The shuttle doors hissed open, revealing a sky so white it looked scraped clean of stars. The air smelled like frost and iron. Malik stepped out, half-expecting banners, cheers, a welcome like the one they'd received at Nayak.
There were no flags.
No headmaster with outstretched arms.
Just walls—tall, silver, unwelcoming.
A voice echoed overhead—cold, mechanical.
"Line up. Five seconds."
They barely made it.
The instructors wore no robes. No house colors or honor crests. Just black-and-gray uniforms, stitched with barcodes. Their expressions were colder than the air. Eyes like scanners.
Welcome to the Continental Training Academy, Malik thought.
Home of the elite. Or the broken.
The next few hours blurred.
Briefings with no explanations.
Forms they weren't allowed to read before signing.
Biometric scans that left Malik's skin humming like wires.
He spotted Margaret across the room once—eyes heavy-lidded, jaw set like stone. She didn't wave.
No one did.
By the time they reached the dorms, the sky had faded into slate. The "rooms" weren't rooms at all—just long, silent bunk halls. Six beds per section, stacked like crates. No pillows. No privacy. A single red emergency strip lit the aisle.
Malik dropped onto a lower bunk, too drained to care.
"I'm so tired," he mumbled into the stiff mattress.
Behind him, Frank paused. His mouth opened slightly, like he meant to echo the sentiment—but the words never came. Instead, he grunted and collapsed onto the bunk across from Malik, limbs flopping like he'd been shot.
Xander kicked off his boots with a thud. "This place is a nightmare. Did you see the schedule? They want us up in four hours."
Peter rolled over with a groan. "We just got here. They could at least let us catch our breath."
No one laughed.
Malik's eyes were already drifting shut. Muscles sore. Brain fogged. He welcomed the dark.
Then the alarm blared.
A sharp, gut-wrenching klaxon screamed through the steel walls.
Malik jolted upright, heart thudding in his throat.
"What is going on—?" Frank muttered, already scrambling off his bunk.
The red light flipped to white.
The voice returned. Calm. Precise. Icy.
"Simulation Drill. Code 72. Immediate Response Required. Full gear. Five minutes."
Margaret groaned from the bunk above. "This has to be a mistake."
No one answered.
Because it wasn't.
---
They were late—and everyone knew it.
"Where's Malik?" Margaret asked, eyes narrowing.
Frank, breath still catching, blinked. "I thought he was ahead of us. I didn't see him in the hallway."
Xander groaned, tugging on his glove. "He was right behind me when the alarm went off. I swear."
Peter squinted toward the entrance. "He's not coming. Doors just sealed."
Margaret didn't move. "Did anyone check his bunk?"
Silence.
The team exchanged looks—blank stares, slumped shoulders.
Shaking heads.
Beside her, Frank whispered, "You think he just… slept through it?"
She didn't answer right away. Her eyes were fixed on the arena floor.
"Yeah," she said finally. "That's exactly what he did."
Xander gave a low whistle. "He's going to feel awful."
But Margaret wasn't so sure.
Part of her wanted to believe he just overslept. That he was being… Malik. Late, sleepy, distracted Malik.
But another part wasn't buying it.
The Simulation Bay quieted as the last squads locked into place. Eighty teams. Two hundred instructors watching from the upper decks.
This wasn't Nayak anymore.
This was war school.
The instructor for Group 17 stepped forward, voice crisp as shattering glass.
"Each of the thirty-two countries on this continent has sent fifty cadets," he began, pacing before the assembled squads. "You were selected not for potential—but for survivability. Your scores start now. This is not training. This is evaluation."
He stopped before Falcon Group.
Their emblem—an iron wing stretched over a burning flame—hung limp on a banner behind them.
Fifty spots. Forty-nine filled.
The instructor's gaze swept over them like a scanning beam.
"Falcons," he said, voice sharpening. "Ten points deducted."
A ripple of murmurs surged through the group.
"Five points for tardiness," he continued, slicing through the noise. "Five for missing a cadet."
A hush fell. Heavy. Suffocating.
Xander muttered, "Come on…"
Peter groaned. "Malik."
Margaret's fists clenched at her sides.
She could feel it—the group's energy shifting. These weren't strangers. They had trained at Nayak together. Fought beside each other. Survived Mutation Trials. Shared victories. Shared dorms.
But now?
Now they were being penalized for one person's absence.
And the bond that held them was already fraying.
"He better have a good reason," someone muttered from the back.
"Or he just didn't care enough to show," another snapped.
Margaret turned slowly.
She didn't need to see the faces.
The resentment was thick. Tangible.
A living thing, slithering through their ranks like smoke.
Frank flinched beside her. "It's just a deduction," he murmured. "We can bounce back."
"Points are everything," a tall cadet snapped. "You think the Board gives placements for effort? We've been here two hours and already we're trailing."
"All because of him," someone else added.
Peter raised a brow. "Let's not turn on each other. Malik didn't abandon us on purpose."
"Didn't he?"
The silence that followed wasn't loud.
But it was heavy.
Margaret exhaled slowly. Eyes still fixed on the floor.
She didn't know who said it.
But she knew… many agreed.
And Malik—wherever he was—would feel it.
Eventually.
---
The door sealed behind them with a hiss.
Falcon Group stood shoulder to shoulder inside a vast chamber—square, sterile, echoing with silence. The air was dense, sharp, like the inside of a vacuum.
It was their turn.
Above, a voice announced:
"Phase One: Balance and Coordination Drill.
You are to cross to the far platform using the provided path.
Width: ten centimeters. Length: thirty meters.
Falling results in point deduction. One point per failure.
Team score calculated by total successful crossings.
Powers are disabled in this zone.
You have five minutes to strategize. Begin."
With a mechanical hum, the floor cracked open.
From the dark gap, a single metal beam rose—a razor-thin strip suspended ten meters above a black pit. No railings. No safety net. Just a line of steel and space. The far end glowed faintly, marked only by a single green light.
Someone let out a slow, low whistle.
"This is a test, right?" Peter muttered, eyes wide.
"Nope," Xander replied grimly.
"Welcome to the CTA."