwork. But they over-corrected constantly. Wide dodges. Early shifts. They moved with intensity, not control. It looked like they were waiting to feel pressure before reacting to it.

Fourteen hits.

58.9% – Iron Tier

I noticed something else too.

Neither of them adjusted their aura during the run.

If they were using it, it wasn't active in any real way. No flow control, no light reinforcement. They hadn't figured out how to cycle it beneath the movement yet. That gap made every mistake harder to correct.

Without aura, they were trying to outrun a system that was already faster than them.

I watched each shot pattern.

Every third round increased speed.

Every eighth changed its angle.

There was structure behind the chaos. Enough to follow if you paid attention.

After a few more cycles, I stopped focusing on the examinees.

Their mistakes were all blending together, late footwork, poor reactions, too much movement. None of them were reading the room. They were just reacting to it.

I shifted my attention to the projectiles.

The first volley in every session followed the same general order: low right, high left, centerline from the ceiling. The second sequence followed a slight delay increase, but the direction repeated. Speed increased after the first ten seconds. Pressure increased after the first floor shot.

It wasn't random. Just structured to feel that way.

I started tracking the light flicker from each port. Some were faster to recharge than others. Some never launched more than once. The floor vents fired every eighth cycle. The ones on the ceiling staggered twice, three shots apart. Wall spacing was inconsistent on purpose, but the intervals between sections followed a curve.

The entire room rewarded short-term reaction.

I was planning around that.

The next few went by without incident. A few decent dodges. A lot of poor footing.

Then the dark elf from earlier, silver hair, lean build, the one who shut down Renith, stepped up when his number flashed.

He entered the chamber without hesitation. No warmup. No theatrics.

The countdown began.

When the first volley launched, he moved early. Not panicked, just ahead of the shot by a half-beat. His steps were tight, efficient. No overcorrection. His stance stayed centered, and his movement was built to conserve momentum between shifts.

There was light aura flow reinforcing his legs. I caught the way it pooled briefly before his first sidestep. Not full-body reinforcement, but enough to help him stay fast without losing control. It wasn't perfect, but it gave his timing an edge.

By the midpoint, his movements became harder to track.

He wasn't dodging on reaction. He had already started repositioning before the ports lit up. The timing wasn't luck, it was training. He had run this kind of pattern before.

The last few seconds didn't slow him down. He finished without losing form, even as the final volley stacked timing and angles.

The buzzer went off.

This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

He walked out with no wasted movement.

The display updated.

84.2% – Silver Tier

It was a solid score. Better than most. His footwork in the first ten seconds stood out, short steps, angled corrections, no full shifts until he had to commit. The aura reinforcement helped him stay sharp.

Not worth stealing outright, but the pattern was clean. I stored it anyway.

Then I saw another number flash on the display.

68

He stood up from where he'd been quietly observing and walked toward the chamber. That caught my full attention. If his aura control was that refined, I wanted to see what his reflexes looked like.

As he passed, he glanced at me. Not long. Just enough to register. I held his gaze and gave a small grin.

He didn't slow down or acknowledge it. Just continued forward without breaking stride. That was fine. I was already watching closely.

The chamber doors closed behind him. Most examinees stood dead center before the countdown started. #68 didn't.

He stepped slightly off-center and turned his body at a diagonal. It wasn't random. His position still fell within the acceptable boundaries, but the angle was deliberate.

I recognized what he was doing immediately. He had seen the same thing I did.

The countdown began.

3... 2... 1

The first projectile launched. It crossed the space exactly where the center mark would've been.

He didn't move.

The next two fired. Same angle, same trajectory.

Same result. No contact.

He was standing in the one spot that avoided the opening three volleys without needing to shift his footing. That position wasn't guesswork. He had studied the system. Same as I did.

After the third volley, the tempo shifted.

Ports fired in tighter intervals. Ceiling shots dropped at sharper angles. Wall ports doubled up in mirrored timing. The floor released its first low-line strike directly below him.

That was when he started moving.

His steps were tight and minimal. Each one moved him just far enough to stay outside the danger zone. He dropped his stance to pass under the ceiling shot, then pushed into a sidestep wide enough to avoid both wall strikes.

It wasn't just precision.

His aura flow was layered into the motion.

It wrapped around his calves and thighs, adjusted with each shift in direction. The pressure was minimal—kept close to the surface—but it stabilized his balance mid-movement. It made every turn sharper without forcing recovery time.

By the fifteenth second, the difficulty scaled again.

A floor shot came faster than the last cycle. It clipped the edge of his leg as he redirected back toward the center.

He didn't slow down.

Five seconds later, a ceiling volley dropped early. It caught his shoulder as he pivoted, but he absorbed the angle and moved through it like it had been accounted for.

His aura flexed again, redirected through his spine and core. The output wasn't high, but it was precise. Controlled flow, localized reinforcement, zero waste.

No hesitation. No break in rhythm.

The rest of the cycle missed.

The timer hit zero. The lights dimmed.

He left the chamber at the same pace he entered. He didn't even glance at the board.

The leaderboard updated seconds later:

#68 – Precision Score: 91.7% – Gold Tier

I read it once and kept watching him.

I'd seen enough to know some of that movement could be useful. The way he layered aura through each step, tight, efficient, measured, it wasn't standard.

I'd be taking that with me.

The margin was tight, but the score reflected what I saw. Just two hits. Everything else was clean.

#68 exited the chamber without breaking stride.

As he returned to the group, his eyes locked onto mine.

There was a grin on his face. Controlled. Measured. He subtly conveyed his satisfaction with the outcome through a hint of smugness.

Beneath that, the intent was still clear.

Challenge.

I met his eyes and smiled back. Then I looked away and got ready.

My number appeared on the screen again.

I stepped forward and walked through the door. The chamber sealed behind me.

The air stayed still. The lighting didn't shift. Only the faint outline of the circle beneath my feet. If I stepped outside of it, the attempt was over.

I moved toward the edge of center and set my stance. Weight forward. Breath controlled. Arms loose at my sides.

I already knew the order the first few shots would follow. The sequence didn't change. I'd watched it during the earlier rounds. Then I saw #68 take advantage of that timing and let the first volley miss him entirely.

I took the same angle he had. The position gave just enough space for the first three to pass without contact.

The countdown started.

3... 2... 1

I stayed still.

The first projectile launched from the lower wall. Based on the flicker, it was coming straight down centerline, waist height. I didn't move. Its trajectory would miss by at least a foot.

The second came half a second later. Slightly higher arc, same launch point, same spacing. Also missed.

The third triggered from the opposite wall. Lower, faster, flatter spin. I shifted my weight forward slightly. That one would've clipped my ankle if I hadn't adjusted.

All three passed clean. I rolled my back foot for balance and held.

Aura flowed lightly through my legs, not flared, not dense, just enough to anchor my stance. I kept it localized to avoid interfering with my movement. Just enough to keep the edges tight.

The tempo changed.

Wall ports were next. I'd already memorized the rhythm. Left first, then a pause, then a right and left pair. I braced as the charge flickered. A grin pulled at my mouth.

The first wall shot came in sharp from the left, shoulder height. I stepped back half a pace. Right side followed. Two strikes, one aimed at my chest, the other at my thigh. I ducked the first, leaned past the second, then pushed forward again without breaking pace.

Ceiling ports next.

I tracked the flicker from a wide-angle vent, overhead drop with a curved descent. It would land just behind center. I stepped early, shifted outside the arc, then dropped low as the floor ports began cycling.

Two quick shots launched from below. First mid-shin, then lower. I rolled through the sequence, adjusting my center-of-gravity mid-spin. My aura tightened around my lower body to reduce the drag on the landing. I came up centered, with no extra steps.

Breathing stayed even. Flow stayed stable.

Each shift followed the rhythm I had already calculated.

Wall ports layered again, double left, single right, pause, delayed center.

I didn't wait.

I moved early, counted the intervals. The flicker timing was still consistent.

Ceiling. Wall pair. Floor shot.

All came on schedule. I adjusted around them without breaking rhythm. No collisions. No delays.

My back foot skimmed the line once, but I brought it back in before I lost placement. Balance stayed intact.

The last volley had ended. The buzzer hadn't sounded.

One more left.

I spotted the flicker from a wall port, tight angle, sharper charge window. Slightly earlier than the others.

I shifted my stance, dropped into a rotation, and let the motion roll into a forward flip. My feet landed flat, spacing balanced.

Across the room, #68 was still watching.

I extended my arm across my body, palm turned inward to absorb.

The final shot launched.

I caught it just past my shoulder. The impact was light. The system registered contact.

Half a second later, the buzzer sounded.

That was the end.

I let the shot drop and walked out of the chamber.

The moment the doors opened, the leaderboard refreshed.

#69 – Precision Score: 98.4% – Platinum Tier

My grin grew wider as I saw my score and number remain at the top.

Then I looked toward #68 again. He was still watching me. His expression had shifted, more focused than before. There was a clear recognition in his eyes, but the edge hadn't softened. He wasn't surprised. He was impressed. And still looking for an opening.

I held the stare for a second, winked, then walked over to a corner to meditate.

After the rest of the examinees finished the test, Gerald didn't waste time.

"Next phase—Agility. Follow the path forward."

We moved through a side hall that opened into a long chamber split into sections. Each one had elevated bars, shifting panels, spring-loaded steps, walls angled for climbing, and pressure zones that triggered if your form broke.

Obstacle course. Standard layout. Not meant to stop you, meant to show how efficiently you moved through it.

Gerald stood near the entrance.

"You'll run one at a time. Time is your score. Penalties are added for every form break or failed segment. Shortest adjusted time ranks highest. The test starts moment you pass that gate."

Pointing at the gate that was right at the beginning of the course.

He tapped the wall screen, and the first number appeared.

#01

The course lit up ahead.

Another test started.

I stretched my arms once, rolled my neck, and counted the segments.

This one wasn't going to be complicated.

The layout was static. Seven parts, all locked into predictable loops, spring plates, shifting walls, reaction bars, climbing angles, and the usual staggered platform section to make people look clumsy. Everything moved the same way every time.

A few still managed to mess it up.

Most of the issues showed up at the platforms. Bad timing, poor judgment. Half the group jumped too early or picked the wrong path and spent the rest of their run trying to recover. Aura didn't help much. Some didn't use it at all. The ones who did barely had the control to keep it from working against them. Overcorrection was a theme.

By the fourth runner, I already knew where the missteps would be. I mapped out the rhythm while they fumbled through it.

Then the dark elf stepped up.

Silver hair, even stride. Same calm as before. He didn't warm up. Didn't wait for a perfect moment. He just went.

His aura was active, barely. Focused around his legs for speed and stability. It wasn't special. Just functional.

His steps were clean, footwork tight, transitions smooth. The spring plates didn't throw him, and he redirected cleanly off the walls. The platform segment didn't slow him either—he timed the dip correctly and crossed without hesitation.

It was efficient. Nothing stood out.

I stored the movement pattern anyway.

His score flashed as he hit the end gate:

41.7 seconds – Adjusted Time: 38.2 – Silver Tier

Solid run.

Nothing I couldn't replicate.

68

I stood up straighter without meaning to.

That was when it really hit me. This wasn't just observation anymore.

At some point, I'd turned it into a contest. Not officially. Not with words. But I was tracking everything he did, and I knew he was doing the same.

The whispers behind us confirmed it. A few people had started picking sides without realizing it. No one said our names, just numbers, but the attention was obvious.

I didn't mind. If anything, I welcomed it.

I wasn't chasing him, and he wasn't chasing me. We were running in parallel, checking each other's pace, waiting to see who would blink first.

He stepped up to the course without hesitation.

I leaned forward slightly. Time to see what he had.

#68 stepped onto the course.

He didn't stall, and he didn't overcommit. Every movement was deliberate. His foot placement adjusted to the distance between segments, not based on comfort or habit.

When the signal flashed, he moved.

His aura activated the moment his foot left the ground. It spread evenly across his frame, concentrated at the base of his legs and around his joints. It wasn't raw output, it was control. Every motion had reinforcement behind it.

The spring plates compressed under his weight, and he didn't just launch off them, he adjusted midair. His posture shifted to re-center during the arc, and he landed with enough stability to immediately push into the next transition.

No recovery time. No excess drag.

The first two segments passed quickly.

Then came the platforms.

He didn't hesitate. He paused just long enough to read the movement cycle, then stepped forward without waiting for the alignment to reach its safest point.

His aura shifted again, this time localized around his ankles and lower back. Each unstable surface became a controlled launch point. He absorbed the movement of the platforms without letting them throw him off course.

The last two he cleared in a single motion.

He redirected into the climb without slowing.

Aura climbed with him, realigned as he transitioned. Minimal effort. Maximum efficiency.

He dropped through the final gate and straightened as the course disengaged.

The leaderboard updated a second later:

#68 – Time: 38.6 seconds – Adjusted: 36.9 – Gold Tier

I didn't move.

His aura usage wasn't just solid. It was disciplined. Everything he did was reinforced exactly where it needed to be. I'd already planned to beat his time.

Now I was planning to take part of his technique too.

The crowd reacted immediately, shouts, whistles, scattered applause.

It started with a few scattered cheers, then built into something louder. People clapped. A few whistled. Someone near the back shouted, "That's what I'm talking about!"

The tone had shifted.

It wasn't just test-taking anymore. They'd picked up on it, on us. The back-and-forth, the quiet numbers game. The top of the leaderboard was turning into something to watch.

I heard someone mention betting odds. Someone else asked where to put money down.

When #68 walked out of the chamber, he didn't say anything. Just glanced over at me as he passed.

He gave another grin. Confident. Slightly smug.

I returned it without hesitation and I stepped forward.

The crowd shifted aside as I moved. No one blocked the path. A few people gave nods, some wished me luck.

One guy near the wall grinned and said, "Don't lose. I've got money on you."

I didn't stop walking. I didn't need a reason to go all out.

But now I had one.

I stepped up to the course and didn't take position right away.

Instead, I walked the starting line at a casual pace, checking the course ahead one more time. The path hadn't changed. The cycle timing hadn't either.

I stopped, turned, and looked toward the crowd.

#68 was near the front. Arms crossed. Watching.

He wasn't trying to hide it. There was a clear expectation behind the way he held his stance. Focused, but not tense.

I met his eyes and gave a quick wink.

Then I moved.

The moment my foot left the ground, I activated my aura, kept it tight against my frame, just enough to reinforce my movements. No excess pressure, no show. It spread through my limbs and locked into rhythm with each step.

I hit the first segment and didn't slow down.

The spring plates came first.

Most people used them for a straight jump across. I took them at an angle. The rebound redirected me toward the next panel with less impact, giving me more control over my landing.

It didn't shorten the time, but I did it anyway.

The climbing wall followed. I didn't take the center path. I shifted left and used the narrow ledge to push off, skipping the last hold entirely. I cleared the segment without touching the top grip.

It wasn't necessary, but it left an impression.

The platforms rotated ahead. I had already tracked their reset cycle. The safer timing was five seconds away. I went early.

My foot landed at the start of the tilt. I adjusted my weight to the inner edge and let it stabilize before moving again. The transition into the next step was clean, without any loss in balance.

There was no uncertainty in the motion. Every part of it came from repetition.

My aura moved with me, threaded through my legs to anchor each impact and draw pressure away from my joints. I kept the output steady, low enough to avoid detection, high enough to support the pace.

By the time I crossed into the final segment, the timing still held. No resets. No mistakes.

The gate came into view. I didn't change anything. Just kept going.

I crossed through the final gate and slowed to a stop.

My breathing stayed steady. No burn in my legs. No shake in my arms.

The board hadn't updated yet.

I turned back toward the crowd and spotted him.

#68 stood in the same place. Arms crossed. Watching just like before.

I held the stare for a second.

Then I gave a full bow. Deep, deliberate. One hand to the chest, the other extended to the side.

The cheering behind him picked up immediately. A few laughed. Someone near the back shouted something I didn't catch.

#68 shook his head once and chuckled.

That counted as a win.

The screen refreshed a few seconds later.

#69 – Time: 37.2 seconds – Adjusted: 35.4 – Gold Tier

Top of the board again.

I gave the number a single glance, logged it, and stepped off to the side.

It was what I expected. Still not perfect, but I could already point out where I could've saved time. Two extra steps on the rebound, a slightly early pivot on the fifth segment.

Eh, oh well.

Gerald was already waiting near the next hall.

"Next exam—Strength."

The group followed him through another wide corridor that opened into a reinforced chamber. This one was simpler. No moving parts, no complicated layouts.

Weighted blocks lined the far wall. Each one was tagged by class, beginner, intermediate, advanced, and heavy-grade. A row of steel targets stood behind them, dented and scored from repeated use.

Gerald pointed toward the equipment without lifting his head from the tablet.

"You'll perform three tests," he said. "Lift, carry, strike."

He gestured toward the blocks.

"Lift for mass. Carry for control. Strike for raw impact. Your score is based on adjusted averages across all three."

The first number appeared overhead.

#01

I took my place with the rest of the group and crossed my arms.

This exam wouldn't need refined movement or prediction. The only thing that mattered here was how much force you could produce and whether you could control it.

The first examinee stepped up to the block.

Beginner-class. Six hundred pounds, marked clearly across the front plate.

They took a single breath and released a quick pulse of aura. It gathered across their back and arms, but the distribution was uneven. Too much near the shoulders, not enough stability through the legs. When they lifted, the block came up clean, but their knees shifted under the weight. It wasn't unsafe, but the control was lacking.

They completed the carry with some imbalance in their steps. Their aura flickered slightly with each correction.

At the strike zone, they didn't reset their stance. The final punch landed, but their shoulder dipped on contact. The impact connected, but not cleanly.

Score: 71.2 – Bronze Tier

The next few examinees rotated through quickly. One over-channeled into their arms and lost form on the carry. Another kept their aura too tight and burned out early during the lift. A few had decent positioning, but most failed to keep a consistent output across all three phases.

#68 stepped forward when his number was called.

He walked to the intermediate block, eight hundred pounds, without adjusting pace. His posture didn't change. He placed his hands evenly across the outer edges, then shifted his back foot a few inches to stabilize his stance.

His aura activated without a flare. Chrome yellow, steady and consistent. It moved through his legs first, reinforcing his base, then up through his spine and shoulders. There were no pulses or flickers. It stayed uniform across his frame.

He lifted the block without delay.

The motion started from his legs. His arms followed without strain. The block came up smoothly. His back stayed aligned the entire time.

He carried it the full distance with balanced steps. His aura maintained its structure from start to finish.

At the striking zone, he lowered the block without impact and stepped back one pace.

He didn't change his stance. He adjusted his footing slightly, then allowed the aura to tighten around his right shoulder and arm. The output didn't spike. The motion was measured.

He struck the target with a single punch.

The impact landed center mass. The metal dented on contact, and his aura receded cleanly.

He turned from the platform and walked back toward the group.

The board updated overhead.

#68 – Strength Evaluation: 85.6 – Gold Tier

The room responded immediately. People started cheering. Some were already calling his number before the score finished posting. It wasn't just recognition anymore, it was expectation.

I caught a few glances in my direction. A couple of the examinees were watching both of us now. Some had started treating it like an actual match.

As #68 passed the group, his eyes met mine.

He gave a small grin. It didn't shift into anything more, and he didn't look away until I returned it with one of my own.

I stepped forward when my number was called.

No one was quiet this time. A few people were already cheering before I even reached the blocks. Someone behind me called out my number like we were in the finals of a match that hadn't been announced.

The blocks were set in a line, increasing by class, beginner to heavy-grade. Each one was shaped like a squat cube, made of compressed alloy. A section near the bottom was hollowed out on both sides, forming a grip tunnel just wide enough to fit both hands under and pull. Not elegant, but practical.

I walked up to the first one, beginner-class, six hundred pounds.

I adjusted my stance, set my fingers inside the carved hold, and activated my aura. It filled my legs, spine, and shoulders in order. I braced my back foot.

The block came up smoothly.

I held it for the full count, then set it back down without tilting it.

Damn it this is so cool!

Intermediate was next. Eight hundred pounds.

Same stance. Slight adjustment to grip depth.

The lift was slower, but still clean. My aura distribution stayed even. The tension near my knees stayed manageable.

Third block, advanced class. Nine-fifty.

The metal surface had more wear. One of the grip tunnels had a slight chip along the edge. I ran my hand along the side to confirm depth, adjusted, and lifted.

It rose after a second's delay. My legs locked into place, and my shoulders didn't dip. Still clean.

Then I stepped to the final block, heavy-grade. Eleven hundred pounds.

The grip section was deeper than the others, meant for bracing. The metal was colder. My aura ran tighter now, clinging to the edges of my frame instead of pushing outward.

I grabbed the holds and lifted.

It rose, briefly. A few inches off the ground before I lost leverage. My aura slipped slightly at the knees, and I brought the block back down before it dragged.

It still counted. No fault triggered.

I turned toward the crowd and shrugged.

Then looked at #68 and gave the same gesture.

I might as well try while I'm here.

That got a wave of laughter. More cheers followed.

I returned to the starting point for the actual test.

Beginner block again, six hundred pounds.

Same grip tunnel as before. I crouched, slid my hands under, and activated my aura.

The flow was tighter this time. Less pressure, more control. It coiled around my spine, into my shoulders, then dropped into my legs with just enough force to lift cleanly.

The block came up without delay.

I held for the full count, adjusted nothing, and set it down without tipping.

The carry zone lit up as I stepped forward. Pressure sensors on each plate triggered in sequence. Every step needed to land clean or risk a penalty.

I kept my stride short and balanced. The block's weight didn't shift. My aura stayed aligned through my hips and knees. No flicker. No wobble.

I reached the endpoint, held for confirmation, then lowered the weight into its final slot.

The striking plate stood in front of me, polished alloy, curved slightly inward at the center. Courtesy of #68.

I walked up to it. I didn't take the standard stance.

My mouth curled into a smile, sharp, unbothered, and far too excited for what was supposed to be a simple strength test.

The air changed before I even moved.

I widened my stance. Left foot back. Knees bent to lock in weight. My left hand rested behind my back. My right dropped slowly toward the plate until my knuckles hovered one inch from the surface. My smile grew wide and I couldn't help by have a slight chuckle.

My killing intent rolled outward in full.

The crowd went quiet almost immediately. Conversations stopped. No one moved. The shift in pressure was enough to hold their attention without needing anything else.

My aura activated with it, flowing down through my frame, coiling around my core and threading into my arm. The pressure didn't explode outward, it compressed. Focused entirely into the next movement.

My aura activated with it, flowing down through my frame, coiling around my core and threading into my arm. The pressure didn't explode outward, it compressed. Focused entirely into the next movement.

I didn't need to test anything.

I had done this every day for years.

I remembered the first time Chronos made me drill it. I was fourteen.

"Alright, Rai," he said, "You've got the basics down, but mastery will require dedication. From today onward, I want you to practice this technique 100 times a day."

Then came the part I hated.

"Each day, you will add one more punch to your practice."

No breaks. No resets. No excuses.

Now, four years later, I was throwing 1,559 one-inch punches a day.

The stance wasn't something I had to think about anymore.

It was already finished.

I just hadn't hit the target yet.

I didn't pull back. I didn't lean. My stance was already set. The only thing that moved was the fist.

The motion came from the ground up, starting at my back foot, pressing through the hips, spiraling into my spine and chest. Every muscle engaged in sequence, tight and clean, compressed into a line that terminated at my arm.

My aura followed instantly.

It snapped forward, not a burst, not a flare. It moved with the strike like a coiled spring finally released. The entire flow detonated through my shoulder and forearm in a single unified surge, binding every part of the movement into one.

My fist connected with the plate.

The impact didn't sound like a punch. It hit with the sharp metallic crack of a sudden structural failure. The alloy shuddered, bent, and then caved inward from the center.

The surface didn't just dent, it folded.

The inner core of the plate buckled behind the point of contact. Microfractures spidered out along the rim, warping the outer shape just enough to trigger a cascade of diagnostic alerts.

Sensors across the surface lit up in rapid sequence, red, then yellow, then green.

A small panel near the corner flickered twice and shut off.

The board overhead paused for a full second before updating.

I lowered my hand slowly and exhaled once.

I could still feel the recoil in my wrist, not from the plate, but from the force bouncing back through the aura itself. My knuckles tingled. My shoulder didn't feel heavy, but the muscles had locked up on instinct to hold form. The pain was there, but it wasn't completely unbearable.

I stepped back and glanced at the plate.

It was still intact. Barely.

One more punch would've split it in half.

I flexed my hand once. My fingers moved, but my forearm was locked tighter than it should've been. The strike had landed clean, but I'd over-channeled. A small price for getting it exactly right.

I reached across my chest and pressed my opposite hand to the joint. Rolled my shoulder once. It helped.

The sensors reset behind me as I walked back toward the entry point.

When I stepped through the chamber threshold, every head turned.

No one spoke right away. Some were still watching the plate, trying to figure out if it was actually broken.

Then the cheers hit.

Loud, sharp, and full of the kind of energy that hadn't been there before. People near the front started clapping. A few further back raised both arms like they'd just won a bet. Someone whistled.

I ignored most of it.

My eyes went to the screen overhead.

#69 – Strength Evaluation: 94.1 – Platinum Tier

I adjusted my shoulder again and gave it a small roll. Still tight, but functional.

I could work with that.

I let my arm rest at my side and looked toward the group.

#68 was already watching. He didn't look surprised. Just satisfied. He gave a small nod, then raised both hands, palms forward, like he was calling it.

His mouth pulled into a grin, not smug, but not passive either. I caught the words as he said them, just loud enough for me to hear.

"You won this one. No question."

He didn't sound disappointed. The smirk didn't leave his face. And neither did the look that said we were far from done.

Gerald motioned to the next hallway. "Stamina test. Hall two."

We followed him into a long chamber, rectangular with curved edges toward the far wall. The floor was segmented into narrow lanes, each embedded with foot-activated sensors and pacing lights. Overhead monitors displayed time, pulse rate, and stride metrics for each examinee.

The loop ran beneath the floor and curved back around at the far end. A full circuit was long enough that we wouldn't pass the same point more than once every few minutes.

Gerald tapped his tablet once.

"You'll run until the system ends the attempt. Distance, consistency, and pace control are factored into the score."

He looked at the group without pausing.

"Your aura must stay active the entire time. If you lose output or dip too far below baseline, the score adjusts."

That got a few glances.

I picked a lane near the center and rolled my shoulder again. The stiffness in my arm was still there, but the weight distribution had evened out.

#68 stepped into the lane directly opposite mine.

He checked the footing panel, adjusted the fabric at his wrist, and reset his stance. His movements were exact calculated, but not mechanical.

When he noticed I was watching, he nodded once. I returned it, then faced forward and let my breathing slow.

This test wasn't about how fast I could run. It was about how long I could hold everything together. Speed came later.

The floor lights shifted from red to green.

We started moving.

Each lane triggered a small pulse of pressure beneath the feet, just enough to register pace without forcing rhythm. I fell into a controlled stride within the first few seconds. Nothing aggressive. Just enough to stay even.

My aura stayed active.

It didn't flare. I kept it locked along my legs and lower back, with a soft layer trailing through my lungs to help regulate breath. Not optimal yet, but consistent.

#68 kept even pace next to me. His footfalls were tighter than mine, more vertical, with less swing through the arms. He wasn't using aura to accelerate, he was using it to stabilize. Same idea I had.

A few others held their own, one or two beastkin near the back lanes, a human girl who ran with her arms tucked close to avoid excess drag.

After the five-minute mark, the field started thinning out.

The lights on most of the lanes dimmed one at a time. Aura control fell off. Pressure dipped. Scores locked in. They slowed before the system could call them out.

One collapsed near the back wall. Gerald didn't even look up.

I kept moving. Breath in. Step. Adjust the output. Let the loop carry.

Thank you Chronos for having me run around your estate for all these years.

By the ten-minute mark, the field had thinned again.

Most had either stepped off early or slowed down just enough to be automatically removed. Only a handful of lanes were still lit. I recognized the drk elf, one of the bast, and #68. He hadn't broken stride once.

My pace was still clean. I hadn't needed to adjust my breathing yet. My aura stayed stable along my calves and up through my hips no surges, no drop-offs.

The pressure from the sensors hadn't changed either.

I kept my gaze forward and let the pattern stay consistent.

Five more minutes passed before the system finally triggered the shutdown.

My lane lit green. The floor panels clicked, then slowly dimmed to mark the end of the run.

I came to a controlled stop, rolled out my shoulders, and flexed my hands once.

No cramping. No heat buildup. Aura was still circulating cleanly.

The board above updated as the last lanes shut down:

#69 – Stamina Evaluation: 100 – Platinum Tier #68 – Stamina Evaluation: 100 – Platinum Tier #44 – Stamina Evaluation: 100 – Platinum Tier #17 – Stamina Evaluation: 100 – Platinum Tier #90 – Stamina Evaluation: 100 – Platinum Tier

I glanced to the side.

#68 was already looking at me again.

Same smile as before.

I think I can get along with this guy.

Gerald finally looked up from his tablet.

"Before anyone panics," he said, "this leaderboard only shows the top five right now. This doesn't indicate a poor placement for you. You'll get full score breakdowns at the end."

He scanned the room once. "Roughly twenty of you hit Platinum for this test. Don't worry about it unless your name's not on the list when the final results post."

A few people nodded. Someone in the back sighed in relief.

I rolled my shoulders out again and stepped away from the lane. Still steady. Still ready for the next one.

Gerald led us into the next chamber. "Speed trial's next. Track room."

The room curved into a half-loop. Elevated tracks lined the floor, six wide lanes in total, each one reinforced and bracketed with impact sensors. The lights along the lane edges blinked in intervals, calibrated to detect acceleration spikes and sudden aura bursts.

Monitors above displayed active times for each participant as they ran. We also tracked pace for mid-run consistency using two long strips on the side of each lane.

Gerald pulled up a new list on his tablet.

"You'll be running one full lap. The shortest time will give you a higher score obviously. The system tracks how quickly you can reach and maintain top speed."

He tapped something on his tablet, then motioned us into the lanes.

I stepped into mine.

So did #68, right next to me.

The room didn't go quiet. It got louder.

People noticed immediately. A few cheers. Someone in the back shouted my number. Another called out #68's. I caught the word rematch from somewhere to the left.

Someone on the far end, tall, Elven, wristband tagged with #12, raised a hand. "Can we watch this round before taking ours?"

Another nodded. "Yeah, same."

Gerald checked the tablet. "You're still in the rotation, so go ahead. Just be ready to run once they're done."

Several examinees stepped back without hesitation. Most of the room stayed focused on us.

#68 adjusted the cuffs of his tracksuit, then shook out one leg. Still relaxed and not saying anything. I bent forward, set my fingers to the edge of the block, and settled my breathing.

The sensors pulsed once. We waited for the signal.

I lowered into my stance, weight evenly distributed between both feet. Breath steady. Ankles primed.

Then I activated my aura.

It wrapped tight around my legs first, reinforcing every joint from the calves to the hips. No outward pressure, just locked control. I felt the muscle tension snap into place like a coil being wound.

The sensors gave a final pulse.

Green.

We launched.

The pressure drop was instant. My foot hit the first contact pad with full weight behind it, and the ground responded with a ripple of kinetic return. Each step landed clean. Each step landed with full contact, weight balanced. My feet gripped the track and released cleanly without slippage. There was no waste in the stride, no lag in recovery.

#68 was already matching pace beside me. His stride was shorter, and more contained. But he wasn't pulling ahead. Not yet.

The air blurred at my sides as we hit the first curve. I realized something.

My form held. No excess movement in the shoulders. No delay between steps. The reinforcement was working exactly how I'd trained it.

Back at Chronos' estate, the full perimeter path was four miles. I'd run it hundreds of times. Took me somewhere between thirty-five to forty-four minutes depending on the day.

That was before I Awakened.

After, I tested it.

Full sprint. Aura reinforcement locked into my legs. One continuous push, no pacing, no breaks. I made the full loop in sixteen minutes flat without losing stride.

Then I asked the obvious question.

What if I used aura for more than just stamina? What if I pushed it for speed?

Two minutes. Four miles. Two minutes.

My body hadn't hit its limit back then. I was about to find out if it would now.

My form held. No excess motion in the shoulders. Every step landed with intent. Aura kept my joints locked in and my stride efficient.

#68 stayed just behind me still matching pace. He wasn't pushing yet. Neither was I.

But the thought wouldn't stop circling.

I'd been holding back long enough.

I turned slightly as we rounded the curve and called over without slowing.

"Better give it your all."

I pushed forward.

Aura compressed through my legs and launched into full output. Each step landed harder than the last, but the feedback stayed clean. My weight didn't slip. Balance held.

My stride widened. The track started disappearing under me in longer gaps. That familiar ache in my calves was already trying to register, but the aura kept it quiet.

I adjusted my posture slightly, leaned forward, and forced more pressure through my knees.

Every part of my body was working. Exactly how I wanted it.

We passed the first lap without slowing.

The sensors fired. The crowd roared.

By the second, the energy in the room had turned into something else, screaming, shouting, people slamming their hands on the rails.

Third lap.

#68 surged forward a step.

I answered without thinking. More aura, more pressure through the arches of my feet. My stride widened. We were neck and neck again.

Fourth lap.

I heard someone yell that we were insane. Another voice screamed back to shut up and let us run.

Fifth.

My lungs were burning now. My knees locked tighter every step. Didn't matter.

Sixth.

I caught a glimpse of the scoreboard trying to update, stuck, blinking. It hadn't been programmed for this.

He wasn't letting up, and I did plan to either.

Seventh lap. Still even.

Neither of us had pulled ahead. My calves were seizing. His breathing shifted. The track under our feet felt like it was starting to give.

That's when the voice hit. "Enough."

Gerald's tone didn't crack or shout, but the command landed hard.

"Race is over. Off the track."

I didn't stop immediately. Neither did #68.

We slowed in pieces. Each stride pulled back just enough to bleed off speed without collapsing the rhythm. We crossed the straight again before stopping near the far edge. My hands stayed low, arms shaking from the output.

#68 adjusted his stance and let out one long breath.

Gerald was already walking toward us, checking the tablet without breaking stride.

"Don't care who won that," he said, scrolling fast. "You ran six laps past regulation." He then nodded to both of us, "…still the best lap time this year, though."

The crowd hadn't settled down. A few people were screaming we should've kept going.

Gerald tapped something on the side of the monitor, muttering under his breath.

Then the scores updated overhead.

#69 – Speed Evaluation: 99.2 – Platinum Tier #68 – Speed Evaluation: 99.1 – Platinum Tier

The room got louder. Somewhere in the back, someone claimed they'd bet right and demanded payment. I didn't turn to look.

My eyes went to the board. Then to him.

#68 glanced up at the score, then over at me.

He looked at the board. Then at me. I started laughing first, short at first, then louder. He joined in without hesitation.

It wasn't polite or contained. Just real. The kind of laugh you couldn't fake if you tried.

Felt like we'd known each other longer than an hour. We stood there, still catching our breath, both of us grinning like idiots.

Then we stepped off the track together.

Gerald checked the time, scrolled once more on his tablet, and raised his voice to address the room.

"Combat simulation's next. Hall three."

That snapped my attention back fast.

The grin that had been friendly a second ago twisted into something else entirely.

I stopped laughing. Didn't even try to hide the smile spreading across my face.

This was the one I'd been waiting for.

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