"Measurements," Coach Minami announced, her voice cutting through the lingering adrenaline in the room like a scalpel. "Are the first step to evolution. You cannot improve what you cannot quantify."
She signaled to Coach Borgard, who walked down the line of us carrying a heavy, metallic case. He popped the latches, revealing rows of sleek, black wristbands. They didn't look like standard fitness trackers, if anything they looked like shackles designed by a corporate tech company from Silicon Valley, seamless, matte black, with a single, pulsing crimson light on the underside.
"Take one!" Coach Borgard grunted, thrusting the case toward Marie. "Put it on your left wrist! Tight!"
As the bands were distributed, I picked mine up. It was heavier than it looked, dense with circuitry. I slid it over my hand and cinched the strap.
Snick.
It locked automatically.
Then, a sharp, sudden sting.
"Ow!" Adrien yelped, clutching his wrist. "It bit me!"
"The hell?" Mr. Shoi muttered, rubbing his wrist.
"What was that? An injection?" Miss. Famala questioned our instructors.
"It sampled you," Coach Minami corrected, tapping away on her tablet. "That prick was a micro-needle. It just took a blood sample to sequence your DNA, analyze your current metabolic state, and lock the device to your biometrics. It is now part of you. It will visualize your health, your stress levels, and your output in real-time. Do not try to remove it. Remove the device from your wrist, and you will get a strike."
"Charming," Mr. Montreal muttered, rubbing his wrist. "Nothing says 'elite education' like forced bloodletting."
However, Coach Minami's last words did perk many ears up, including mine.
"A strike…?" Miss. Vexley mused. "What strike? Is that like a demerit?"
This school seems to possess a strike system that could be similar to baseball, instead of misses, it's when actually violating the school rules or destroying property like these bracelets. And the penalties of getting a strike would most likely be decreasing our Requiem Progress Bar which would decrease our monthly allowance, and decrease our Ruby Points, which would lower our ranks. Those are the most logical consequences of getting a strike since it was the only thing that made us compensate when violating the rules or destroying property.
Although hearing this, makes us, the students of Class H, tell us that Miss. Akkerman deliberately held this information from us during orientation day.
The only way I can think of why is either this information was not supposed to be told yet and was supposed to be hidden, which doesn't make sense given Coach Minami's casual mention of a strike.
So given the ominous demeanor of Miss. Akkerman, it might be from a detached amusement of having us Class H be oblivious to the punishment system of finding it out just from violating the rules when it is too late, or maybe it was just wanting her own personal assessment on us specifically to see who could figure it out? If it is the latter, then she must be exceptional in reading expressions to tell who might have figured it out when that time comes.
Another possibility is that Miss. Akkerman could have told Miss. Minami to talk about the strike system in a way that would catch us off guard, before our gym period started. Although this possibility is not exclusive to my latter possibility. although to go through the lengths to conceal such an intention if that is the case, is really unnecessary if it was gonna be figured out soon enough since all it would take is just to buy the information… or just ask another teacher.
"Perhaps it's like a baseball strike system?" Miss. Famala coined it. "When I was in Uganda, I know I said it during introductions, but I played baseball for my youth team, so maybe it's like that, but with the compensation being decreased, our Requiem Progress Level and Ruby points?"
I looked at Miss. Famala. "That's a marvelous point you made, Miss. Famala." I complimented her.
"I-it was just a connection to make… but thanks…"
Miss. Lehi near Miss. Famala pulled her close and spoke. "Well well Areli, it looks like you've fallen to the magicians charms, I'm quite jealous~"
"I'm not wooed by his charms despite it being… Difficult to not notice…" Miss. Famala denied her claim. "… it was just disarming and I was caught off guard by his sudden compliment."
"Sure sure~" Miss. Lehi purred.
I don't believe Miss. Lehi meant it was a tease despite her efforts into framing it as a way to tease her, but more so as a warning.
Miss. Lehi has shown bias towards Miss. Famala, or rather the nature of being protective to a friend and a possible future lover.
And that aligns perfectly with Miss. Lehi's philosophy of anarchy, because she rejects the form of control regardless of whether it is done clinically or with supposed altruistic intent.
A person that values control or those who want pawns or tools will have an impossible time trying to manipulate Miss. Lehi since she can see who manipulates or detects a single string.
Which is also why it is a beautiful contradiction for what she is doing, since she values anarchy, but her action of protection of Miss. Famala is a form of control of trying to force the perception of Miss. Famala seeing my comment from a compliment to a means of control through disarmament.
Does this make Miss. Lehi weak for contradicting her own anarchist belief? No, humanity by nature is contradictory in itself, hence why I do not believe in the perfection and imperfection of humanity since neither exist. It is just the nature of humanity to be contradictory, I myself am not an exception to this since even my distaste of manipulation and seeing people as pawns or anything other than human can be perceived as contradictory with my actions betraying my beliefs. In which case it is understandable given how I handled James, Leonid, Miss. Naomi, Milicia, Miss. Rivera, and Miss. Georgiadis.
What one must do with this contradiction within themselves is not to give in to what others perceives, but to still stick to their beliefs without altering it or giving them up completely, because if one does give up on their own beliefs, then they lost themselves and will never feel complete no matter how successful they become in their life for giving up on themselves.
"I think Miss. Lehi makes a good point, Miss. Famala," I decided to agree with Miss. Lehi without making it obvious that I knew her intentions and not pointing out the contradiction in her action and her philosophy. "She merely wants you not to be blinded by me, which is understandable considering the environment and situation we are in."
A lot of my classmates looked at me as if I were an alien when I gave my understanding and essential interpretation of Miss. Lehi's comment. "So you just heard someone comment about Areli being supposedly wooed by your serene compliment and the first thing you heard was Zisel warning her?" Miss. Vexley asked me as she had an expression of bewilderment, due to my interpretation, and curiosity, due to how I figured out Miss. Lehi's warning to Miss. Famala, which in return showcased Miss. Vexley also figuring that out to me without her saying a single thing that proved that she also figured it out, after all she is a professional gamer, which means she would see people as archetypes and find ways to see what their advantage stats are and how to counter them.
I looked at Miss. Vexley with my serene smile as my eyes reflecting that of understanding. "To perceive the invisible strings between people is a talent, Miss. Vexley," I said, my voice dropping to a conversational hum that cut through the gym's ambient noise. "But to interpret them requires context."
I gestured slightly toward Miss. Lehi, who was currently feigning disinterest while still being near Miss. Famala.
"Miss. Lehi is an anarchist by nature. Anarchy, in its purest philosophical form, is not about chaos. It is about the rejection of unjust hierarchies and the preservation of absolute autonomy. When she warned Miss. Famala, she was not merely being jealous or protective in the pedestrian sense. She was identifying a potential power dynamic, my influence over Miss. Famala, and attempting to sever it before it could take root, in a sense, it was anticipatory shielding. To an anarchist, influence is a form of governance. And governance is a cage."
I paused, letting the words settle.
"She acted out of a desire to keep Miss. Famala free, even if that freedom meant shielding her from a single compliment. It is a beautiful, if slightly paradoxical, expression of loyalty. She exercised control to prevent control. A contradiction, yes, but a human one."
"He's doing the thing… he's spinning webs again, like what he did when he stole my watch to get me to pickpocket his phone…" Mr. Montreal muttered to Mr. Miroslav. "Making sense out of nonsense."
"It's not nonsense Borsalino," Mr. Miroslav corrected, his brow furrowed. "It's… A systematic analysis of personality. He's reverse-engineering her ideology."
"Which makes it fascinating given how detailed Isaac is being." Mr. Mercado softly added.
Miss. Lehi stiffened. Her purple eyes snapped to mine as they narrowed. She knew that I knew.
I had dissected her contradiction without exposing the raw, vulnerable core of her affection for Miss. Famala.
I had painted her as a principled warrior of freedom rather than a terrified girl afraid of losing her friend to a charismatic magician.
Although given the apparent reputation with my nicknames and with the Miss. Georgiadis incident, it's understandable.
Miss. Lehi offered me a single nod, a truce in her perspective given that she is viewing me with less hostility than before, even though no one noticed but me. "You talk too much, Isaac," she grunted, turning away a bit. "But you aren't wrong."
"I rarely am about the matters of the heart," I said softly.
Then, I turned my full attention back to Miss. Vexley.
She was shrinking away, her hazel eyes darting back and forth across my face in a pattern that was… rhythmic. Up, down, left, right. Saccadic movements.
She was not looking at me, she was looking at the data points that weren't there.
"But you Miss. Vexley," I said, taking a slow deliberate step toward her. "You saw that instantly. You processed the interaction between Miss. Lehi, Miss. Famala, and I, and you arrived at the conclusion before I even spoke, you saw the data no?"
"I… I just guessed," Miss. Vexley stammered, her hands twitching at her sides. Her finger curled, thumbs resting on the side of her index fingers, the resting position of a console gamer holding a controller.
"No," I correct gently. "A guess is a shot in the dark. You fired a sniper round."
I stopped two feet from her. I let my posture relax, my shoulders dropping, my breathing syncing with hers. I wanted to be non-threatening. I wanted to be a blank canvas.
And in order to do that, I must speak Miss. Vexley's language of gaming.
Once doing so, it won't be like the time during orientation day when I psychoanalyzed Marie, it won't be like the time I reconstructed Aurelie's trauma of Mr. Kwon through re-enactment…
"You categorize people, don't you?" I asked. "Not by rank. Not by social standing. You see… archetypes. Stats. You look at me, and you don't see Isaac Mahoka. You see a Level, a Class, and a Threat Rating."
Miss. Vexley froze, her breath hitched. "How…?"
"Because your eyes are tracing a heads-up display that only you can see," I whispered.
The gym was silent, and even Milicia was silent, though she looked at me with a mix of curiosity, hunger, and undeniably lust. Let's call this emotion Libidinous Curiosity for the sake of it.
"Synesthesia," Mr. Maximiliano murmured. "Perceptual synthesis… She cross-wires sensory input with cognitive associations. She literally gamifies reality to process it."
It is more of a form of ideathesia, since it relies more on abstract concepts rather than linear sensory. And this is usually honed due to early learning and shape, and the fact that Miss. Vexley has a unique one, and from her expression confirming the threat level, it would mean Miss. Vexley honed her own cognitive skills to perhaps predict and evade abuse if she needed a threat level symbolism in her mechanism.
"Exactly," I confirmed it, never breaking eye contact with Miss. Vexley. "But tell me, Miss. Vexley… What happens when you encounter a glitch? When you meet someone whose code you cannot read?"
Miss. Vexley swallowed hard. She looked terrifyingly small. "You… you don't have a level. Your bar… It's gray. It keeps glitching. It scares me."
"It shouldn't," I said.
I extended my hand out. Not to shake, but palm up, inviting.
"Would you like to fix the glitch? Would you like to see the code underneath?"
"I... I don't..."
"A game, Miss. Vexley," I said, slipping seamlessly into my Magician's soft grin. The air around me seemed to shimmer. My voice became a melody, a low, hypnotic rhythm designed to bypass the conscious mind and speak directly to the subconscious. "Just a calibration test. A patch update. Trust the developer."
"Is he... is he going to hypnotize her?" Adrien whispered, vibrating with excitement and apparently nervousness.
"Shh," Marie hissed, her eyes wide, most likely fascinated to see more of my capabilities. "Watch."
Miss. Vexley looked at my hand. Then at my eyes.
The curiosity of the gamer, or in this case, a professional gamer, the need to unlock the secret level, overrode her fear.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Good," I smiled. "Focus on my hand. It is the cursor. It is the point of origin."
I began to move my hand. Slow, fluid arcs.
"The world is noisy, Miss. Vexley. Too many pixels. Too much lag. But here... in this space... the frame rate is perfect. Infinite. Smooth."
Her eyes locked onto my hand. Her breathing slowed.
"You are in the lobby," I said, my voice deepening. "The safe room. No enemies here. No timers. No quests. Just you... and the code."
Her eyelids fluttered. Her posture slumped. She was under.
It was a light trance, a conversational hypnosis, but on a mind as overactive and visually oriented as hers, it was incredibly effective. I had bypassed her firewall.
This was the way to debug her through reconstruction, not by re-enacting, not by reading through objects, and not by mirroring.
But by entering her past and her memories through this magician's hypnosis, while at the same time, make sure that she is not violently exposed as a mentalist would, but by having her feel seen and understood like a magician would to show her the wonders of the debug that would release her from her own trauma even if it takes a long time to, this will be the beginning domino to help her.
"Tell me," I asked softly. "Where are we?"
"The... The Loading Screen," Miss. Vexley murmured, her voice flat, detached. "It's black. Just a cursor blinking."
"And before the Loading Screen?" I asked, pushing gently. "Before you came to this school. Where were you? What was the level?"
"The Basement," she whispered. A tear leaked from her closed eye. "The Grinding Floor."
The atmosphere in the gym grew heavy. Even the instructors, Coach Minami and Coach Borgard, stood still, watching this psychological surgery unfold.
"Fascinating…" Coach Borgard muttered, speaking low for the first time but to Coach Minami. "It's like he is entering her past… should we stop it?"
"That's because he is," Coach Minami whispered back to him. "By putting her into a hypnotic state through consent and understanding, she has welcomed him into her past and integrated himself into that past of hers to help her… what a terrifying skill… to possess… and no since this period is two hours long, we should have enough time…"
It appears Coach Minami grasped the intent of what I am doing.
"Tell me about the Grinding Floor," I commanded gently to Miss. Vexley.
"Dark," she said. Her hands began to spasm, miming the rapid inputs of a keyboard. "Four monitors. The air smells like... mold and energy drinks. Can't leave. The door is locked. He... he says I have to hit Challenger Rank. Or... or no food."
My heart clenched despite my heartbeat remaining sixty-two beats per minute, as I felt her trauma which was immensely profound. Gamification of Trauma through Dissociative Synthesis.
She hadn't played games. She had been a prisoner. A gold farmer. A boosting slave. Locked away in some dark room, by her close ones, who saw her only as a means to an end.
To survive, she had dissociated. She had merged with the screen. Reality became the game because the game was the only place she had agency. The only place she could win and find peace. The real world was pain, hunger, and the locked door. The game was freedom.
So she overlayed the game onto reality. She turned people into NPCs to make them manageable. To make them predictable.
"You played well," I said, my voice thick with an empathy that I allowed to bleed into the air, filling the gym with a sorrowful warmth. "You carried the team, Miss. Vexley. You followed the meta. You survived the raid."
"I... I'm tired," she whimpered. "My hands hurt. My eyes burn. I want to log out."
"You can't log out," I said. "Because you think the game is all there is. You think if you stop playing, 'He' will come back. You think you'll be deleted."
"Yes," she sobbed. "Delete character. Wipe save."
"I am an admin," I lied. Or perhaps, in this moment, it was the truth. "And I am overriding the protocol."
I stepped closer. I placed my other hand gently on her forehead.
"Miss. Vexley, Look at me."
"I... I can't. You're a glitch. You're a virus."
"I am not a virus," I said firmly. "I am a Player Two."
Her eyes snapped open. They were unfocused, seeing through me, seeing the HUD.
"Player... Two?"
"You have been playing single-player survival for a long time," I said. "But the server has merged. You have potential party members now. Look around you."
I gestured to the class. To the multi expressions on the faces of Class H.
"Look at Miss. Lehi. Is she an enemy mob?"
Miss. Vexley looked at Miss. Lehi. She blinked. "No... She's... a Berserker Class. Ally?"
"Ally," I confirmed. "Look at Leonid. Is he a boss?"
"Tank Class," she muttered. "Damaged durability. Needing healing."
"Of course, I'm used as an example…" Leonid muttered but was too entranced by this event.
"Ally," I said. "Look at me."
She looked at me. I dropped the serene mask for a split second, letting her see the raw, chaotic, infinite empathy beneath. The "glitch."
"I am not a glitch Miss. Vexley. I am the Developer's Console. I am telling you that the quest is over. You don't have to grind anymore. You don't have to level up to eat. You don't have to win to exist."
I tapped her forehead.
"System Reset. New Objective: Explore."
Miss. Vexley gasped. Her body jolted as if she had been physically struck. The tension that held her shoulders, the permanent hunch of someone protecting their vitals from a blow, snapped.
She collapsed forward.
I caught her.
"I... I..." She looked up at me. The hazel eyes were clear. The frantic searching was gone. She saw me.
"You're... you're Isaac," she whispered.
"I am," I smiled. "And you are Miss. Vexley. Not a gamer tag. Not a rank. You."
She buried her face in my chest and wept. It wasn't the hysterical crying of a breakdown, it was the soft, releasing weep of a prisoner stepping into the sunlight.
"Holy shit," Mr. Montreal whispered. "Did he just... exorcise her demons?"
"He reprogrammed her," Mr. Falk corrected, his bored eyes filled with a sudden understanding. "He deconstructed her trauma mechanism, entered her delusion, and rewrote the win condition. That... that is terrifying."
"It was beautiful," Miss. Naomi wiped a tear from her eye. "He saved her."
"He hacked her brain," Mr. Shoi murmured, a clinical fascination in his voice. "He deduced the etiology of her psychosis in seconds and treated it with a narrative therapy session disguised as hypnosis. He's... he's a monster."
"A gentle monster," Miss. Famala clarified, looking at me with a newfound respect.
Milicia, who had been watching silently, tightened her grip on my arm again. "You fixed her," she whispered, her voice laced with jealousy, curiosity, and awe. "You fixed the broken toy. You really cannot help it can you?"
"She survived a dungeon, Milicia," I said quietly to her. "She leveled up in hell. That is not weakness. That is fortitude."
I gently set Miss. Vexley back on her feet. She wiped her eyes, looking around the gym.
"It's... quieter," she said, looking at Miss. Lehi, then at Leonid. "The numbers... they're gone. I mean, I can bring them back if I want, but... they aren't screaming at me."
She looked at me. "Thank you, Player Two."
"Anytime, Player One," I bowed as Milicia and I went back to where we were standing.
"You act like a saint," Mr. Maximiliano whispered as I passed him. "But that was the most invasive display of psychological dominance I have ever witnessed. You rewrote her, Isaac. That is expected of you."
It seems Mr. Maximiliano is not bothering trying to hide the fact that he knows me, although given that the angle earlier of seeing Miss. Dolfuss was in the same angle view as Mr. Maximiliano to see her expression too, and the fact he saw me doing that as well. It would make sense he would drop the stranger act of not knowing me instantly.
"I helped a friend," I said simply.
"Is that what we call it?" he adjusted his glasses. "I call it godhood."
My stomach turned after hearing 'godhood', it was something I never liked to be considered as.
I'd rather not let the actions I do be considered godhood, since I have no intentions of being a 'god' metaphorically, although in his perspective, literally.
As Milicia and I got back, she pulled my ear close to her face. "Isaac, here is a new rule in our new partnership, no talking to other girls," Milicia whispered to me. "I can't let the good quality get taken by these feline gazelles."
I already missed the Houdini nickname, since now I'll be referred to as Lord Apollo in Class H by a specific feminine boy whom I shall not name, and King of Trash or Leech King from the others besides a few I have become friends with or already acquainted with.
But since Milicia is using my actual name, this would mean she genuinely sees me as an equal in her viewpoint.
"But it only makes sense if I interact with them, no?" I gently countered quietly.
"Not when your charisma is that of a god." Milicia retorted.
Mother… what have you done…
My apparent charm went from being a magician charm… to a black hole… to the literal sun God Apollo… and now the concept of a god itself…
It's like the nicknames, but now for my personality traits apparently.
Everything about me is a mess in the social perception of myself.
Well, I have no choice but to accept it, not that it'll take a toll on me, since I have many things to think about other than my sassy preferences.
"Unfair point Milicia… but I yield." I conceded.
Mr. Alexandrescu cleared his throat, diverting the attention back to our gym instructors. "We are getting off topic," He looked at Coach Minami and Coach Borgard. "Is what Areli said true? The strike system being that? Considering you two are teaching Class H, then by extension, you would have to work with Miss. Akkerman and must have informed you about this omission."
It was a logical assumption to make, and a similar conclusion I have reached.
Coach Minami nodded. "Yes, the strike system works as a form of a demerit system that is based on if you violated the school rules and is proven, if you cheat in a matchup, or you score below the passing grade in an academic exam. You are rewarded a strike, the strike in question deducts your Ruby Points and Requiem Progress Bar by fifty percent. And if you reach ten strikes, you are automatically expelled with no appeals."
So that's the punitive system that this school establishes for us, and I'm certain most won't care about the strike system, since they'll likely try to stress-test it to find a loophole.
"Ten strikes..." Mr. Beckham murmured, his face losing what little color it had left after the revelation of our superhuman curriculum. "So, we are essentially walking on a tightrope over a pit of spikes. One slip is a mistake. Ten slips is... death. Social death."
"It is a bit dramatic, don't you think?" Mr. Montreal laughed, though the sound was brittle, lacking his usual con-man confidence. "Expulsion with no appeals? That sounds less like a school and more like a totalitarian regime. I didn't sign up for 1984, I signed up for a business degree."
"You signed up for power, Borsalino," Mr. Maximiliano corrected gently, cleaning his glasses with the hem of his black gym jacket. "Power always comes with the threat of absolute loss. It is the cost of doing business."
"Business? This is slavery with extra steps!" Miss. Lehi snapped. She kicked the gym floor, her combat boots making a dull thud. "And that Akkerman woman... she knew. She stood there during orientation with that smug smile and didn't say a damn word about strikes or expulsion. She watched us walk into the trap."
"She is testing us," Miss. Naomi suggested timidly, though she looked terrified. "Maybe... maybe she wanted to see if we would ask?"
"No," Miss. Lehi spat. "She's just a bitch. A manipulative, sadist bitch who gets off on withholding information. I bet she's watching a feed right now, laughing."
"Language, Zisel," Coach Minami warned, her eyes not leaving her tablet. "Disrespect toward faculty can be construed as a strike. Consider this your only warning."
Miss. Lehi opened her mouth to retort, likely something colorful involving the Coach's lineage, but Miss. Famala placed a calming hand on her shoulder.
"Save it, Zisel," Miss. Famala whispered. "Don't give them the satisfaction."
I watched the exchange with a serene, internal hum. Miss. Lehi wasn't wrong about Miss. Akkerman, of course. Our homeroom teacher had the disposition of a spider who enjoyed the vibration of the web more than the meal itself. But getting angry at the web didn't help you escape it. You had to understand the silk.
"Enough chatter," Coach Borgard boomed, his voice echoing off the high ceiling. "Line up! Rank order! Highest to lowest! Rank 176, front and center!"
Ah, Marie appears to be going first.
Marie stepped forward. She looked at the grip strength testing machine a sleek, vertical hydraulic press with a handgrip that looked like it belonged in a torture chamber, and gulped.
"Remember," Coach Minami said, her voice devoid of warmth. "The bracelet knows your output. If you hold back, if you try to hustle us... it will correct you. The voltage scales with your resistance. Go all out, or pay the price."
Marie gripped the handle. She took a deep breath, her eyes narrowing in calculation. She squeezed.
The machine whirred. The numbers on the digital display climbed rapidly.
800... 1200... 1500...
"Hnnng!" Marie grunted, her face flushing.
1852 kg.
She let go, panting. "That... is illogical," she wheezed, looking at her hand. "I... I shouldn't be able to exert that much force. My muscle mass doesn't support it."
"Post-human potential, Marie," Coach Minami noted, typing into her tablet. "Your adrenaline response is highly efficient. Next."
Mr. Beckham stepped up. He looked at the machine like it was a bomb. He grabbed it.
1640 kg.
"Not bad for a treasurer," Mr. Montreal quipped from the line.
"Shut up, Borsalino," Mr. Beckham muttered, shaking his hand out.
Adrien was next. He sauntered up, winking at me as he passed. "Watch this, Lord Apollo. I'm stronger than I look."
He grabbed the handle. His face contorted, losing its usual flirtatious charm for a second of pure strain.
1950 kg.
He beamed. "See? I have hidden depths!"
"Next," Coach Borgard grunted, unimpressed.
Mr. Mercado walked up. The scholar of nature. He gripped the handle calmly.
1620 kg.
"Average," he whispered to himself. "Acceptable."
Mr. Alexandrescu. The detective. He adjusted his glasses before gripping the machine.
1980 kg.
"Analysis complete," he murmured, stepping back.
Then came Mr. Falk. He yawned as he approached the machine. He didn't even adopt a stance. He just reached out with one hand, looking utterly bored.
CLICK.
3500 kg.
The number flashed red. The class went silent.
"Three... three and a half tons?" Mr. Moon whispered. "He barely moved!"
Mr. Falk let go, rubbing his wrist. "Can I go back to sleep now?"
"Next!"
Miss. Lehi stepped up. She didn't look at the machine, she looked at Mr. Falk and Milicia. A competitive fire burned in her purple eyes. She grabbed the handle and roared. It wasn't a scream, it was a guttural release of anarchy.
3000 kg.
She let go, scowling. "Tch. Not enough."
"It is plenty, Miss. Lehi," I said softly from the back of the line. "Raw strength is not the only metric of power."
She glanced back at me, her scowl softening just a fraction. "Whatever, Magician."
The line continued.
Nirvan Fajr: 1920 kg.
Arabella Vexley: 1880 kg.
Tao Shoi: 2050 kg.
Kai Moon: 1750 kg.
Baldwin Miroslav: 1900 kg.
Areli Famala: 2100 kg.
When Miss. Famala hit 2.1k, Miss. Lehi actually blushed. "Damn, Areli," she whispered. "You've been holding out on me."
Viviana Winchester: 1580 kg.
Mihal Faust: 1800 kg.
Then, Mr. Maximiliano stepped up, removed his glasses, folded them, and placed them in his pocket. He gripped the handle. He didn't grunt. He didn't strain visibly. He just... applied force.
2800 kg.
"Efficient," he noted, retrieving his glasses.
Miss. Bosque cracked her knuckles. She grabbed the handle and squeezed. The machine actually groaned.
4200 kg.
"Hell yeah!" she shouted, high-fiving a terrified Mr. Montreal. "That's how we do it in España!"
Borsalino Montreal: 1550 kg.
"Hey, I'm a lover, not a fighter!" he defended himself against the snickers.
Giovanni Bombacci: 2400 kg.
Leonid Novikov: 2600 kg.
Alexandra Dolfuss: 2750 kg.
Camila Perez: 1890 kg.
Naomi Jun: 2000 kg.
"Two thousand?" Miss. Naomi stared at her hands. "I... I can lift a car?"
"You're an idol, Miss. Naomi," I said. "You carry the weight of public expectation. A car is light by comparison."
She smiled weakly at me. "Thanks, Isaac."
And then. Milicia.
She walked up to the machine. She didn't look at it. She looked at me. She winked.
She placed her hand on the grip.
CRACK.
The sound wasn't the machine breaking, but it sounded close. The metal shrieked. The display numbers blurred, unable to keep up with the acceleration of force.
6600 kg.
Six. Point. Six. Tons.
"Whoops," Milicia grinned, letting go. "Almost broke it. Guess I'm just too much woman for this machine."
The class was silent. That was double Mr. Falk's score. It was triple almost everyone else's.
"Next," Coach Minami said, her voice betraying a hint of satisfaction. "Isaac Mahoka."
I stepped forward.
I looked at the machine. Then I looked at the wristband on my arm. The red light pulsed slowly, syncing with my heart rate.
Sixty-two beats per minute.
I gripped the handle.
I squeezed. Gently.
500 kg.
The wristband buzzed. A warning. Insufficient effort detected.
I squeezed a little harder.
1000 kg.
Zzzzt.
A sharp shock ran up my forearm. It stung, like a hornet sting, but I smiled.
"Is there a problem, Isaac?" Coach Minami asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No problem, Coach," I said serenely. "Just... calibrating."
I kept the pressure steady at 1000 kg. I felt the circuitry in the band analyze my biometrics. It knew. It knew my muscles were barely engaging. It knew I was lying.
ZAP.
The voltage spiked. It wasn't a sting anymore. It was a jolt, designed to force compliance through pain compliance. My muscles twitched involuntarily.
I held the smile. I didn't increase the pressure.
Come on, I thought, projecting the thought toward the machine, toward the algorithm, toward the administration watching through the lenses. Show me the ceiling. How far are you willing to go to force evolution?
ZZZZZAAAAP!
The third shock was brutal. It was enough to drop a horse. It coursed through my nervous system, seizing my triceps, rattling my teeth. I felt it in the center of my chest, a disruption to the cardiac rhythm.
My heart rate jumped. Sixty-three beats per minute.
But I didn't let go. And I didn't squeeze harder.
I looked directly at Coach Minami. Her eyes widened slightly. She saw it. She saw me taking the punishment, absorbing the voltage that should have knocked me unconscious, and refusing to yield to the negative reinforcement.
I was testing the fence. I was showing them that their shock collar didn't work on me because I allowed it to hurt.
Then, just as the safety protocols were about to likely shut the device down to prevent cardiac arrest, I engaged.
I didn't grunt. I didn't shift my stance. I simply allowed my muscles to do what they were built for.
The number skyrocketed.
1000... 2000... 2500... 3000.
I stopped at exactly 3000 kg. Matching Miss. Lehi's.
I released the handle. Smoke drifted from my wristband.
"Three thousand," I said, rubbing my wrist where the skin was slightly reddened. "A nice, round number."
Coach Minami stared at me. She looked at her tablet, where the data stream must have been showing a chaotic mess of voltage spikes and flatlined biological stress responses.
"You..." she started, then stopped. She cleared her throat. "Three thousand. Noted."
She made a note on her tablet. I knew what she was writing. She wasn't writing my score. She was writing a query. She was going to contact the interviewers. She was going to ask who the hell Isaac Mahoka was and why he was ranked 200 and placed in Class H.
Good, I thought. The door is open.
This school's performance on my stage is not over yet, there is one more assistant waiting for their arrival on stage.
"Alright!" Coach Borgard yelled, breaking the tension. "Results are up on the big screen! Look and weep!"
GRIP STRENGTH RANKING:
* Milicia Milosevic: 6,600 kg
* Sinclair Bosque: 4,200 kg
* Aurelian Falk: 3,500 kg
* Zisel Lehi: 3,000 kg
* Isaac Mahoka: 3,000 kg
* Leonidas Maximiliano: 2,800 kg
* Alexandra Dolfuss: 2,750 kg
* Leonid Novikov: 2,600 kg
* Giovanni Bombacci: 2,400 kg
* Areli Famala: 2,100 kg
* Tao Shoi: 2,050 kg
* Naomi Jun: 2,000 kg
* Avram Alexandrescu: 1,980 kg
* Adrien Leroux: 1,950 kg
* Nirvan Fajr: 1,920 kg
* Baldwin Miroslav: 1,900 kg
* Camila Perez: 1,890 kg
* Arabella Vexley: 1,880 kg
* Marie Curie: 1,852 kg
* Mihal Faust: 1,800 kg
* Kai Moon: 1,750 kg
* Enoch Beckham: 1,640 kg
* Benecio Mercado: 1,620 kg
* Viviana Winchester: 1,580 kg
* Borsalino Montreal: 1,550 kg
"Last place?" Mr. Montreal groaned, putting his head in his hands. "I'm the weakest link? This is humiliating."
"Don't worry, Borsalino," Mr. Mercado patted his back. "Being the weakest monster is still being a monster. 1550 kg is enough to crush a skull like a grape."
"That... doesn't make me feel better, Benecio!"
"Look at the average," Mr. Maximiliano noted, scanning the board. "The mean grip strength is roughly 2,300 kg. The standard deviation is massive due to Milicia, but even the lowest quartile is operating at superhuman efficiency."
"I tied with the Magician?" Miss. Lehi looked at me, raising an eyebrow. "You holding back, Isaac? I feel like you're holding back."
"I gave it my all," I lied smoothly, well I gave almost my all. "You are simply very strong, Miss. Lehi."
"Hmph." She didn't look convinced.
"Now!" Coach Borgard blew his whistle. "Enough staring at numbers! Time to see if those legs work as well as your hands! Outside! Track field! Move it!"
We filed out of the gym, the transition from the climate-controlled air to the outside world hitting us like a physical blow.
It was hot. Not just warm. It was a heatwave. The air shimmered above the asphalt. The sun beat down with a malice that felt personal.
"It's boiling!" Miss. Vexley complained, shielding her eyes. "My skin is going to melt! I'm an indoor creature!"
"It is approximately 38 degrees Celsius," Mr. Maximiliano calculated. "Humidity is at 80 percent. The heat index is dangerous."
"Perfect weather for a run!" Coach Borgard grinned sadistically. "Ten laps! That's ten miles! You have five minutes!"
"Five minutes?!" Adrien shrieked. "That's... that's 120 miles per hour! We aren't cars!"
"Then you better start running!"
Milicia walked to the starting line. She looked at the track, then at her legs. She scowled.
"Too hot," she muttered.
Then, without a shred of hesitation or shame, she reached down and unzipped her gym pants.
"Oh not this shit again…" Miss. Perez muttered.
"Whoa!" Mr. Montreal covered his eyes, though he was peeking through his fingers. "Milicia! Warning next time!"
She shucked the pants off, revealing tight, black compression shorts that left absolutely nothing to the imagination regarding the power of her thighs.
"What?" She threw the pants to the side. "It's hot. Deal with it."
THUD.
The pants hit the grass. It wasn't the soft rustle of fabric. It was a heavy, metallic thud, like a bag of sand dropping.
The class froze.
Mr. Falk walked over to the discarded pants. He nudged them with his toe. They didn't move. He bent down and tried to lift them with one hand.
He strained. His bicep flexed. He lifted them.
"Weighted," he announced, dropping them. Another heavy thud. "High-density lead weave. Maybe... fifty kilograms? Per leg?"
"She was wearing a hundred kilos of extra weight?" Mr. Moon asked, horrified. "And she still almost killed Isaac?"
"Handicaps," Mr. Alexandrescu adjusted his glasses. "She walks around handicapped to keep to herself... contained… with the exception of that kick."
Milicia stretched her legs, the muscles rippling freely now. "Ah, much better. Now I can actually run."
She looked at me. "Try to keep up, Isaac."
"I will do my best," I said.
"GO!" Coach Borgard blew the whistle.
We took off.
It was a stampede.
The wind rushed in my ears. The heat, oppressive a moment ago, became a blur of warm air rushing past.
Milicia was a blur at the front. Without the weights, she was terrifying. She wasn't running as it looked like she was devouring the track.
I settled into a rhythm. My breathing synced with my stride. In, two, three. Out, two, three.
Lap one. Lap two. Lap three.
We were moving at speeds that defied logic. The world blurred into green grass and blue sky.
Lap five.
"I'm... dying..." Mr. Montreal wheezed as I passed him.
"Keep... moving..." Miss. Winchester panted, her face red.
Lap seven.
"Too... fast..." Adrien gasped. He was stumbling. His form was breaking down.
Lap eight.
It happened in slow motion.
Adrien's foot caught the edge of the track. He pitched forward.
Right in front of him, Miss. Naomi, exhausted and barely keeping her eyes open, tripped over his flailing leg.
They were both going down. At this speed, hitting the track would be like hitting a belt sander. They would lose skin. They would break bones.
I did not hesitate to go to them.
I broke my stride, accelerating. I surged forward, cutting between Mr. Maximiliano and Miss. Dolfuss.
I reached out.
My right arm hooked around Adrien's waist. My left arm scooped up Miss. Naomi.
I didn't stop. I couldn't stop. If I stopped, the momentum would crush us all.
I kept running.
I adjusted my center of gravity, compensating for the sudden addition of roughly 130 kilograms of human weight. My core tightened. My legs pumped harder, digging into the track, throwing up divots of rubber.
"W-what?!" Adrien yelped, finding himself suddenly airborne, tucked under my arm like a football. "Lord Apollo?!"
"Isaac?!" Miss. Naomi squeaked from my other side.
"Hold on," I said calmly, my voice barely strained.
"Do not wiggle. It will throw off my aerodynamics."
I kept pace. I saw Milicia ahead, looking back. Her eyes widened when she saw me carrying two people. She grinned, a wild, delighted thing, and sped up.
I chased her.
Lap nine.
"He's carrying them!" Mr. Beckham shouted from behind us. "He's literally carrying them!"
"Showoff," Miss. Lehi laughed, though she sounded impressed.
Lap ten.
Milicia crossed the finish line.
I crossed it two seconds later, sliding to a halt, gently setting Adrien and Miss. Naomi down on the grass.
"Time!" Coach Minami called out. "4 minutes, 48 seconds for the lead!"
I stood up, brushing my gym uniform off. I wasn't panting.
"Are you two injured?" I asked Adrien and Miss. Naomi.
"I..." Miss. Naomi stared at me, her face bright red.
"You... you carried us. For two miles."
"I felt like a princess," Adrien sighed, swooning onto the grass. "A princess in the arms of a god."
"Isaac!" Milicia stomped over, looking furious.
"Yes, Milicia?"
"Why didn't you carry me?" she demanded, poking my chest. "I won! I should get the princess carry!"
"You were too fast," I pointed out. "I couldn't catch you."
"Excuses!" She huffed, crossing her arms, though she looked pleased that I had chased her.
Coach Borgard walked over to us, showing our times on Coach Minami's tablet.
TIMED RUN RESULTS (10 MILES):
* Milicia Milosevic (4:48)
* Isaac Mahoka (4:50 - Carrying two passengers)
* Sinclair Bosque (4:52)
* Marie Curie (4:53)
* Zisel Lehi (4:54)
* Aurelian Falk (4:55)
* Leonidas Maximiliano (4:56)
* Alexandra Dolfuss (4:56)
* Areli Famala (4:57)
* Leonid Novikov (4:58)
* Giovanni Bombacci (4:59)
* Tao Shoi (5:00)
* Avram Alexandrescu (5:01)
* Nirvan Fajr (5:02)
* Camila Perez (5:03)
* Enoch Beckham (5:05)
* Benecio Mercado (5:06)
* Borsalino Montreal (5:08)
* Baldwin Miroslav (5:10)
* Kai Moon (5:12)
* Arabella Vexley (5:15)
* Mihal Faust (5:18)
* Viviana Winchester (5:20)
* Adrien Leroux (5:25 - DNF/Carried)
* Naomi Jun (5:25 - DNF/Carried)
"Not bad!" Coach Borgard yelled. "Most of you made it without puking! That's a win in my book!"
"Isaac Mahoka," Coach Minami said, looking at me. "Carrying other students is... unconventional. But effective. However, in a real scenario, they would be dead weight."
"In a real scenario, Coach," I said, "I would ensure they didn't fall in the first place."
She stared at me for a moment, then nodded once as we all headed back into the gym once more.
"Finally back in air conditioning." Miss. Vexley sighed softly, glad that we were back in the gym.
I personally like the cool air more than the heat, so I suppose I cannot disagree with Miss. Vexley.
"Don't get too comfortable, I believe this is the part where we play dodgeball according to them." Mr. Shoi pointed out.
"Now," she announced. "The final event. Dodgeball."
She gestured to the center of the court, where a pile of balls sat. They weren't the red rubber balls of childhood. They were heavy, leather-bound medicine balls. 5kg each.
"These," she said, "will break ribs if you aren't careful. The goal is not just to hit the target. It is to survive."
"Medicine balls?" Mr. Montreal squeaked. "We're playing dodgeball with cannonballs?"
"This is Class H's first Intrapersonal Event," Coach Minami continued. "The winning team's leader receives 50 Ruby Points. Members receive 20. However..." She paused. "If a team wins with all members surviving... The winning team members, including the leader, get 60 Ruby Points. And your Requiem Progress Bar levels up five times. That is a 2,500 Requiem monthly increase."
The air is electrified. 2,500 Requiems was a fortune. 60 Ruby Points could jump a rank instantly.
"Captains," Coach Borgard barked. "Milicia Milosevic. Isaac Mahoka. Top two runners. Pick your teams. Milicia, you're first."
Milicia stepped forward, grinning like a shark. She looked at the group. She didn't look for friends. She looked for weapons.
"Adrien Leroux," she said.
I owe you my life, Milicia, for picking him.
Adrien jumped up. "Me? Really? I'm honored, my queen!"
"You're bait," she said bluntly. "Get over here."
If I can guess the patterns correctly…
"Mr. Maximiliano," I said.
Mr. Maximiliano nodded, walking over to stand beside me. "A logical choice, Isaac. I will help calculate the angles."
"Aurelian Falk," Milicia picked next.
Mr. Falk sighed, walking over. "Fine. But I'm staying in the back."
"Miss. Dolfuss," I picked.
Miss. Dolfuss grinned, skipping over. "Oh, this is going to be messy. I love it."
"Sinclair Bosque," Milicia chose.
"Fuck yeah!" Miss. Bosque cheered, joining Milicia as they both high-fived.
"Miss. Perez," I said.
"Solid choice," Miss. Perez nodded, joining my line.
"Marie Curie," Milicia said.
Marie froze. She looked at me, her eyes wide. She had been waiting for me to pick her. She wanted me to pick her.
"No," Marie said, crossing her arms. "I refuse. I want to be on Isaac's team. He understands my logic."
Milicia walked over to Marie. She didn't ask again. She reached out, grabbed Marie by the front of her gym shirt, and lifted her off the ground until their faces were inches apart.
"Did I ask?" Milicia whispered, her voice low and terrifying. "You're on my team, you horny Sherlock. You're going to tell me where to throw it. And if you refuse... I'll use you as the ball."
Fear, usually is a predictable motivator, knowing Marie, she would understand that and call out the bluff.
But this isn't fear in a gamble, this is fear that Milicia is inducing, and Marie found no bluff, only a promise, and after seeing Milicia's physical display, she is absolutely terrified of Milicia.
Marie went pale. She looked at me for help, but I stayed silent.
I'm sorry Marie, but I already anticipated I would be unable to pick you, and I'll make sure to compensate.
"Fine," Marie squeaked. Milicia dropped her. Marie scurried over to Milicia's side, looking traumatized.
"Miss. Naomi," I said gently.
Miss. Naomi let out a breath of relief, running to my side. "Thank you, Isaac!"
"Leonid Novikov," Milicia picked, smirking at him. "Come here, coward. Time to see if you can actually fight."
Leonid gritted his teeth but walked over. "I'll make sure to lose on purpose to not give you the satisfaction of winning." Milicia ignored his desperate bluff.
"Mr. Alexandrescu," I said.
"Giovanni Bombacci," Milicia countered.
"Mr. Shoi," I picked.
"Nirvan Fajr," Milicia said.
"Miss. Lehi," I said.
"Mihal Faust," Milicia picked.
"Miss. Famala," I said.
"Viviana Winchester," Milicia chose.
"Mr. Mercado," I said.
"Kai Moon," Milicia picked.
"Mr. Beckham," I said.
"Baldwin Miroslav," Milicia finished.
"Miss Vexley," I said.
"and Mr. Montreal," I finished, taking the last pick.
"Picked last again," Mr. Montreal sighed, joining my team. "Story of my life."
We stood in two lines, facing each other across the court.
The teams were set.
I looked at Milicia's team. She had the heavy hitters. Miss. Bosque. Mr. Bombacci. Mr. Falk. She had the raw power. She had the nuke. And even had Marie, the logical reasoner.
I looked at my team. I had the thinkers, wildcards, and heart.
"They have the stats," Mr. Maximiliano whispered beside me. "Physical probability favors them 70 to 30."
"Probability is just a suggestion, Mr. Maximiliano," I said, my serene smile widening as I looked at Milicia across the line.
She was grinning at me, tossing a 5kg medicine ball in one hand like it was an apple.
"Ready to lose, partner?" she called out.
"I am ready to play," I replied.
"Both teams will have ten minutes to strategize," Coach Minami announced."Use that time wisely!"