The third trial began at dawn. Kael stood in the Crucible Arena with the other students, exhaustion pulling at his muscles. They'd been given four hours of sleep between trials—just enough to prevent collapse, not enough for actual recovery.
Professor Cross looked fresh as a morning despite the early hour. "Final trial. One-on-one combat. You'll face three opponents selected by the algorithm. Win all three, and you rank high. Lose all three, and you rank low. Simple mathematics."
*Simple. Right.*
"Your opponents are selected based on performance in previous trials," she continued. "The algorithm matches you against others of similar skill level. This ensures fair assessment."
Marcus leaned close to Kael. "Translation: if you did well before, you fight harder opponents now. The system's designed to push everyone toward the middle."
That made sense. The academy wanted a clear hierarchy, not a bunch of students clustered at similar skill levels. They wanted separation, distinction, and ranked order from one to three hundred.
Names appeared on the holographic display. Kael's first opponent: David Torres, the scholarship student from lunch. The boxer-built kid who carried himself like he'd already lost.
They faced each other in the sand circle. David's hands trembled slightly as he raised them in a fighting stance. His form was decent—someone had taught him basics—but his eyes showed defeat before the match started.
"Begin!" Professor Cross called.
David attacked immediately, throwing a combination of punches that Kael recognized from standard boxing training. Fast, technically correct, but predictable. Kael slipped the first two strikes, blocked the third, and saw his opening.
He could end this in seconds. A strike to the solar plexus, followed by a leg sweep, done. But that would reveal too much, show reflexes honed by fifteen years of brutal training.
Instead, Kael let David land a glancing blow to his shoulder. Let him feel hope. Then Kael countered with a simple combination—jab, cross, hook—that drove David back. Nothing fancy. Nothing that screamed special forces training.
David tried a desperate tackle. Kael sidestepped and used David's momentum to throw him down, following with a controlled strike that stopped just before impact.
"Yield," David gasped.
The match lasted forty-seven seconds. Long enough to seem competitive, short enough to show competence.
"Winner, Kael Morrison," Professor Cross announced.
Kael helped David up. "You've got good form. Just commit to your strikes more."
David nodded, shame and gratitude mixing in his expression. He limped off the sand while Kael returned to the waiting area.
His second opponent was announced: Victoria Lang, the cold-eyed woman from his strategy team. She entered the circle with calculating precision, studying Kael like he was a problem to solve.
"Begin!"
Victoria fought nothing like David. She was patient, defensive, waiting for Kael to make mistakes. Her style was counter-fighting—absorb pressure, then strike at openings. Smart against aggressive opponents.
Kael gave her what she expected. He pressed forward with measured attacks, creating a rhythm, making her comfortable. She countered twice, both times nearly tagging him. Good speed, excellent timing.
Then Kael broke the rhythm. He feinted high, dropped low, and swept her legs. Victoria fell but rolled immediately, coming up in a defensive crouch. Adaptive. Trained.
They exchanged strikes for another minute, both landing minor hits. Kael was carefully calibrating his performance—better than David's level, but not dramatically so. He needed to win convincingly without seeming exceptional.
Finally, he saw his moment. Victoria overextended on a punch, committing too much weight forward. Kael caught her arm, twisted it into a joint lock, and applied just enough pressure to make continuing painful.
"Yield," Victoria said through gritted teeth.
Kael released immediately. "Good fight."
She massaged her shoulder, studying him with new respect. "You're better than you showed in the first trial."
"Adrenaline," Kael said with a slight smile. "Does wonders."
His third match was announced, and Kael's stomach tightened. Raven Steele. The dangerous woman with black hair who'd dismantled six opponents in the first trial.
Raven entered the circle like a predator, her movements economical and precise. She didn't study Kael the way Victoria had. She just waited, perfectly balanced, utterly calm.
"Begin!"
Neither moved for three seconds. Kael recognized what she was doing—reading him, waiting to see how he'd approach. It was what he'd do against an unknown opponent.
He attacked first, testing her defenses with a simple combination. She deflected without wasted motion, countered with a strike to his ribs that he barely blocked. Fast. Incredibly fast.
They exchanged blows, and Kael realized he'd underestimated her. Raven wasn't just skilled—she was exceptional. Every defense flowed into an attack, every movement served dual purposes. This was someone trained by a master.
*Her father. The disgraced general. He would have taught her military combat systems.*
Kael had to elevate his game or lose. But elevating meant revealing more than he wanted. He walked a razor's edge, showing enough skill to compete without displaying his full capabilities.
Raven caught him with a kick to the thigh that numbed his leg. He stumbled, and she pressed the advantage. Kael defended desperately, giving ground, making it look like he was on the edge of defeat.
Then he saw it—a fraction of a second where Raven's weight shifted wrong. Not a mistake exactly, just a momentary imperfection. Kael exploited it instantly, slipping inside her guard and landing a controlled strike to her midsection.
Raven grunted, surprised, then smiled. Actually smiled.
They reset and continued. The match went on for three minutes—an eternity in combat sports. Both landed hits. Both showed skill. The watching students had gone silent, recognizing they were seeing something above the usual level.
Finally, Kael made his choice. He left an opening, deliberately, in his high guard. Raven took it, as he knew she would. But instead of defending, Kael accepted the strike to his shoulder and countered simultaneously, landing a more significant blow to her exposed ribs.
They both staggered back. Raven was breathing hard, hand pressed to her side. Kael's shoulder throbbed where she'd hit him.
"Yield," Raven said quietly. Then added, "You could have ended it earlier."
Kael said nothing, just nodded respectfully.
Professor Cross announced his victory, but Kael saw the way Raven was looking at him. She knew. Maybe not the details, but she knew he'd been holding back.
*Too much. I showed too much.*
The rest of the trials proceeded through the morning. Kael watched other matches while his body cooled down. Marcus won two of three fights. Sarah won one. Most scholarship students lost at least two matches.
By noon, all trials were complete. Professor Cross activated the holographic display showing final rankings. Three hundred names appeared, ordered from top to bottom.
Kael found his name: Rank 89.
Perfect. Just inside the Shadow tier, low enough to avoid serious attention, high enough to access basic training facilities and avoid servant duties.
Marcus had placed at Rank 67. Sarah at 134. David at 201.
And at the very top, untouched, was the existing ranking: Damien Morrison, Rank 1.
"Attention!" Professor Cross's voice cut through the murmuring crowd. "Your ranks are now established. They will be posted in all dormitories and public spaces. You may challenge those above you during scheduled ranking battles, held monthly. Dismissed."
The crowd dispersed, students heading toward their newly assigned quarters based on rank. Kael started toward the Shadow dormitories when someone fell into step beside him.
Raven Steele. Up close, she was shorter than he'd thought, maybe five-foot-six, but she moved with coiled intensity.
"You fight like the military," she said without preamble. "Not academy training. Military."
Kael kept walking. "I learned from whoever would teach me. Survival stuff."
"Survival stuff." Raven's tone made it clear she didn't believe him. "Where'd you learn the counter-strike pattern you used? That's not street fighting."
"Are you interrogating me or making conversation?"
"Both." She stopped walking, forcing Kael to stop too. "Look, I don't care what secrets you're carrying. Everyone here has them. But you deliberately placed at Rank 89. You could have been top fifty, maybe top thirty. So I'm curious—what are you hiding from?"
Kael met her eyes steadily. "Maybe I'm not hiding from anything. Maybe I'm hiding until the right moment."
Raven studied him for a long moment, then smiled slightly. "Fair enough. When you decide you're done hiding, find me. I could use a training partner who doesn't bore me."
She walked away, leaving Kael standing in the corridor.
Two people had noticed him now. Aria Blackthorn during the strategy trial, and Raven Steele during combat. He'd been too good, revealed too much trying to maintain middle rankings.
*Adjust. Adapt. The mission continues.*
Kael continued to his new dormitory room—slightly larger than the unranked quarters, with an actual desk and private bathroom. Small luxuries, but meaningful after three days of proving grounds.
He locked the door and pulled out his encrypted phone, typing a brief message to his master: *Established. Rank 89. Some attention from R. Steele and A. Blackthorn. Proceeding with caution.*
The response came quickly: *Attention is inevitable. Use it. Trust no one.*
Kael deleted the messages and hid the phone again. Through his window, he could see the academy's north wing—restricted access, faculty only. Somewhere in that building was Professor Magnus Thorn's office.
And somewhere in those files was evidence of who ordered his parents' deaths.
Soon. Not yet, but soon.
The ghost was patient. The ghost could wait.
But not forever.