The second stage.
Proctors led the surviving candidates from the auditorium through a series of stark, metallic corridors. The excited chatter from the results hall died with every step, replaced by the grim, echoing sound of two thousand pairs of footsteps on polished concrete.
The hallway opened into a cavernous arena.
It was a perfect circle, vast and intimidating, with a raised circular stage at its dead center. Tiers of spectator seats rose steeply into the shadows, though they were mostly empty. A single, brightly lit section was occupied by other proctors, Academy officials, and a few top-ranking students who had been invited to observe.
Directly facing the stage was a long, elevated desk.
Behind it sat the five judges. They were imposing figures, their faces stern and unreadable, their posture radiating an aura of absolute authority. They looked less like teachers and more like executioners.
The Warden from the written exam was there, his expression as severe as ever. Beside him, Proctor Elara leaned back in his chair, fingers steepled, his gaze sweeping over the crowd of nervous applicants with an unnerving intensity.
The candidates were herded into a designated standing area. The air was thick with the scent of antiseptic and fear. It was cold. A deliberate choice to keep them on edge.
One of the judges, a woman with sharp eyes and a voice like cracking stone, activated a microphone.
"Welcome to the second stage: The Power Evaluation."
Her voice boomed through the arena, devoid of any warmth.
"Each of you will be called to the stage. You will have ninety seconds to demonstrate the nature, control, and potential of your Evolve. Your performance will be graded on a scale of one to one hundred. Do not hold back. Do not waste our time."
Kael's throat went dry. Ninety seconds to define his entire future.
He looked at the polished stage, at the five pairs of critical eyes, at the silent, watching crowd.
"This is nothing like practice…"
"This is a judgment."
—--
The evaluation began.
Names were called in alphabetical order. The first few candidates were a mixed bag—some competent, some nervous, all clearly intimidated.
Then, a new name was called.
"Candidate 347, Ren Valerius."
A ripple of anticipation went through the crowd. This was what they were waiting for.
Ren stepped out from the throng, not with the hesitant shuffle of the others, but with the confident stride of a conqueror entering his own territory. He ascended the steps to the stage and stood at its center, a picture of perfect composure.
He gave a slight, formal bow to the judges, a gesture of respect that somehow felt arrogant.
"Begin," the lead judge stated, her voice flat.
Ren didn't hesitate. He raised his right hand, and the air around it began to shimmer, vibrating with contained power.
VMMMMMMMM…
Six sleek, black metal discs materialized out of thin air, hovering in a perfect circle around him. They were his Evolve: Telekinetic Constructs.
He made a fist.
FWSSH!
The discs shot outwards, streaking through the air at impossible speeds. They were blurs of motion, weaving complex patterns around the stage—over, under, around each other, never touching, their movements a symphony of precision. The sound they made was a sharp, lethal hum.
The judges watched, impressed. This was a high level of multi-tasking and fine control.
But Ren was just warming up.
He snapped his fingers. The discs instantly converged on a single point above his head, locking together with a series of sharp, metallic clicks.
CLACK-CLANK-CLICK!
In less than a second, they had assembled themselves into the shape of a wicked-looking spear, its tip gleaming under the arena lights. It hung in the air, vibrating with menace.
Ren pointed a single finger at a target drone that shot out from a dispenser high on the arena wall.
"Hmph," he grunted.
The spear shot forward. It didn't just fly; it teleported, vanishing from above his head and reappearing an inch from the drone.
SHIIIINGK—BOOM!
It punched straight through the drone's armored plating, which then exploded into a fireball of shrapnel and sparks.
Ren lowered his hand. The spear dematerialized into motes of dark energy. He stood there, breathing normally, not a single drop of sweat on his brow.
The arena was silent for a beat, stunned. Then, a smattering of applause broke out from the observers. The judges nodded in approval, making their notes.
Ren gave another slight bow, a smug, satisfied smile finally gracing his lips. As he walked off the stage, his gaze swept over the crowd until it found Kael.
He locked eyes with him, and a cruel smirk spread across his face.
"Watch closely," his expression seemed to say. "This is how it's done."
—--
Ren's performance set a new, terrifying standard.
The candidates who followed him seemed lesser, their efforts clumsy and weak by comparison. The confidence in the room had been shattered and replaced by a creeping dread.
Still, there were sparks of brilliance.
A girl with fire-red hair created a spiraling vortex of flame, shaping it into a roaring phoenix that looped around the stage before dissipating. The heat washed over the crowd in a wave.
A stoic boy in a martial arts gi demonstrated his Evolve: Impact Nullification. He allowed a series of high-speed projectiles to slam into his body, each one stopping dead against his skin with a dull thud, falling harmlessly to the floor.
Another candidate, a nervous-looking boy, didn't have a flashy power. He simply touched a series of scrambled data pads, and their screens instantly lit up with perfectly decrypted information. A technopath. Subtle, but incredibly useful.
Each performance was a new blow to Kael's already fragile confidence.
He watched them, one after another, his hands growing clammy, his heart sinking lower in his chest.
These were the people he was competing against. People who could summon fire, defy physics, and command technology. They were powerful. They were controlled. They were heroes.
And what was he?
A boy who could make a faint light. A boy who had passed the written exam by a single point. A boy who didn't belong.
"How can I stand among them?"
His internal voice was a whisper of pure panic. The resolve he'd felt in the quiet quad after the written exam felt like a distant memory, a foolish dream. This was reality. This was the chasm between him and them, and it was a thousand miles wide.
The list was getting closer and closer to the M's.
His mouth felt like it was full of sand.
"Candidate 2147, Kael Mori."
The voice boomed through the arena.
His name.
He swallowed hard, his throat clicking. It was his turn.
—--
Time seemed to slow down.
Every eye in the massive arena was on him. He could feel the weight of their collective gaze, a physical pressure on his shoulders.
Whispers rippled through the candidates.
"Mori? Isn't that the 41% kid?"
"The one who came in dead last?"
"This is gonna be good."
Their words were a low, hissing tide of scorn that followed him as he walked. He felt his face flush, the heat of shame rising from his neck.
He forced his legs to move, one leaden foot in front of the other. The walk from the crowd to the stage felt like a mile.
He ascended the steps, the polished surface reflecting the harsh, unforgiving lights above. He stood at the center of the stage, feeling small and utterly exposed.
He looked at the judges. Five pairs of cold, analytical eyes stared back, their expressions ranging from boredom to mild irritation. Proctor Elara's face was unreadable, a mask of neutrality.
"Begin," the lead judge said, her voice already dripping with disinterest.
Kael took a shaky breath.
"Okay. Just like practice. Not about power. About control. The needle. Remember the needle."
He extended a hand, trying to channel the strange, sharp focus he'd felt in the training yard, the feeling that had punched a hole through the wall. He tried to summon that pinprick of impossible light.
His palm began to glow.
But the light was weak, flickering. It wasn't the intense, focused point he was striving for. It was the same pathetic, wavering glow he'd produced a hundred times before.
Panic seized him. He was failing.
"No! Focus! You can do this!"
He poured more energy into it, his muscles straining, a headache beginning to bloom behind his eyes. He tried to force it, to will the light into a more impressive shape.
The light pulsed erratically. It swelled for a moment, then fizzled, then flared up again, sputtering like a faulty lightbulb.
It was unstable. Weak. Embarrassing.
A snort of laughter broke the silence.
Then another. Soon, a wave of open, unrestrained laughter rolled through the candidate section. It was louder, more cruel, than the mockery after the written exam. This wasn't about a score. This was about him, his very essence, being a joke.
Ren was laughing the hardest, his head thrown back in pure, malicious glee.
Kael's focus shattered. The light in his hand died completely.
pffft.
He stood there, hand outstretched, with nothing to show for it but the echo of their ridicule.
He looked at the judges' table.
One of them, a heavy-set man, didn't even try to hide his disappointment. He let out a loud, theatrical sigh and made a sweeping, dismissive gesture with his pen on his data pad. He wasn't even taking notes. He was just crossing Kael's name off the list.
The world went quiet. The laughter faded into a dull roar in his ears.
He froze, trapped in the spotlight, his heart sinking into a cold, dark abyss in the pit of his stomach.
This was it. His lowest point. A public, undeniable, catastrophic failure.
—--
The lead judge's voice cut through his daze.
"Time," she said, her tone laced with finality. "Step down, candidate."
The words were a dismissal. A final rejection.
Kael's limbs felt like they were made of stone. He lowered his arm, which was trembling uncontrollably. He turned and walked off the stage, not daring to look at the crowd, at the judges, at anyone.
He could feel their eyes on his back, burning holes through his uniform. He could hear their whispers, their stifled snickers.
"What a joke."
"Why did he even bother showing up for this part?"
"The last-place loser lives up to his name."
His face was on fire. Shame was a heavy cloak, threatening to suffocate him. Each step down from the stage felt like a descent into a deeper level of hell.
The polite applause for the next candidate was a muffled drumbeat from another world. His world had shrunk to the space between his feet, the sound of his own ragged breathing, and the hiss of their judgment.
He reached the floor and tried to melt back into the crowd, to find a corner where he could disappear.
But there was no escape.
Ren was waiting for him at the edge of the candidate area, his arms crossed, a look of utter triumph on his face. He had moved specifically to intercept him.
"I warned you, didn't I?" Ren's voice was a low, venomous purr, for Kael's ears only. "The written test was a fluke. A charity case."
He leaned in closer, his smile widening.
"This stage isn't for people like you, Mori. This is where real power is measured. And you? You have nothing."
Ren paused, letting the words sink in before adding the final, crushing blow. "All those years, dreaming of this. For what? To embarrass yourself? To dishonor the very idea of being a hero?"
Every word was a perfectly aimed dagger, twisting in the fresh wound of his humiliation.
Kael trembled. Not from fear, but from a potent, volatile mixture of shame and a white-hot rage that was so intense it made him feel sick. He wanted to scream, to lash out, to wipe the smug look off Ren's face.
His blood felt like ice in his veins, a frozen, helpless fury.
But he didn't. He couldn't. What would he do? Make a faint light at him?
So he stood there and took it, his gaze fixed on the floor.
"He's right. What am I doing here? I'm a joke. Mom… I'm sorry. I couldn't do it."
Ren chuckled, a low, satisfied sound. "Just quit. Go home. It's over."
Ren turned and walked away, rejoining his friends, leaving Kael standing alone in his wake.
Kael's entire body shook. The world was a blur of mocking faces and indifferent stares. He had failed. He had been crushed. Everything they said about him was true.
For a single, terrifying second, he believed it. He accepted it.
The fight went out of him, leaving a hollow, aching void where his dream used to be.
But as he stood there, trembling on the verge of breaking completely, his fingers, hidden at his sides, began to curl. Slowly. Painfully.
They curled into tight, shaking fists, his nails digging into his palms.
A tiny, defiant spark flickered to life in the deepest, darkest part of his soul. A single, stubborn ember refusing to be extinguished by the flood of his failure.
His inner voice, which had been silenced by the shame, returned. It was faint. It was hoarse. But it was there.
"… I'm not finished."
"This isn't over. Not like this."
—--
End of Chapter 8