The classroom, once buzzing with tension, had grown noticeably quieter, yet not without whispers and subdued chatter. The hour had barely passed since the test was collected, yet the automated grading machine, ever cold and precise, had already completed its work. The results, unforgiving as ever, were now being projected onto each student's smart tab.
And as expected, the storm began.
"What the actual hell? Rank twenty-five? Nah, this machine's broken."
"You think that's bad? I'm rank twenty-three. This can't be right—I even studied the past questions."
"You both should shut up," another voice grumbled. "It ranked me thirty-five. I feel personally attacked."
Laughter broke out in pockets of the classroom, though it was tinged with frustration. "And we're only forty-one people in this class, including that sick-looking dude… What was his name again? Oh yeah, 'Man like Malik.'"
The students burst into even louder laughter, some tossing glances toward the corner where Malik sat slumped against the wall, completely still, as if asleep—or worse. He hadn't stirred once since the test ended.
"Forget all that," a student said, eyes gleaming as he turned towards the girl at the center of attention. "Fairy Esther definitely topped the class. Right?"
With the soft grace of someone who knew her worth, Esther rose from her seat, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, and flashed a practiced smile. "I came third," she announced, her tone calm yet laced with something colder underneath.
A moment of silence passed before someone gasped, "Third? No way. You always take second. Who the hell beat you?"
Her expression shifted for a brief second—just long enough for someone perceptive to catch it—then returned to its serene state. "My head wasn't quite clear today," she murmured before turning on her heels and walking out of the classroom. But just before she stepped through the door, her eyes flicked toward Malik, and in that fleeting glance, her mask cracked. A frown.
But deep down, she was smiling.
Because she knew what that frown would stir.
The students who adored her, who worshipped her like a divine relic, caught the disapproval in her gaze. And like dogs eager to please, they latched onto it.
That look was more than enough. A silent command. Malik had earned her disdain, and in their minds, that meant he was now their enemy too.
If they could punish the outcast who had dared to challenge the Top Dog—no, dared to exist in the same narrative as him—they might earn favor, perhaps even a foot in the door of the infamous Shadow Guild. They could be more than followers. They could be recognized.
And so, a plan began to take shape.
Meanwhile, as students continued trickling out of the class, there was one girl who hadn't moved from her seat. Her eyes were glued to the screen of her device, her brows furrowed in disbelief, as if the number 2 imprinted there was a lie her soul couldn't reconcile with.
"Second?" she whispered, lips barely moving. "I was perfect. Not a single answer wrong. So how did I fall…?"
Her name was Carita, a quiet storm wrapped in a white hoodie, always watchful, always composed. She was someone who didn't chase the spotlight but rarely needed to—her mind did that for her.
She combed through her answers again, analyzing, dissecting. No mistakes. Her score was flawless. And yet… not enough.
"Who could possibly outrank me?" she muttered, voice low, eyes scanning the class.
Her gaze moved past the noisy clusters, past the usual suspects she knew too well. And then—her eyes froze.
There he was. That same boy from before. Malik. Slouched against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed, as if the world around him didn't exist. His skin looked paler than usual, his cheeks hollow, the shape of his bones almost piercing through skin. His beard was wild and his hair overgrown, a visible testament to days of neglect. His clothes hung off him like they belonged to another man. A man who'd once had strength.
And yet something about him made her heart tremble.
"No…" she whispered, trying to push the thought away. "It can't be him."
But it nagged at her like a splinter in her thoughts.
"What if…?"
Just then, Malik stirred. His eyes snapped open, no grogginess in them—only quiet resolve—and without a word or glance, he stood and exited the room. He didn't even look back.
Carita watched him go, her mind spinning.
---
Outside the school premises, Malik's stomach churned with hunger that felt less like an ache and more like something clawing at his insides. His steps were unsteady, driven not by strength but by sheer determination. He hadn't eaten for days. Not even water. His body was at its breaking point, but his will kept dragging him forward.
He had only one place in mind—Michael's apartment. Maybe there, he could find solace. Food. Rest. Something.
But just as he turned the corner near the old faculty building, six figures emerged from the shadows like hyenas scenting blood. Two of them were dressed in black and white—law students like him. The others wore different colors, but their intentions were the same.
They encircled him with practiced ease, like they'd done this before.
"Well, if it isn't 'Man like Malik,'" one sneered, his grin wide with malice.
Another chuckled darkly. "Thou shall not covet thy neighbor's wife."
Malik's body went rigid. Those words—those exact words—had been spoken by Striker, the man who had crushed him inside God's Realm and sent him back to level zero. The trauma surged back like a flood, tearing through the mental barriers he had so painstakingly erected.
His fists clenched, knuckles whitening. His eyes burned with fury. His veins swelled beneath his skin, and for a second—just a second—the boys hesitated, startled by the change in him.
But they didn't give him a chance to act.
They pounced.
The world blurred into fists and boots. Malik was thrown to the ground, kicked, stomped, fists raining down like a storm. And he didn't fight back. Couldn't. His body refused to listen. All he could do was endure.
They beat him until his consciousness faded, until the world was nothing but a black sea of pain.
And when they were done, they left his body on the sidewalk like yesterday's trash.
People passed him by. Some slowed down, looked once, then kept walking. No one offered help. No one stopped.
For thirty long minutes, he lay there—unmoving.
Until a sleek black jeep rolled to a halt across the road.
The back door opened with a smooth hiss, and out stepped a figure cloaked in white—a black skirt beneath her hoodie swaying softly in the wind.
"Miss Carita, where are you going?" the driver asked, his tone hesitant.
"Give me five minutes," she said without looking back.
"But Miss—"
"I said five minutes."
"Roger, Miss Carita."
She crossed the road and crouched beside Malik's still form, her expression unreadable. Slowly, she reached into the tattered pocket of his shirt and pulled out a folded paper. The answer sheet.
Unfolding it, her hands trembled as her eyes swept across the numbers.
First. Rank 1.
It hit her like a thunderclap.
He hadn't been in class. He hadn't attended the lectures. He had nothing on him during the test. No notes, no devices. And yet… he was first.
"How…?" she whispered, voice barely audible as her eyes returned to his bruised, unconscious face.
She swallowed hard.
"Isiaka Abdulmalik…" she said slowly, tasting the weight of the name. "Who… exactly… are you?"