I'd assumed my schedule would be a relaxing loop of Professor Vance's captivating lectures. I was wrong. The next day, my holophone rudely informed me that it was time for **Basic Combat Maneuvers**.
The classroom for this subject wasn't a room with desks; it was a giant, matted gymnasium that smelled of sweat, antiseptic, and faintly of ozone. And standing in the center of it was our instructor.
The man was a mountain. He wasn't just tall; he was *wide*, with a chest like a barrel and arms thicker than my legs. His neck seemed to be in a permanent state of negotiation with his shirt collar, and the shirt itself was straining to contain what I could only describe as an ape-like physique. This wasn't a teacher; this was a living wrecking ball.
"Alright, maggots, listen up!" his voice boomed, needing no amplification. It was the kind of voice that didn't just enter your ears; it vibrated in your bones. "I am Instructor Borin. You will call me Sir, or Instructor Borin. Your tears, your whining, and your excuses are not my currency. The only language I speak is results."
He paced in front of us, his eyes scanning the group like a predator assessing a herd of particularly scrawny gazelles.
"This class is not about making you feel good about your fancy profession ranks. It is about teaching you how to not die. The first lesson? Don't get hit. The second lesson? If you do get hit, make sure it's not fatal. Everything else is a bonus."
He then explained the drill. Simple. Brutal. We were to have a series of controlled, one-on-one sparring matches. "I need to see what you're working with. Raw power is useless without control. And I need to know which of you I need to babysit when we do field exercises."
A cold knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach. Sparring? Already? I'd spent the last week puppeting my toothbrush and poking holes in a dummy. I wasn't ready to fight a person!
"We'll move to the advanced arena for this," Borin grunted, leading us down a ramp to an underground chamber. This one was even more impressive, with tiered seating and a central ring surrounded by a faintly shimmering energy field. "And stop looking so scared. We have a certified Union Healer on standby. The worst that can happen is you end up as a temporarily embarrassing stain. She'll put you back together."
That was not as comforting as he clearly thought it was.
Instructor Borin pulled up a list on his data-pad. "First match! Snow Menikins versus... Ron Sanchez."
A wave of excited murmurs went through the B-Rank brigade. "Snow? As in *the* Menikins family?" "I heard she's a prodigy!" "What's she doing *here*?"
I wondered the same thing. If she was from some elite family, why was she slumming it at Budding Hunter Academy? Did she fail some entrance exam? Was she a disappointment? My kind of people!
Then my name registered. Oh. Oh no. I was up first. Against the rumored ice prodigy. Fantastic.
Snow Menikins walked calmly into the ring. She had pale blue hair, eyes like chips of glacier ice, and an expression that could freeze hell over. She didn't look nervous. She looked bored.
This was bad. If I just walked in normally, I'd look like a chump. I had to make an entrance. I had to control the narrative before the fight even began.
As I approached the ring, an idea—a stupid, brilliant, incredibly risky idea—popped into my head. *Show off.*
Instead of stepping through the energy field, I stopped at the edge. I closed my eyes for a dramatic second, then focused. I wrapped dozens of tiny, invisible [Puppet Strings] around my own body, specifically my torso and legs. With a gentle pull, I lifted myself about six inches off the ground and glided smoothly into the center of the arena, landing with a soft, deliberate tap.
The effect was instantaneous.
Gasps echoed through the arena. Whispers exploded.
"Did he just... float?"
"Telekinetics? I thought his file said something else?"
"Whoa, that was cool!"
"He's not even B-Rank, is he? What is that?"
I saw Snow's icy composure break for a microsecond. A flicker of surprise in her eyes. Good.
Instructor Borin's reaction was different. He didn't gasp. He just raised one bushy eyebrow. A slow, knowing smile spread across his face. He glanced down at his data-pad, which undoubtedly displayed my official record: **[String Theorist - Rank C - Unique]**.
He saw my levitation trick for what it was: not raw telekinetic power, but incredibly fine, precise *control*. He understood that I wasn't just moving myself; I was puppeting myself with an army of invisible strings. It was a display of skill, not brute force. And he appreciated the showmanship.
He chuckled, a low rumble like stones grinding together. "Interesting," he boomed, his voice cutting through the chatter. "Sanchez. Menikins. Assume ready positions. Begin on my mark."
The whispers died down. All eyes were on us. The ice prodigy from the elite family versus the mysterious floater with the unknown power. I had successfully made myself the center of attention.
Now I just had to figure out how not to get my butt frozen solid in the next thirty seconds. The teacher was smiling, but the girl across from me looked like she wanted to turn me into a Ron-sicle.