Kilos saw that he was wavering between the person he had seen earlier and the one now standing before him. There was something deeply unsettling in the shift, as if Manny had been overtaken by fear or confusion.
Fear descended upon Manny like a curtain falling at the end of a play, smothering whatever confidence he had begun with.
Kilos, however, felt something entirely different. A warm wave coursed through his bloodstream, igniting a strange but powerful energy within him. It wasn't adrenaline—it was deeper, something almost ancient. Without hesitation, he sprang forward and began to move in a circular motion around his opponent. His movement was swift and fluid, like water coiling around a stone. While still in motion, he launched a sudden, precise strike, and before anyone could react, Manny was already on the ground.
The observers were dumbfounded. They stared at the scene, unable to comprehend how Kilos, the supposedly weak student, had managed to knock Manny off his feet so effortlessly.
"He won!" someone finally exclaimed, breaking the silence.
While the engagement continued for others, Kilos was escorted away to join the rest of the champions and have his details recorded. An officer handed him a badge, similar to the ones given to other winners. Boldly written on his badge was: Skill: 8.
"Do you mind giving me your name again?" the officer asked, her face scrunched in confusion as she skimmed through a list.
"I'm Kilos Barber," he replied with a bright smile. But then, something caught his eye—a different file on the officer's desk. The name Lantern Monroo was clearly printed across the top.
"Isn't that Lantern?" Kilos asked, pointing to the document, his brows furrowing.
The officer immediately noticed what he was looking at and slammed the file shut. It was a classified record, and she had inadvertently left it in plain sight. But the surprise was already imprinted on Kilos' face—Lantern Monroo had a Skill rating of 7, and he had scored higher.
A slow, satisfied smile spread across Kilos's face. It wasn't about competition anymore—it was affirmation.
Eager to find out more, Kilos decided he needed to see Baxter, the man in charge of the punch bag tests, and discover the strength level behind his attack. The Skill assessment might have been over, but there were still many unanswered questions.
He took the staircase leading to the next floor. Though the elevator was nearby, he chose not to use it. His joy was so great, it seemed to lighten the burden of climbing. Each step seemed less like effort and more like a celebration.
The academy was no ordinary institution. The military had invested heavily in its design, blending beauty with durability. Every wall glistened under polished lighting, and the floors were so clean they mirrored his form. It felt like a high-tech activity center rather than a military facility—a deceptive veneer that made it even more intriguing.
As he turned another corner and faced another flight of stairs, he suddenly heard a voice.
"How could you have Skill 8, considering your weak punch?"
He stopped, startled. The voice didn't echo in his mind like before—it was audible, real. And worse, it sounded like a child.
This was new. The first time he had heard the voice was at the warehouse, and back then it had been more like a thought. Now it spoke to him directly.
"Why are you following me?" Kilos asked aloud, his voice laced with fear.
"I am not following you," the voice replied again, eerily calm. "You are not a weakling. You are a Tamer. You must regain who you truly are."
The words struck him. Tamer. That strange term again. It made no sense, but it resonated in a place deep inside him.
Before he could process further, his thoughts were interrupted by raised voices coming from the floor below.
"Baxter, how could he get a Skill of 8 while Monroo got 7? Give me one logical reason," Sergeant Lucas demanded.
"Being skillful isn't the same as having strength. I'll still request footage of Kilos' fight," Baxter replied, sounding firm yet uncertain.
Kilos rushed toward the source. He had come to settle this very debate.
Lucas and Baxter turned as he entered the room.
"What have you hidden from me?" Kilos asked sharply, his tone full of defiance and urgency.
"Oh! You're here too," Baxter said with a dry, somewhat surprised smile.
"I want to know the strength I registered when I made my punch," Kilos said, walking up to them.
Baxter approached a cabinet at the far side of the room, opening drawers and thumbing through files. Eventually, he pulled one out and laid it on the table. He flipped it open and pointed.
"See for yourself."
Lucas leaned closer to inspect it.
"No, come here—you should see this. It's your record," Baxter said, beckoning Kilos.
Kilos stepped forward and read the document:
Name: Kilos Barber
Race: Human
DNA: Tamer
Strength: Unknown 3 / Broken wrist
"What on earth does this mean?" Kilos exclaimed, his voice rising with frustration. How could his strength be unknown? How could he be labeled a Tamer?
He left the room with more questions than answers and decided to return to the hospital. His earlier conversation with Dr. Le-an had ended with a vague promise, and he needed clarity.
As he arrived, an ambulance pulled up and screeched to a halt. A young man was wheeled out quickly on a stretcher. Medical attendants rushed to assist. Kilos stood aside, watching the chaos. It was the first time he'd witnessed such an emergency scene here, despite being to the hospital before.
"Who's that?" he wondered. He sensed he knew the person, but before he could catch a clear look at the face, the stretcher had disappeared inside.
"I wonder how many students come here every day," he muttered, unsettled. The sight of so many casualties made him think. Was the military testing them? Was the academy something far darker than it seemed?
Then, something else caught his attention—Tiffany was inside, speaking with a nurse.
"What is she doing here?" he wondered, narrowing his eyes. She had to be here for the injured student. That much seemed obvious.
Driven by curiosity, he quietly followed them down a corridor, but they soon disappeared around a corner.
Just then, the door to Dr. Le-an's office opened.
"I'm sorry, Doctor, but I need to see you. Last time you told me something—can I ask you a question?" Kilos pleaded, stepping forward.
"What is it?" Le-an asked with a neutral expression.
"Be my secret teacher," Kilos said humbly, hoping his sincerity would resonate.
"I know what you want, and I'll give it to you. But for now, I have a patient to attend to," she replied, already turning.
"But—should I trust your words?" Kilos asked, stepping aside to let her pass.
"I've given my word. Can you come out by 10?" she asked, her tone shifting from a gentle doctor to a commanding figure.
Kilos nodded.
As he left, his badge emitted a strange sound. A soft glow lit up the dim hallway, and a message appeared across its surface.
Kilos adjusted it slightly so he could read:
"Your room is 147, Block H. You may report with your roommates. Further instructions will follow."
The badge had answered one of the pressing questions on his mind since leaving Le-an's office.
"Roommates? Who are my roommates?" Kilos asked aloud, unease settling in.
He picked up his pace toward Block H. There was no mistaking it now—his roommates would be none other than Lantern Monroo, Garet, Skule, and Yaksa.
His breathing grew heavier. Each step brought him closer to an unknown that felt both dangerous and inevitable.