The school field buzzed with excitement as the new first-years gathered for their last and most important test. A transparent force field shimmered above the fighting stage, glowing faintly under the afternoon sun.
The Vice Principal stepped forward, his voice booming.
"Good afternoon, students!"
"Good afternoon, sir!" the crowd replied in unison.
"Today marks your final test. How you perform will decide your placement in this academy. Now—pair up and fight! You are free to go all out. Victory comes only if your opponent yields or loses consciousness."
The students erupted in murmurs, glancing at one another with a mix of excitement and dread.
The Teacher's voice cut through the chatter:
"First match—Jerry Rutherford versus Mark Jenkins!"
Two figures stepped onto the stage.
Mark's eyes glimmered with cold resolve, mist rising from his hands as jagged ice formed at his fingertips. Jerry, however, strolled casually, adjusting his glasses with one hand while holding a small bag of peanuts with the other.
The field shimmered, sealing them in.
"Begin!"
Mark wasted no time. With a wave of his arms, shards of ice shot forward in a deadly barrage.
Jerry stood unmoved, calmly crunching a peanut. His eyes sharpened briefly as he murmured to himself, "First strike—long range. Speed, 0.6 seconds. Predictable."
He sidestepped effortlessly, the shards whizzing past his coat as if missing him on purpose.
Mark growled and unleashed another volley, only to see Jerry leap gracefully, landing with a smirk. "Still holding back, Mark? Isn't that against the rules?"
Frustration twisted across Mark's face. How? How are none of my attacks landing!? His breath grew harsher as he shouted, "This isn't fair!"
Jerry chuckled, pulling a flamethrower seemingly out of nowhere.
"OPEN!" He squeezed the trigger, a torrent of fire roaring forth, melting Mark's icy barrage in a violent hiss.
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
Mark's eyes blazed with anger. He coated his hands in jagged ice claws and charged. But as he closed in, Jerry simply… danced. He moonwalked across the stage, dodging every furious slash with effortless rhythm. His coat swayed, his hat tipped low, and laughter spilled from his lips.
"Fight me seriously, damn you!" Mark screamed, throwing a full-force punch that exploded in a blast of frost.
The field shook. Smoke billowed.
The Vice Principal crossed his arms. "It seems he finally landed a hit."
"Don't be so sure," Lillian muttered, her sharp eyes analyzing. "That boy… Jerry isn't even fighting yet. He allowed that punch."
The smoke cleared. Mark's fist trembled—caught midair. By a single pinky finger.
"What… the hell?" Mark stumbled back, terror gripping his chest.
Jerry adjusted his glasses, smirking. "Funny, isn't it? I haven't even used my abilities against you. Well, except for the flamethrower. Almost forgot about that." His grin turned dangerous. "Want to see a real fight?"
Mark's throat went dry. "What are you saying…?"
Jerry whispered one word, and the stage cracked with invisible force.
"IMPORT."
In an instant, he vanished.
Mark spun desperately, forming an ice blade to guard himself—too late. A crushing punch slammed into his chest, hurling him skyward.
"Yo," Jerry's voice mocked from above. Mark looked up just in time to feel a brutal kick to his stomach, smashing him back into the ground with bone-rattling force. Blood splattered from his lips as he struggled to rise, using ice to steady himself.
Impossible. How is he this fast!?
Jerry's figure loomed before him, brass knuckles of ice materializing over his fists.
"My turn."
His blows rained down, mimicking Mark's earlier attacks but delivered with merciless precision. Mark barely managed to form a shield of ice, gritting his teeth as he was pushed backward under the relentless assault.
The crowd leaned forward, whispers rippling.
"Mark's getting crushed."
"He can't even keep up…"
Desperate, Mark unleashed one final counter. His fist struck true, sending Jerry upward. Ice instantly engulfed Jerry's legs, locking him in place midair.
"I've got you now!" Mark roared. His voice echoed with power as he shouted: "Eryios!"
Spears of ice erupted from every angle, converging on Jerry in a deadly storm.
The arena held its breath.
The Council Room
The Vice Principal adjusted his glasses with a smug grin. "Well, I told you so." His eyes shifted toward Lillian, awaiting her agreement.
Lillian sighed. "Jerry has a unique ability."
A shimmer of light broke the air as Joyce suddenly appeared, teleporting in with a burger in hand. She bit into it casually, her eyes locked on Lillian. "And what is that exactly?"
"I don't know what it truly is," Lillian admitted, her voice carrying an edge of worry, "but I think… if he believes he can have or do something, then he automatically gains that ability, no matter what it is."
The Vice Principal's jaw tightened. A boy who can simply think himself into power? That's more terrifying than any measured ability.
Joyce chewed thoughtfully, a mischievous smile tugging at her lips. "Self-Actualization, huh? That's a new one. I hear his father is rich."
Sandra leaned forward, resting her chest deliberately on her hand in front of Joyce. Her voice dripped with teasing intent. "Do you like him?"
Joyce smirked, and in a flash of light her figure shifted—her bust size increasing as if to mock Sandra back. "Well, I don't like Stronger boys. I prefer weaker ones."
The Vice Principal chuckled lowly. "So, Joyce Hart, what kind of boy is your type then?"
Joyce tilted her head, her eyes gleaming. "I like boys with white hair, blue eyes, a weak but muscular body… and of course, someone I'm far stronger than."
Anthony frowned, glaring at Sandra. "That sounds less like a type and more like a description. Don't tell me you're developing weird tastes?"
Sandra flinched. "What! Don't look at me! I only said I'd use the Rank FZ boy for experiments. I don't like him. Joyce, do you?"
Joyce's game console beeped, pulling her attention away. She pretended to ignore the question until Sandra smacked her arm.
"Joyce!!"
"Ah what? Sorry, I was in the middle of an online match."
Sandra leaned closer, whispering with piercing eyes. "Do you like that Rank FZ boy?"
Joyce's fingers stilled on her console. Heat crept up her cheeks as she twirled a strand of hair. "…I already have a boyfriend."
But her heart betrayed her. Why does that boy come to mind? That white -haired fool… He's too weak, and yet…
The doors opened with a heavy creak.
Lucian Stark entered.
The air shifted instantly. Everyone straightened as his presence filled the room, calm yet suffocating. He walked with the ease of a man who owned everything, lowering himself into the executive chair as though it were a throne.
"Good morning, Principal," Joyce greeted quickly, trying to compose herself.
"Good morning, sir," the teachers echoed in unison.
Lucian's smile was warm, but his gaze was sharp as blades. "Hey, everyone. So, what's the status of the test? It's been hours."
Lillian bowed. "We only began a few minutes ago, sir."
Lucian chuckled softly, ruffling her hair as if she were a child. "A normal person wouldn't understand. Time flows differently for me. George, give me the results of the Energy Level Test."
George obeyed, placing the folder in his hand. "Yes, sir."
Joyce tried to slip out unnoticed. "Well, sir, I'll be on my way now—"
"Student Council President."
Lucian's voice cut through the room like a guillotine.
Joyce froze. "…Yes, sir?"
Lucian leaned close, whispering something only she could hear. Whatever it was drained the color from her face. She nodded stiffly before teleporting away without another word.
Lucian flipped open the folder. His eyes narrowed. "So Johnson is the weakest… and Henry Hart is the strongest of this set?" A cruel smirk twisted his lips. "Why not let the weakest fight the strongest?"
Sandra gasped. "But sir—he could die."
Lucian exhaled smoke from his cigarette, his expression unreadable. "Or he could live. Wouldn't that be far more interesting?"
The Arena
"Now die!!" Mark roared, releasing a storm of ice spears toward Jerry.
Jerry smirked. His body dissolved into smoke. "EXPOTRE!"
He vanished—only to reappear in the darkness of Henry's shadow. The spears vanished as though they had never existed.
Mark's heart pounded in his chest. No… no way. What kind of monster is this!?
Jerry rose from the shadows, eyes glinting with cold amusement. His kick sent Mark soaring into the air.
"Gah—!" Mark's ribs screamed as blood flew from his lips.
Jerry followed, hands brimming with ice. "You're finished."
"I surrender!" Mark shouted in panic.
Before he could hit the ground, a cushion of shadow caught him, lowering him gently.
Jerry landed with a calm smile. "You do?"
"Yes!" Mark gasped, nodding frantically.
"Winner! Jerry Rutherford!" the commentator roared, the crowd erupting into cheers.
Jerry knelt beside Mark, healing his wounds with a wave of energy. "You did well, kid."
Mark's eyes trembled with fear and awe. "What… what is your true power?"
Jerry chuckled, his voice soft but chilling. "I don't have any ability."
"You're lying," Mark whispered, disbelief flooding his face.
Jerry smirked, offering a hand to help him stand. "No. I just believe… and then it becomes reality."
The crowd roared louder.
The commentator's voice boomed again. "Next up—Rosemary Stones versus Michael Angelo!"
The spotlight shifted, but whispers of Jerry's chilling words lingered in the arena.