Two weeks after the Crimson Moon incident, Leon stood at the gates of the Federal Vanguard Academy with a paper application in his hand and a secret burning in his chest.
The academy sprawled across the northern hills like a monument to human ambition—gleaming spires of reinforced steel and smart-glass, training grounds the size of city blocks, and defensive barriers that could theoretically withstand an S-Rank dungeon break. It was where the Federation forged its elite awakeners into living weapons.
It was also, according to every statistical analysis Leon had read, utterly beyond the reach of an F-Rank.
"You sure about this?" his father had asked that morning.
Leon had been sure. The system had other ideas about what he was capable of, and hiding in the lower districts wouldn't change his rank or his family's circumstances. If he was going to climb, he needed to start here.
Besides, the academy offered something invaluable: access to information on monsters, Eclipse Zones, and the dark races. Knowledge that would help him understand what he was becoming.
The entrance exam grounds buzzed with nervous energy. Hundreds of applicants milled about—mostly D and C-Ranks hoping for a spot in the auxiliary programs, with a handful of B-Ranks strutting around like they owned the place. Leon spotted Damian Horne near the front, surrounded by his usual entourage, his B-Rank badge catching the morning sun.
Leon kept his distance and joined the registration line.
"Name and rank," the administrator said without looking up.
"Leon Vale. F-Rank."
The woman's fingers paused over her datapad. She looked up, her expression shifting from bored professionalism to something between pity and confusion.
"F-Rank," she repeated. "You do understand the acceptance rate for F-Ranks is 0.03%? That's three in ten thousand applicants?"
"I understand."
"And you still want to waste the application fee?"
Leon met her eyes. "I'm still here, aren't I?"
She shrugged and processed his registration. "Your funeral. Report to Testing Ground Seven. That's where we put the... well. Good luck."
Testing Ground Seven turned out to be the furthest field from the main academy building, a patch of dirt and obstacle equipment that looked like it hadn't been maintained in years. Around forty applicants were already gathered—all sporting D or F-Rank badges, all wearing the same expression of desperate hope mixed with resigned defeat.
"Welcome to the Fodder Group!" A broad-shouldered proctor with a scar across his jaw addressed them with barely concealed contempt. "I'm Instructor Kovacs. Let me be clear: you're not here because we think you'll pass. You're here because Federation law says we have to give everyone a chance. So let's not waste more time than necessary."
Murmurs rippled through the group. Leon remained silent, his enhanced senses picking up every whispered comment, every nervous shuffle. His [Lesser Agility] made him hyperaware of the spatial positioning of everyone around him—a byproduct of the Hound's hunting instincts.
[ANALYSIS SKILL ACTIVATING]
[SCANNING POTENTIAL THREATS...]
The system's interface flickered in his vision, overlaying data on the other applicants. Tension levels. Probable core abilities based on posture and energy signatures. Weak points in their stances.
Leon forced it down. He couldn't afford to let the predatory instincts show. Not yet.
"First test is simple," Kovacs continued, gesturing to the obstacle course behind him. "Navigate the course. Top ten times move forward. Bottom thirty go home. You have three minutes. Anything over that is an automatic fail."
Three minutes. Leon studied the course—rope climbs, balance beams, wall scaling, a tunnel crawl through simulated rubble. For a normal F-Rank, it would be nearly impossible. The course was designed for awakeners with enhanced physical stats.
But Leon wasn't a normal F-Rank anymore.
"Line up!" Kovacs shouted. "We're running you in groups of five."
Leon ended up in the third group. As he waited, he watched the first two groups struggle. Most barely made it halfway before the timer ran out. One D-Rank with a strength-type core managed to complete it in four minutes—an automatic failure.
"Next group! Go!"
Leon exploded forward.
The [Lesser Agility] transformed his movements. His body flowed over obstacles like water, each motion efficient and precise. The rope climb took seconds instead of minutes. The balance beam—which should have required careful, slow progress—became a simple sprint. His hands found perfect grips on the wall as if guided by instinct.
The system fed him data in real-time:
[OPTIMAL PATH DETECTED]
[ENERGY EXPENDITURE: MINIMAL]
[PROJECTED COMPLETION TIME: 1:47]
Leon dove into the tunnel crawl, his enhanced spatial awareness letting him navigate the darkness without hesitation. He could feel the shadows in there, the absence of light calling to something deep in his core.
He burst out the other side and sprinted for the finish line.
"Time!" Kovacs called out. "One minute, fifty-two seconds."
The testing ground fell silent.
Leon straightened, barely winded. Around him, the other applicants stared with expressions ranging from shock to outright suspicion. Even Kovacs looked taken aback, his datapad frozen in his hand.
"That's... F-Rank Vale?" someone whispered.
"No way an F-Rank moves like that."
"Maybe the scanner was wrong?"
Leon kept his face neutral, but inside, his mind raced. He'd been too fast. Too efficient. He'd let the system's guidance override his common sense, and now everyone was looking at him like an anomaly.
Kovacs approached, his eyes narrowed. "Vale. Report to the medical tent for a core re-evaluation. That's not an F-Rank's performance."
"My rank hasn't changed," Leon said evenly. "I've just been training."
"Training doesn't give you Olympic-level agility overnight."
"Then maybe the test is easier than you think."
It was a calculated risk—playing arrogant rather than defensive. Kovacs's face darkened, but before he could respond, another voice cut through the tension.
"Perhaps the boy simply has natural talent that his core rank doesn't reflect."
Everyone turned. A woman in a Federation officer's uniform approached, her stride purposeful and commanding. She was in her forties, with steel-gray hair pulled back in a severe bun and eyes that seemed to catalog everything they saw. Three stars on her collar identified her as a Commander—one of the academy's senior instructors.
"Commander Rostova," Kovacs snapped to attention.
"At ease, Instructor." Rostova stopped in front of Leon, studying him with unnerving intensity. "Leon Vale. F-Rank. Empty Shadow Core, according to your file."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And yet you just completed an obstacle course designed for C-Ranks in under two minutes." She tilted her head. "Interesting."
Leon forced himself to meet her gaze without flinching. This woman was dangerous—not in the physical sense, but in the way that people who saw too much were dangerous.
"I'm a fast learner," he said.
"Clearly." Rostova's eyes flicked to something on her datapad. "Your movement patterns. They're not self-taught. That's trained precision. Almost... military-grade."
Shit. Leon's father had been military. Years of watching him move, of unconscious mimicry, and now the system had refined those memories into actual skill.
"My father was in the Defense Force," Leon said carefully. "I watched him train."
"Watching and doing are very different things, Mr. Vale." She paused, and Leon could practically see the calculations running behind her eyes. "But I suppose stranger things have happened. Proceed to the next test."
As she walked away, Leon felt the weight of her attention like a physical thing. She didn't believe him. But for some reason, she was letting him continue.
The second test was even more revealing. Combat assessment—unarmed sparring against training dummies equipped with basic AI. The dummies adapted to each fighter's style, growing more aggressive as the rounds progressed.
Leon's group was called up. He faced his dummy, and the moment it activated, the system sprang to life.
[ANALYZING OPPONENT COMBAT PATTERNS...]
[WEAKNESS DETECTED: LEFT-SIDE BLIND SPOT]
[OPTIMAL STRIKE ZONE: IDENTIFIED]
The dummy lunged. Leon slipped the strike, his body moving with fluid grace that made the other applicants look like they were wading through mud. He didn't overpower the dummy—his strength stat was still relatively low. Instead, he used precision, striking joints and weak points with surgical accuracy.
The dummy adapted. Leon adapted faster.
By the time the round ended, his dummy was sparking from a dozen critical hits to its joint servos. The AI had escalated to its maximum aggression level and still couldn't land a clean hit.
Kovacs stared at his tablet. "What the hell..."
Commander Rostova appeared again, and this time there was no mistaking the interest in her eyes.
"Mr. Vale," she said. "Would you mind stepping into Ring Four?"
Ring Four was occupied by a single person—a C-Rank applicant with a Hardening-type core. He was built like a brick wall, his skin already showing the gray tint of his ability's passive effect.
"Ma'am?" Leon asked, though he already knew where this was going.
"Consider this your final examination," Rostova said. "A mock battle. Win, and you're admitted on provisional status. Lose, and... well. You tried your best."
The C-Rank applicant grinned, cracking his knuckles. "An F-Rank? You're joking."
"I don't joke about academy admissions," Rostova said. "Begin when ready."
Leon stepped into the ring, his heart rate steady, his mind clear. Around the testing ground, other applicants gathered to watch. He could see Damian Horne in the distance, his expression a mixture of disbelief and anticipation.
The C-Rank applicant—someone's datapad identified him as Marcus Trent—took a fighter's stance. His skin rippled, hardening further until it resembled stone.
"Nothing personal, F-Rank trash," Marcus said. "But I'm going to break you."
Leon said nothing. He simply watched, letting the system analyze, letting the stolen instincts of a predator catalog every tell, every micro-expression.
[ANALYZING TARGET...]
[HARDENING TYPE: DEFENSIVE SPECIALIZATION]
[PREDICTED STAMINA: HIGH]
[PREDICTED AGILITY: LOW]
[TACTICAL ASSESSMENT: EVADE AND EXHAUST]
The bell chimed.
Marcus charged like a runaway train.
And Leon smiled—a cold, hunter's smile that would have looked more at home on something with fangs.
The real test was about to begin.