The cafeteria of the Triangle wasn't loud.
It was alive.
Students moved in organized chaos—trays clattering, utensils scraping, magic flickering unconsciously from fingertips when emotions spiked. Conversations overlapped in layers, fast and sharp, but none of it felt messy.
It felt structured.
Class D clustered in the far corner like prey animals—backs to walls, trays guarded instinctively.
Class C occupied the middle ground, trying to look confident while calculating threats.
Class B lounged with an ease that bordered on arrogance.
Class A sat at the top-center section—not separated by walls or elevation…
…but by fear.
No invisible barrier.
No signs.
Just distance.
Students didn't look at our tables unless they had a reason.
And when they did look, they looked quickly.
Quick glances.
Quick recalculations.
Eyes sliding away before they could be caught.
I noticed the way they pretended not to notice.
That was worse than hostility.
In the Triangle, being stared at meant you were a threat.
Being ignored meant you were irrelevant.
But being measured—
That meant someone was deciding what you were worth.
I was halfway through my food when Lucas Væresberg slid his tray across from me like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Thanks for saving a spot," he said casually.
As if sitting with me wasn't an announcement.
Arlo Stanford dropped into the seat beside him with no concern for consequences.
"Man, this is awkward," Arlo muttered between bites. "People keep looking over here. Feels like I'm getting evaluated."
"You are," Lucas replied evenly. "You're Class B sitting at a Class A table."
Arlo paused mid-chew.
"Oh. Right."
I kept eating.
Slow.
Unhurried.
I didn't rush because rushing implied nerves.
I didn't slow down because slowing implied dominance.
I kept pace.
Lucas leaned forward slightly—not conspiratorial, not secretive. He didn't need to lower his voice.
When someone like him spoke, the room leaned in automatically.
"So, Dreyden… interesting score yesterday."
A few nearby students went quiet.
Chopsticks paused.
Spoons slowed.
I raised an eyebrow. "Interesting how?"
"Most late arrivals land around 120 to 140 thousand," Lucas said. "You came in above 160."
"And past some early entries," Arlo added, glancing toward a blond boy two tables away. The blond boy looked down immediately.
Lucas rested his chin lightly against his knuckles.
"You're not just talented," he said. "You're structured."
That caught my attention.
"Structured?" I repeated.
"You don't move like someone surprised by success," he said.
That was dangerous.
"Everyone's surprised by something," I replied calmly.
His red right eye held mine a fraction longer than necessary.
He wasn't looking for a confession.
He was measuring stability.
Most people who spiked high early showed it—bravado, insecurity, anxiety, overconfidence.
I showed none of those.
Lucas smiled faintly.
"Fair."
Arlo snorted. "You two talk like you're negotiating a contract."
Before either of us could continue, a tray clicked neatly onto the table beside us.
Not slammed.
Placed.
Raisel Silvius stood there, white hair smooth, posture precise.
She didn't sit.
Didn't greet Arlo.
Didn't glance at my badge.
"Lucas," she said simply. "Training later."
"After class," he replied.
She nodded once and left without acknowledging me.
That wasn't disrespect.
That was categorization.
In her hierarchy, I hadn't earned space yet.
Arlo watched her leave. "She looks like she hates everyone equally."
"She doesn't hate," Lucas said. "She calculates."
"Same thing," Arlo muttered.
I finished my tray and stood.
Lucas looked up. "Training?"
"Later," I said.
He didn't push.
That told me something too.
He wasn't fishing for immediate control.
He was gauging pacing.
As I walked out, I felt it again—
Not admiration.
Not envy.
Suspicion.
Suspicion followed anomalies.
And anomalies didn't survive long unless they learned how to look normal on purpose.
Late arrival.
High score.
No public lineage backing me.
Stanford had a family.
Silvius had a dynasty.
Dogers had influence.
Væresberg had history.
Stella?
Stella had a shadow.
A name tied to a powerful clan.
A name that was supposed to be erased.
Which made my existence either an error—
or an embarrassment.
Neither option was safe.
The hallway parted slightly as I exited the cafeteria. Students adjusted their trajectories by inches.
Not bowing.
Not staring.
Just giving space.
A Class C student nodded quickly as he passed.
"Morning, sir."
Sir.
It landed awkwardly.
Respect in the Triangle didn't come from admiration.
It came from projected future consequence.
I didn't reply.
I didn't discourage it either.
Correcting hierarchy here was like removing scaffolding from a building mid-construction.
It collapsed on everyone.
I climbed the stairs toward the upper academic wing. Through reinforced glass walls, I saw training rooms active already.
Wind slicing through suspended targets.
Stone barriers rising and dissolving.
Fire bursting in controlled pulses.
Magic energy thrummed through the building like a secondary heartbeat.
Everywhere I looked, ambition burned.
No one trained casually.
No one moved without purpose.
They weren't students.
They were candidates.
Survival didn't belong to the most gifted.
It belonged to the most adaptable.
And adaptation started with understanding something most people ignored:
Reputation moved faster than strength.
I entered Class A1 and took my seat.
Lucas arrived two minutes later.
Raisel a minute after him.
Jayden Black sat in the back as always—quiet, unreadable.
Lean began class without preamble.
No greetings.
No idle commentary.
"The mid-cycle evaluation will occur in three weeks."
The room tightened.
"Performance during that evaluation determines rank stability."
Translation:
Underperform and you fall.
Overperform and you disrupt someone else's seat.
Every week in Class A was probation.
I listened but didn't take notes immediately.
Instead, I watched.
Who leaned forward.
Who crossed arms.
Who looked at Lucas when Lean mentioned "lead initiative."
Who glanced at Raisel.
Who avoided looking at me.
Patterns mattered more than lectures.
By the time class ended, I had confirmed something important:
Lucas wasn't dominant socially.
He was stable.
Raisel wasn't charismatic.
She was strategic.
Jayden wasn't isolated.
He was patient.
And me?
I was undefined.
Undefined was powerful.
Undefined was also fragile.
After class, Lucas glanced at me again.
"Gym at eighteen-hundred?"
"Maybe," I said.
He smirked slightly. "You don't commit easily."
"No point committing publicly," I replied.
His smile sharpened.
He liked that answer too much.
I left before the conversation could deepen.
The corridors buzzed with post-lecture energy. Class B students drifted toward sparring rooms.
Class C hurried toward supplemental training.
Class D moved fast—always fast—like stillness was dangerous.
This place felt less like a school and more like a kingdom operating without a crown.
Class A sat at the top—
But not because they were loved.
Because they were useful.
That difference mattered.
I passed a large open training chamber and paused briefly.
Inside, a duel was underway.
Two Class B students.
Controlled.
Measured.
Brutal.
Not because they hated each other—
But because they were competing for oxygen in a tight room.
The Triangle didn't need to threaten students constantly.
It designed scarcity.
Scarcity did the rest.
As I resumed walking, I felt the quiet hum of my energy core in my chest.
Stable.
Responsive.
Full.
Magic Energy: 102.
That number wasn't visible on my badge.
No one knew.
And that was the only reason it was useful.
Power displayed was challenged.
Power concealed was accumulated.
I stepped into a side corridor that connected to a less trafficked training wing.
Empty.
Good.
I activated Eyes of Truth gently.
The world shifted subtly.
Energy patterns became faint threads drifting from passing rooms.
Most were turbulent.
Unstable.
I studied my own.
The core pulsed cleanly.
My circulation was smoother than this morning.
Already.
The Triangle rewarded visible strength.
But it wasn't prepared for invisible acceleration.
And that was where I planned to live.
I closed the skill.
Breathed in.
Breathed out.
This world wasn't identical to the novel anymore.
Events shifted slightly.
New names appeared.
Reader characters existed without explanation.
Which meant one thing:
The system wasn't static.
It was adapting.
And if the world adapted—
So would I.
By the time I returned to my dorm hallway, the unspoken verdict was clear.
I wasn't the strongest.
I wasn't the most influential.
I wasn't the most dangerous.
Yet.
But I was being measured.
And measurement meant relevance.
I opened my room door and paused before stepping inside.
The Triangle had rules.
It had hierarchy.
It had brands and bloodlines and politics disguised as training.
But it had one weakness.
It believed talent surfaced slowly.
It believed growth followed normal patterns.
It believed students stayed within expected trajectories.
I stepped into my room and shut the door softly.
"They're watching for spikes," I murmured to myself.
"Not curves."
My lips curved faintly.
Good.
Because I had no intention of spiking.
I intended to bend.
And bend.
And bend.
Until one day—
They'd realize the shape of the academy had changed around me.
And by then?
It would be too late to measure.