The chime that woke Ark wasn't the gentle alarm of his wrist-comm. It was internal, a sharp, crystalline ping resonating directly in his consciousness.
[System Alert: 05:00. Foundational Grinding Regimen 1-B Initiated.]
His eyes snapped open. No grogginess. No temptation to roll over. The command was clean, efficient, and brooked no argument. The room was still dark, the first faint hints of dawn a pale smear beyond his window. He was on his feet before the internal echo faded, the cool floor a familiar sensation under his bare feet.
The previous day—the duel, the attention, Elijah's confession—felt like a vivid dream. But the soreness in his muscles, particularly the satisfying burn in his shoulders and core, was a tangible reminder. It was the good kind of pain. The pain of growth.
With a thought, he summoned his status screen. The blue-hued interface materialized in his vision, a silent testament to his new reality.
---
USER STATISTICS
Name: Ark Greystone
Title:Null
Level:2 (EXP: 215/200) [Level Up Available]
System Designation:Assassin
Core Attributes:
·Strength: 6 (Average Human)
·Agility: 6 (Average Human)
·Constitution: 4 (Below Average Human)
·Intelligence: 15 (Genius-Level Human)
·Perception: 12 (Enhanced Human)
·Luck: 1 (Cursed)
Derived Stats:
·Health (HP): 40/40
·Stamina (SP): 35/35
·Mental Energy (MP): 150/150
Skills:
·Basic Combat Analysis (Lv.1): Passive. Enhances visual tracking of opponent biomechanics and power flux.
Abilities:
·[None]
Unallocated Stat Points: 1
---
He had gained 200 EXP from the duel quest, pushing him well over the threshold for Level 3. A thrill, cold and sharp, shot through him. Progress. Measurable, quantifiable progress.
He focused on the [Level Up Available] prompt.
[Congratulations! You have reached Level 3!]
[+5 Stat Points allocated automatically to base attributes for biological optimization.]
[You have 1 Unallocated Stat Point from Level 2. Total Unallocated: 2.]
The now-familiar warm tingling sensation flowed through him, more pronounced this time. It was a wave of cleansing energy that washed away the residual fatigue and soreness, leaving him feeling refreshed, denser, more real. He pulled up his updated stat sheet.
Core Attributes:
·Strength: 6 -> 7 (Above Average Human)
·Agility: 6 -> 7 (Above Average Human)
·Constitution: 4 -> 5 (Average Human)
·Intelligence: 15
·Perception: 12 -> 13 (Enhanced Human)
·Luck: 1 (Cursed)
Derived Stats:
·Health (HP): 50/50
·Stamina (SP): 45/45
·Mental Energy (MP): 150/150
He was no longer "below average" in anything except his cursed Luck. He was officially, across the board, an average human specimen, with Strength and Agility pushing into the above-average range. The transformation from the sickly, frail boy of a week ago was nothing short of miraculous. A fierce, quiet pride settled in his chest.
Now for the choice. Two points to allocate.
He considered his immediate needs. Constitution was always tempting—more HP, more Stamina, more survivability. But he was playing a dangerous game. He needed an edge, something that could tip the scales in the inevitable next confrontation. His Perception, already enhanced, had been his lifeline in the duel and the exam. It worked in synergy with his new Basic Combat Analysis skill. Making that edge sharper…
He allocated both points to Perception, raising it from 13 to 15.
The effect was instantaneous and staggering.
The dark room didn't just become clearer; it unveiled itself. He could see the individual fibers in the carpet, the microscopic scratches on the metallic trim of his desk, the slow drift of dust motes in a slender sunbeam that hadn't existed a moment before. He could hear the hum of the campus power grid three buildings over, the rustle of sheets from Elijah's room across the hall, the distant, rhythmic breathing of a student sleeping two floors down. The world was a symphony of excessive detail, overwhelming for a moment before his mind, with its Intelligence 15, calmly categorized and filed the influx away, focusing only on what was relevant.
He was a sensor array now. A living, breathing detection system.
Satisfied, he dismissed the interface and began his morning ritual. The Foundational Grinding Regimen 1-B was displayed in a corner of his vision: a series of complex, isometric holds, agility drills using his room's furniture as obstacles, and cognitive pattern-matching exercises that flashed rapid-fire symbols he had to memorize and recall.
For ninety minutes, he pushed his body and mind to their new limits. Sweat poured off him, his Stamina bar dipping and rising as he rested between sets. The System provided no encouragement, only the silent, relentless ticking of progress trackers. It was meditation through exertion. By the time he finished, the sun was fully up, and he felt invincible.
A quick, cold shower shocked his system awake. As he dressed in his uniform, he caught his reflection in the mirror. The change was subtle but undeniable. The hollows in his cheeks were less pronounced. His shoulders, once perpetually slumped, now sat square. His eyes, once perpetually downcast or wide with anxiety, now held a calm, observant stillness. They were the eyes that had calculated Brody Hendricks's defeat.
He met Elijah in the hallway. The smaller boy still moved with a nervous energy, but he met Ark's gaze and offered a small, determined smile.
"Morning," Ark said.
"Morning," Elijah replied, his voice firmer than yesterday. "Ready for… whatever today brings?"
"Always," Ark said, and meant it.
The walk to Class B was a study in social dynamics. The Beta students they passed no longer looked through Ark. Nods were exchanged. A few muttered "morning" or "hey." He was no longer a non-entity; he was a known quantity. A dangerous one. He accepted the acknowledgements with a slight nod, saying nothing. Silence, he was learning, was a more powerful tool than any greeting.
Brody's desk was conspicuously empty. A tangible void in the room's atmosphere. Chloe sat with her aesthetic clique, but her usual performative laughter was subdued, her glances towards the empty seat tinged with something akin to fear. The delinquent cronies looked lost without their leader, their bravado deflated.
Felicia North materialized at the front of the class precisely as the period began. Her soil-brown eyes swept the room, noting Brody's absence without comment.
"Today," she began without preamble, "we delve into applied power theory. Specifically, energy conservation and focal points." Her lecture was a masterclass in taking their "defective" abilities and viewing them through a lens of efficiency. She used examples—how a low-yield Terrakinesis user could focus all output into a single, reinforced point rather than a wide, weak area. How a phaser could selectively vibrate a limb to pass through a specific material type by understanding its resonant frequency.
Ark listened, rapt. This was the other side of the coin from the System's brutal physicality. This was the intellectual framework for power. He absorbed it all, his mind cross-referencing her theories with the cold, mechanical logic of the Assassin System. He saw the underlying principles, the universal laws that governed both flashy heroics and silent assassinations.
When the break came, he and Elijah headed for the cafeteria. The usual buzz of conversation seemed to part around them slightly. They found Kyle and Elster at their usual table.
Kyle launched into an excited breakdown of his morning pyrokinesis drills, complete with hand gestures that almost set a napkin on fire. "—and the prof says my flame-temp is already hitting C-rank levels! Just need to work on fuel efficiency. Can you imagine? A C-rank in the first week!"
Elster smiled, listening, but her eyes kept drifting to Ark. She was observing the changes, the new stillness, the way he seemed to absorb the cafeteria's chaos without being touched by it.
"And you, Ark?" she asked gently when Kyle paused for breath. "How's Class B?"
"Informative," Ark said, taking a bite of synthesized protein. "Ms. North is… precise."
"Heard your fan club is growing," Kyle grinned, nudging him. "Saw a couple of Betas looking at you like you're the second coming."
"They're just wary," Ark shrugged. "Brody's absence makes things uncertain."
"Where is that metal-plated jerk, anyway?" Kyle wondered aloud.
As if summoned by the question, a new current of excitement rippled through the cafeteria. Students were clustering around a large public viewscreen usually reserved for academy announcements. On it, scrolling in real-time, was the official duel ledger.
"Whoa, check it out," Kyle said, craning his neck.
The ledger showed a cascade of recent duels, all with the same victor: Hendricks, Brody (C-). He had fought and defeated six other students in the last two hours—a mix of Beta first-years and two second-years. The point wagers were substantial. His point total, which had been halved by his loss to Ark, was now soaring, triple what it had been that morning.
"He's on a warpath," someone muttered nearby.
"He crushed Marco from 2-B! Marco's a solid D+ enhancer!"
"What's gotten into him? He's fighting like a man possessed."
Ark watched the screen, his Basic Combat Analysis skill unconsciously activating as he imagined the fights. Brody wouldn't have changed his fundamental style. He was a brute force fighter. To win this many consecutive duels, especially against more experienced opponents, he'd need more than rage. He'd need an edge.
His eyes narrowed. A new piece of data was appended to Brody's latest victory on the feed: Notable Equipment: Galvanix Gauntlet (Mark III).
"A power tool," Ark murmured.
"What?" Kyle asked.
"He bought a power tool. From the Tech Department. Probably cost him most of his remaining points after our duel." Ark's mind raced, accessing the general knowledge the System had integrated. The Galvanix Mark III was a high-end focusing apparatus for metallic manipulation abilities. It would amplify control, increase absorption speed, and allow for more complex shapes. In Brody's hands, it wouldn't make him smarter, but it would make his brutish power far more potent and versatile. He was no longer just sheathing his limbs; he could potentially form weapons, shields, maybe even rudimentary armor.
"The Hendricks name," Elster said softly, understanding. "He didn't need points from the academy. His family legacy would have come with a substantial trust fund of points. He liquidated it for that gauntlet."
It made sense. A wounded ego, access to wealth, and a desperate need to reassert dominance. Brody had bought himself a solution.
"Looks like he's buying his way back to the top of the Beta pile," Kyle whistled. "Guy just can't take an L, can he?"
Ark finished his meal, his appetite gone. The equilibrium had shifted again. Brody was back, and he was armed. This wasn't over; it was just entering a new, more dangerous phase.
After lunch, Kyle clapped Ark on the back. "Arcade block? They've got the new holographic sparring sims. Could be fun!"
Elster was intercepted by a group of Alpha girls from her psionics track, who linked arms with her, chattering about some advanced meditation technique. She shot Ark an apologetic look over her shoulder before being swept away.
"Just us lads, then," Kyle said, throwing an arm around both Ark and a surprised Elijah. "Come on, Bryce, you need to learn how to have fun that doesn't involve dirt."
The arcade was a sprawling, neon-drenched complex in the recreational wing, a sensory assault of blaring music, chiming games, and the ozone smell of holographic projectors. Students from all years mingled here, blowing off steam. Kyle immediately made a beeline for a large simulator booth titled "Gate Breach: Horde Mode!"
"This is the one! Two-player co-op! You guys watch, I'll show you how a future S-rank handles business!" He fed a modest amount of points into the machine and stepped into the designated platform.
Ark and Elijah watched as Kyle's holographic avatar materialized in a simulated cityscape. Monstrous, pixelated forms of common Gate-born creatures—scuttling Xenthids, hulking Grunts—spawned and charged. Kyle whooped, his hands moving as he conjured gouts of flame, launching fireballs and setting up walls of flame with impressive, game-optimized flair. He was good. The simulation ranked him highly, and a small crowd of admirers gathered to watch the "Pyro from Alpha" show off.
Ark observed, but his mind was elsewhere, parsing the arcade's environment with his heightened Perception. He noted the clusters of students, their affiliations, the flow of points. He saw a group of older Betas watching Kyle's display with sour expressions. He saw a pair of Alpha students from a known hero family playing a strategic war game, their conversation laced with terms like "resource allocation" and "territorial control." This arcade wasn't just for fun; it was a microcosm of the academy's social and political landscape.
His eyes, sharper than any camera, caught a familiar flash of silver at the far end of the complex, near the quiet, dimly lit booths housing complex tactical puzzle games.
Athena Knight.
She was alone, as always. She stood before a simulation titled "Quantum Stratagem," a famously difficult game that modeled multi-dimensional battlefield logistics. Her hands moved slowly, deliberately in the control field, her expression one of detached focus. On the massive screen above her, complex webs of light and resource nodes expanded and collapsed with terrifying efficiency. She wasn't just playing; she was solving, deconstructing the game's very logic. The score counter beside her screen was ticking up at a rate Ark's enhanced mind could barely process.
She finished. The screen flashed "ULTIMATE VICTORY – NEW RECORD." The point reward was astronomical. She collected them with a tap, not a flicker of triumph on her face, and turned away.
For a second, her sapphire gaze swept across the arcade. It passed over the crowd around Kyle, over the cheering students, over everything… and for a single, heartbeat-long moment, it rested on Ark.
It was the same look as in the gym. Not curiosity, not recognition. It was assessment. As if he were a variable in one of her complex equations that had just produced an unexpected, but not unwelcome, result. Then she turned and walked away, melting into the shadows of a side exit, her silver hair the last thing to disappear.
A chill that had nothing to do with the arcade's air conditioning traced Ark's spine. She was watching. He was sure of it now. But to what end?
Kyle's simulation ended with a spectacular explosion of flame and a flashing "HEROIC VICTORY" sign. He emerged, beaming and slightly sweaty, to a smattering of applause.
"See? Told you! Who's next? Ark, you wanna try? They've got a stealth-based sim over there!"
"Another time," Ark said. "We should head back. Don't want to be late for afternoon drills."
As they left the arcade's cacophony, the news of Brody's rampage was the dominant topic. His point total was now the talk of the lower-year classes. He had gone from humiliated to feared in the span of a few hours. The narrative was shifting. Ark's victory was beginning to be seen as a lucky fluke against an unfocused opponent. Brody, with his new Galvanix Gauntlet, was proving what "real" power looked like.
---
Across campus, in the high-ceilinged, sterile showroom of the Hero High Tech Department, Brody Hendricks stared at his reflection in a polished chrome panel.
The Galvanix Gauntlet (Mark III) encased his right hand and forearm. It was a masterpiece of sleek, silver alloy, etched with glowing blue circuit patterns that pulsed in time with his heartbeat. It felt cold, powerful, and right. It felt like the birthright his own genetics had denied him.
The tool wasn't just an amplifier; it was a translator. It took the crude, touch-based absorption of his defective power and gave it range, finesse, and intent. He could now pull metal from a distance of several feet. He could shape it with his will, guided by the gauntlet's internal matrices. He could form spikes, crude blades, and plates of armor that assembled themselves onto his body with a thought.
He had spent every last point of his family's substantial legacy trust. His father would be furious. His brother would scoff. But he didn't care. The hollow, shamed feeling that had crippled him that morning was gone, burned away in the forge of consecutive victories. The fear in his opponents' eyes as his new, liquid-metal tendrils snatched their weapons or pinned them to the ground… it was a balm. It was proof.
He dismissed his cronies and Chloe with a curt gesture. Their fawning admiration, which he usually craved, now felt cheap. They hadn't stood by him in his humiliation. They'd flinched. They were irrelevant.
He needed to test the gauntlet's limits. Not on easy targets. He needed to break something strong. The duel ledger on his wrist-comm glowed. He scanned the list of high-point holders in the Beta and lower Alpha tiers. A name caught his eye. Rourke, Dax (D+). A second-year Beta with a Bone Density Manipulation power. Tough, resilient, a known brawler. Perfect.
He initiated the challenge. The wager was high—a hundred points. Rourke accepted almost instantly, likely smelling easy points from a first-year on a losing streak.
The designated duel arena was one of the smaller, outdoor tactical pits. A crowd, drawn by the high-stakes wager and Brody's newfound infamy, gathered on the ridges above.
Rourke was a hulking boy with a permanent grimace. "Heard you got spanked by a Null, Hendricks. Here to take your frustration out on someone you think you can handle?"
Brody said nothing. He simply activated the gauntlet. The blue circuits flared. From a pile of discarded training equipment at the edge of the pit, a stream of scrap metal—broken dumbbell bars, bent reinforcement rods—ripped free and flowed through the air like silver serpents. They didn't just coat Brody; they configured. Plates of interlocking alloy formed over his chest, shoulders, and legs. The excess metal coiled around his gauntleted arm, forming a massive, spiked morningstar.
The crowd gasped. This was beyond anything they'd seen from a first-year, let alone a Beta.
Rourke's confidence wavered for a second before he hardened his skin, his bones thickening audibly. He charged, a human battering ram.
Brody didn't move. He willed the morningstar forward. It wasn't a swing; it was a controlled projectile. It shot off his arm, connected with Rourke's chest with a sound like a gong being struck, and retracted.
Rourke was lifted off his feet and thrown back five meters, skidding across the dirt. He groaned, his hardened chest now sporting a dent.
He got up, anger replacing strategy. He charged again, fists like concrete sledgehammers.
Brody finally moved. The metal plates on his body shifted, flowing to intercept the blows. Each impact sent shivers through the metal but didn't reach Brody's flesh. With his free hand, now also sheathed in articulated metal, he grabbed Rourke's swinging arm. The gauntlet flared, and the metal covering his hand melted and flowed over Rourke's fist, solidifying instantly, trapping it in a solid block of alloy.
Rourke yelled, confused, trying to pull free. Brody yanked him off balance and drove a knee, reinforced with jagged metal spikes, into his stomach. The air left Rourke in a whoosh. Brody released the metal trapping his fist, letting it flow back to him, and finished with a sweeping kick sheathed in a blade of condensed metal that stopped a hair's breadth from Rourke's throat.
The fight was over in under a minute.
Silence, then a roar from the crowd. This was dominance. This was power. The story of the Null's victory was being violently rewritten.
Brody collected his points, the gauntlet retracting the metal back into a sleek, dormant state. He didn't look at the defeated Rourke. He looked at the crowd, at the fear and respect in their eyes. He looked towards the Beta dormitories, his mind fixed on one person.
This was just the beginning. He had the tool. He had the points. He had the fury. Ark Greystone had awakened something in him, but not humility. He had awakened a monster, and that monster was now armored, armed, and hungry for a rematch.
The news spread through the academy like a shockwave. Brody Hendricks wasn't just back; he was transformed. The "Galvanix Gauntlet" became a symbol of his resurgence. Betas who had felt a flicker of hope from Ark's victory now looked at Brody with renewed terror. The natural order was reasserting itself with violent prejudice.
As evening fell, Ark sat at his desk, the quiet hum of his room a stark contrast to the day's escalating tensions. He reviewed his stats, his gains. He was stronger, faster, sharper than ever.
But across the academy, a storm was gathering. A storm of metal and vengeance, fueled by legacy points and wounded pride. The serpent in the garden had tasted blood, but now a wolf in silver armor was prowling the gates, and it had his scent.
The forge of Hero High was heating up, and Ark Greystone was about to be thrust back into the flames.