The hush across the courtyard snapped when every student received a sleek bracelet, proof of their enrollment in the day's free-for-all—which meant hand-to-hand combat training. The rules were simple: lose your bracelet, you’re eliminated. No mercy. No second chances.

Tyrone’s lips curled into a sneer when he saw Mark. Whispered conspiracies formed between him and his followers. When the signal was given, they surged toward Mark, eager to send their rival crashing.

From the edge of the melee, Risa Alfres stepped into view. The moment their eyes met, she nodded and moved beside Mark—no strings attached. He accepted the alliance, curiosity piqued by her unwavering support.

The battle erupted. Feet pounded and arms flew. Risa moved with precision: each strike, feint, and block carved through Tyrone’s allies. She knocked out three opponents in rapid sequence—graceful but brutal. Mark watched, momentarily transported back to the evenings of his childhood training. His father’s voice echoed in his mind:

“Versatility is key. Even without powers, you can be a threat. You can be dangerous.”

In that memory, both past Mark and present Mark whispered, Yes, Father. And then Mark sprang into action. He fought five of Tyrone’s goons single-handedly and, with a final blow, cleared the battlefield. Tyrone himself stepped forward only to find himself surrounded—and swiftly incapacitated.

One dazed fighter named James stared wide-eyed. “Who… who are you?” he stammered.

“Mark… Mark Velocida,” came the reply, calm and final.

Across the ring, Ariel collided with Light—hair pale, eyes yellow. Their clash was fierce. Light landed a near-fatal strike, but at the last instant, Mark silently activated misdirection, distorting Light’s perception just enough that she missed. The free-for-all ended in a chaotic blur. Light glared across at Mark, lips curved into a sly smirk.

Later, in the dorm’s quieter corridors, Light and Risa exchanged words. In soft tones, Risa confessed. She and Light had enrolled not for glory, but to shield Mark—from the darkness of his legacy. “He may seem hardened now,” she said quietly, “but inside, he’s still that innocent kid.” It was a revelation that flickered with unspoken loyalty.

**The next day dawned with challenge: capture the flag—teams of four. Mark found himself partnered with Max Red, Garth Kren, and a random transfer named Dave. Max eyed him with thin contempt. Don’t mess up like last time, he taunted.

A flashback struck—Mark on the ground before, watching a pink-haired girl hold the flag aloft. Suddenly, the present clicked into reality as the game began. The moment the whistle echoed, attackers descended. Ten students rushed Mark, assuming he was the weakest link. But they underestimated him.

He fought. Agile, composed, lethal. One by one, opponents dropped. When he turned—only Heather remained. Long pink hair, fierce gaze. She held the flag high. Noted, Mark thought. She’s one of few stronger than me.

They engaged fiercely. Heather’s speed and precision eclipsed Mark’s defense. She landed the final strike—and claimed the flag.

Surprising, Mark admitted inwardly. Heather is here… she’ll be a thorn.

That night, a message awaited Mark in his inbox: Meet me. Now.

He followed the directions to an abandoned alcove near the academy’s outer wall. A figure stood beside a flickering light—shoulder turned—voice calm in the dark.

“I need a favour,” the stranger said.

Mark braced for confrontation—but this voice wasn’t the spy. His mind spun. The spy and this messenger were different.

“If you attack me, I’ll send all proof of your hacking to the entire faculty.”

Mark's jaw clenched. The warning landed like cold steel.

He exhaled slowly. No matter how many adversaries I face… I will always win.

He turned away into the night, telepathic defenses silent, lightning core humming in readiness. Whatever game had started, he was determined to finish it—on his terms.