CHAPTER 109
DORM MATES
The soft hum of the academy staff voice echoed throughout the air, he narrated a curated string of historical facts about the establishment—its founders, its structure, the accomplishments of its more notable alumni, the symbolic design elements of its buildings, and even anecdotes that likely no one asked for.
For most of the students, however, the words floated past like wind. Their minds were elsewhere—caught in a current of excitement, anxiety, or forced calm as they each silently braced themselves for the next step in this journey.
The little convoy of six-seater, doorless transport cars rolled to a stop in a cleanly paved lot in front of the dormitories.
IAM stepped off the vehicle, his feet making a soft tap against the clean tiled pathway. Around him, other new students did the same, each clutching their small bags or dragging luggage that reflected their personalities—some minimalist and sleek, others overloaded with gadgets or little comforts from home. One girl even had a tiny fridge strapped to her back.
An academy staff member in a dark red uniform stepped forward, clipboard in hand, glasses glinting in the light. Her hair was tied in a tight bun, and her face was unreadable, but her tone was gentle enough.
"All students," she said clearly, "please refer to the original acceptance message sent to your registered device. Attached to that message is a file that includes your dorm assignment and academic schedule."
IAM pulled out his phone. It was a generic model—just something functional. He opened the message, then tapped the attached file. A crisp, digital sheet expanded across his screen, organized and efficient. At the top:
Dormitory Assignment — Building 9, Room 13
IAM looked up. From where he stood, several dormitory buildings stretched across the field, all marked clearly with bold white numbers. Building 9 stood a little farther away, at the edge of the path where the campus grounds curved slightly to reveal more distant structures.
The rectangular structures rose up in neat layers, windows tinted and angled for privacy. The buildings were made in the same black, red, and white palette as the academy's main facilities, carrying a cold but strangely comforting consistency. They were sturdy without being imposing. The kind of place that seemed built to last.
IAM began walking.
On the way, he passed a few other students, each one murmuring to their phones or chatting nervously in pairs. Some looked excited. Others seemed drained already. IAM stayed quiet.
The academy didn't assign dorms randomly. Students could be paired with people from the current batch or older years. And older students were not rare. In fact, many had remained for more than a year.
The way it worked was simple. When a student was accepted into Hope Academy, they would be assessed and assigned an estimated potential ceiling—an unofficial benchmark of the strength they were predicted to reach.
They were individuals whose entire academic journey would revolve around one singular measure: their potential as an ascender.
From the very first day, that potential would be assessed through a series of evaluations—some formal, some not. It wasn't just about what they could do now, but what they could become. The faculty would determine the ceiling of a student's capability—the peak they believed that student was capable of reaching, be it in power, combat ability, or path progression and more. That invisible benchmark would determine when they were permitted to graduate.
There were no shortcuts.
Every student, regardless of background, age, or prior accomplishments, was given the same deadline: five years. Five years from the day of acceptance to achieve the potential the academy had recognized in them.
Failure to reach that potential within the time limit would result in immediate expulsion.
It didn't matter if you were one inch away from the mark—you were gone. Sent back to wherever you came from.
On the other hand, if a student happened to reach their full potential earlier—whether in four years, two years, or even a matter of months—they were given a choice. They could apply for immediate graduation and leave the academy with full honors, or choose to remain for the remainder of their five years, continuing to develop even further at their own pace, with full access to the academy's resources. But they would never be re-evaluated. Once your ceiling was met, you had officially passed the academy's test.
Currently, the total number of students enrolled at Hope Academy stood at 1,067.
Oh—wait. 1,066.
Someone had just been expelled....
It happened often.
Every academic year was broken into specific terms, and at the end of each term came the midterm evaluation—an assessment that examined whether students were progressing at a pace that aligned with their assigned potential.
The midterms were infamous across the country.
For students in their final year, the pressure was indescribable. Years of training, all undone by failure to achieve their predicted time.
And it wasn't just a theoretical threat. The statistics made that brutally clear. Every midterm saw significant drops in enrollment numbers. Some years, a few dozen would be cut. Other years, it was far worse.
The worst drop on record was when the academy had whittled down to a mere 423 students.
From a place that accepted only the best, that number said everything.
Hope Academy didn't make room for those who couldn't grow. Only those who ascended—and kept ascending—survived.
IAM reached the front door of Building 9 and entered. The sliding glass doors hissed open smoothly, and cool air greeted him. The lounge inside was nicer than he expected—clean leather seatings, a small table in the center stacked with informational brochures, a large screen against the wall cycling through orientation slides.
The floor was spotless, tiled in a faint gray, and the lighting was soft but not dim. A few vending machines lined the wall on one side, offering water, basic snacks, and some student essentials. Another staff member stood near the stairs, casually glancing at a tablet. He noticed IAM and nodded politely but said nothing.
IAM headed up the stairs.
Despite the modern appearance, everything in this place reminded him that comfort was not the point. The lounge was clean, but sterile. The academy looked like a city, but it wasn't built for leisure. Even here, in the dorms, there was a subtle pressure—like the walls themselves expected him to prove something.
He reached the second floor, scanning the door numbers one by one. Finally, he stopped at Room 13.
He looked at the metallic black scanner panel next to the door, and then at the code on his phone. He held up the device, letting it align with the reader. The screen blinked blue, then beeped softly.
Click. The door unlocked.
He hesitated a moment. Who would be on the other side? His roommates could be from this year's batch or a year or more ahead. He had no control over it. Part of him hoped they were older students—veterans who had survived the brutal midterms, people who knew how the academy really worked.
Information would be invaluable. And being around experienced students might give him insight into how to navigate this place without wasting time.
IAM stepped inside, not knowing what or who he would find, only knowing one thing for sure:
This room—this space—would be his home for the foreseeable future.
And whoever his dorm mates were… they'd be the first people in this new life he'd have to learn to live with.