The cacophony of the cafeteria faded behind Ark and Elijah as they stepped into the stark, utilitarian hallway leading to the Foundational Studies training grounds. The lingering buzz of gossip and the weight of countless stares felt like a physical pressure finally lifting from Ark's shoulders. The brief sanctuary of the meal was over; the relentless machinery of Hero High awaited.
Elster and Kyle had parted ways with them at the central junction, their paths diverging towards the gleaming, state-of-the-art facilities reserved for the Alpha class. Kyle had given Ark a final, enthusiastic thumbs-up, while Elster's farewell had been a softer, more complex look—a silent cocktail of pride, concern, and unresolved questions. Ark watched them go, the familiar pang of separation a dull ache in his chest. He was walking a path they could never follow, and the distance between them, both physical and metaphorical, was growing with every hour.
"They're really nice," Elijah ventured softly, breaking the silence between them as they walked. His voice was still tentative, as if unsure he had the right to speak.
"They are," Ark agreed, his gaze fixed ahead. "They're the best people I know." The truth of the statement was a grounding force amidst the chaos of his new reality. They were his tether to the person he used to be, even as he was being systematically reforged into something else.
The air in the Beta training hall was a stark contrast to the charged, gossip-fueled atmosphere of the cafeteria. It was cool, sterile, and carried the faint, metallic tang of effort and polished polymer. The space was functional and unadorned, a reflection of its occupants' place within the academy's rigid hierarchy. As Ark and Elijah filed in with the rest of their class, the lingering echoes of his victory seemed to dampen against the sound-absorbent walls.
Their classmates' glances were a mixed currency—some held a newfound, cautious respect, others a spark of vicarious triumph, and a few, the sharp, cold edge of calculation. He had reshaped the social landscape of Class B in a single, shocking duel, and now he had to live on the new terrain he had created.
Before the class could devolve into chatter, the air at the front of the hall shimmered. There was no sound, no dramatic entrance. One moment, the space was empty; the next, Felicia North was simply there, her presence imposing an immediate, attentive silence. She wore a form-fitting training suit of dark grey, her chestnut hair tied back in a severe yet elegant knot. Her eyes, intelligent and all-seeing, swept across the room, pausing for a microsecond on the empty space where Brody Hendricks should have been. A faint, almost imperceptible tightening around her lips was the only sign of her notice.
"Good afternoon," she began, her voice calm and resonant, requiring no artificial amplification. "Theoretical knowledge provides the map. Physical conditioning prepares the vessel. Today, we bridge the two. Power without control is chaos. Control without a capable vessel is futility."
Her gaze seemed to linger on Ark for a moment, as if her words were a direct commentary on his recent, unorthodox victory. "You will pair up. We begin with foundational close-quarters drills. The goal is not to overpower your partner, but to understand leverage, balance, and the economy of motion. Your body is your first and most fundamental weapon. Learn to wield it with intention."
As the class began to shuffle into pairs, Ark's thoughts briefly flickered to the absent Brody. He felt no gloating satisfaction, only a cold, pragmatic assessment. He had neutralized an immediate threat but had likely created a more entrenched and vengeful long-term enemy. He thought of Elster and Kyle, likely in their own advanced training session, and felt the familiar pang of their separation. They were in a different world now.
---
The knock was soft, a series of timid raps against the reinforced metal of Brody Hendricks' dorm room door. The hallway was silent, classes not yet begun.
"Brody? It's Chloe." Her voice was muffled, strained with nervous tension. "We have to go. Theory and Physical with Ms. North is next. You can't be late on the first day. She'll… she'll notice."
From within the room, there was no response. Only a thick, heavy silence that seemed to push back against her words.
"Brody, please. Just open the door. We can talk about it."
The silence shattered.
"GET LOST!"
The roar from inside was raw, guttural, vibrating through the door. It was not just anger; it was a sound of pure, wounded fury, laced with a profound humiliation that made Chloe physically recoil. She stood frozen for a moment, her hand hovering in the air, before letting it drop to her side as if the weight of his despair was too much to bear. Her face, usually a carefully composed mask of popular confidence, crumpled into an expression of helpless frustration. With a defeated sigh, she turned and walked away, her footsteps echoing her failure in the empty corridor.
Inside, the room was a tomb. Brody had torn the blinds shut, plunging the space into a gloomy twilight. He sat on the edge of his bed, his large frame slumped, head buried in his hands. The knuckles of his fingers were white where he gripped his hair. The hot, shameful tears that streaked through the grime on his face were a testament to an agony that went far deeper than the physical aches from the duel.
The memory of the gym was a searing brand on his mind. The feel of Ark's fist—the Null's fist!—connecting with his jaw. The shocking, unforgiving impact of the wall against his back. The sound of applause, not for his victory, but for his very public dismantling. Each replay was a fresh lash, stripping away another layer of his carefully constructed armor.
But the humiliation was merely the spark igniting a much older, more volatile fuel. His mind, trapped in its own private hell, spiraled back through years of a different, more insidious pain.
He was seven again, small and perpetually in the shadow of his brother, Freed, who at sixteen already carried the effortless mantle of the Hendricks heir. Their family name was a monument in the world of heroes, one of the original lineages personally guided by the vanished legend, High-Man himself. The estate was a gallery of his ancestors' glory, their stern, powerful faces in portraits that seemed to judge his every childish inadequacy.
The memory crystallized with painful clarity. The private training chamber, a cathedral of steel and humming energy. Freed stood at its center, their father, Magnus, a figure of immovable authority, observing him.
"Not with your hands, Freed. With your mind," Magnus's voice boomed, not unkindly, but with an expectation that was itself a form of pressure. "The metal is not a tool you hold. It is a part of the world you command. Feel its presence in the air. Bend it to your will."
And Freed did. Without a single gesture, a rack of practice swords made of high-grade steel trembled, then lifted into the air, orbiting him like iron planets around a sun. He was the center of his own magnetic universe, a true master of the fundamental force that was his birthright.
Brody, forgotten in the corner, watched with a yearning so intense it was a physical ache. He felt a strange heat in his own chest, a pull, a desperate hope. He focused all his will on a single, discarded bolt on the floor. Move. Please, move. He strained until his vision spotted, his small body trembling. The bolt remained inert, a testament to his failure.
His father's gaze eventually found him, not with encouragement, but with a weary, dismissive patience. "Not yet, Brodrick. Your time will come."
But when his time did come, years later, it was a betrayal. The power that awoke within him was a pale, pathetic echo of the Hendricks legacy. He felt no cosmic connection to magnetic fields. He could not summon, could not command from a distance.
All he could do was absorb.
He had to touch the metal, feel its cold, dead weight against his skin. He could draw it into himself, sheath his limbs in a crude, heavy armor. He was not a master of metal; he was its prisoner. A walking, talking vault.
The day his ability was confirmed, his father had simply nodded, his face a mask of stoic disappointment. "A useful defensive variation," he'd stated, the words a life sentence. "You will need to work twice as hard to be of any use."
In a family of legendary offensive power, he was a shield. "Work twice as hard" was a constant reminder that he was inherently, genetically lesser.
His brother Freed, by then a celebrated young hero, had given him a condescending pat on the back. "Don't worry, little brother. We'll find a place for you on the support line." The kindness in it was worse than cruelty. It was an affirmation of his limits.
That was the rotten core of him. The reason he sought out the Arks and Elijahs of the world. It was the only way to feel a shred of the power that his bloodline had denied him. If he couldn't be a true Hendricks, he could at least be a king among the broken.
And now, even that was stolen.
Ark Greystone, a boy with no power, a Null, had not just beaten him. He had held up a mirror and forced Brody to see the truth he had spent his life running from. He was a fraud. His power was a defect, and his strength was a bluff.
A fresh, silent sob wracked his frame. The metal he could absorb felt less like a power and more like chains, and Ark Greystone had just hammered the locks shut. He was, and always would be, standing in his brother's shadow, and now that shadow had swallowed him whole.