Chapter Three: Assessment Day

Morning at Nephron Academy didn’t begin with bells.

It began with pressure.

Roy felt it the moment he opened his eyes — a subtle, omnipresent weight pressing down on the campus, like the academy itself was awake and watching. The dormitory windows filtered pale light through reinforced glass, casting long shadows across the room. Somewhere down the hall, metal rang sharply — a locker slammed shut with more force than necessary.

Assessment day.

Roy stretched, joints popping softly, and sat up on his bed. He rolled his neck once, then twice, wincing just a little before smoothing his expression back into its usual easy calm.

“Sixteen,” he muttered. “Still creaky. That’s unfair.”

Blake Hector was already awake, pacing the room with barely contained energy. Every step he took carried a faint distortion, like the air itself struggled to keep up with him. He stopped suddenly, looked at Roy, and grinned.

“You ready to make history, Unknown?”

Roy glanced at him. “I was thinking of making breakfast first.”

Connor Ryan, seated at the small desk near the window, didn’t look up from tightening the straps on a pair of reinforced gauntlets. “You joke when you’re calm,” he said. “And when you’re nervous.”

Roy shrugged. “Multitalented.”

Blake laughed. Connor allowed himself the ghost of a smile.

They filed out together, joining the steady flow of students moving toward the assessment grounds. The academy’s inner training fields stretched wide and open, circular platforms embedded into the earth like ancient dueling rings. Above each ring floated a translucent screen, ready to display combat data, rankings, and performance metrics.

Tutors stood at the perimeter.

Watching.

Roy recognized Blake’s mother immediately — posture straight, arms crossed, eyes sharp but controlled. Connor’s mother stood beside her, fingers steepled thoughtfully, already analyzing the students before a single match began. The third tutor, a tall man with graying hair and a scar that traced the length of his jaw, said nothing at all. His gaze lingered longer than necessary on Roy.

Roy waved cheerfully.

The man did not wave back.

“Friendly bunch,” Roy whispered.

Blake smirked. “They’re deciding how hard to break us.”

Assessments began with sparring matches.

Controlled. Non-lethal. Closely monitored.

Roy watched as D-ranks and C-ranks cycled through first, aura flaring clumsily, abilities raw and unrefined. He saw confidence shatter quickly when technique failed to support power. He saw arrogance punished by discipline.

When B-ranks stepped up, the air changed.

Fights became sharper. Faster. Cleaner.

Roy’s name remained uncalled.

He leaned against the railing, hands in his pockets, watching with interest rather than tension. He studied footwork, timing, how abilities were activated under pressure. A boy manipulating stone relied too heavily on brute force. A girl wielding sound-based aura telegraphed her attacks through breath.

Marcus would’ve scolded them all.

Then Tanya stepped onto the ring.

Conversation died instantly.

Her opponent was a B-rank with reinforced limbs — confident, muscular, already smirking as if he’d accepted defeat before the fight even began. The screen flashed their data, then the signal sounded.

Tanya didn’t move.

Gravity did.

The air around her opponent compressed suddenly, invisibly, driving him to one knee before he could even react. His limbs trembled, aura flaring desperately as he tried to resist, but Tanya merely tilted her head.

The pressure doubled.

The match ended in under five seconds.

No cheers followed. Just silence.

Roy exhaled slowly. “Yeah,” he said softly. “That tracks.”

Tanya stepped down from the ring, expression unchanged, eyes briefly flicking toward Roy before looking away again. It wasn’t curiosity.

It was recognition.

When Roy’s name was finally called, the murmurs returned.

The screen above his ring flickered again, struggling briefly before displaying the same result as yesterday.

Rank: UNKNOWN

His opponent was a B-rank.

The boy looked irritated — not afraid, not cautious — just annoyed at the inconvenience of fighting someone unranked. He rolled his shoulders, aura flaring red-hot around his fists.

“Don’t waste my time,” the boy said.

Roy smiled. “I’ll try.”

The signal sounded.

The B-rank lunged immediately, power-first, technique-second. Roy sidestepped effortlessly, movement smooth and almost lazy, letting the punch sail past where his head had been a heartbeat earlier. He ducked low, pivoted, and tapped the boy’s knee with just enough force to disrupt balance.

The crowd murmured.

The B-rank recovered fast, swinging wide, aura blazing brighter now. Roy retreated two steps, then three, letting the attacks pass close enough to feel heat brush his skin.

He was smiling.

He always smiled when things got interesting.

When the opening came, Roy took it — slipping inside the boy’s guard, driving a controlled strike into the ribs, then a sweep that sent his opponent crashing to the ground.

The match ended seconds later.

Roy hadn’t even broken a sweat.

B-ranks watched him differently after that.

The second match came faster.

Another B-rank. Stronger. Smarter.

This one landed a hit.

Roy felt the impact bloom across his shoulder, sharp and deep. He rolled with it instinctively, dispersing the force, but the pain lingered — hot, insistent.

He hid it easily.

By the time the match ended, the crowd had stopped whispering and started watching.

The tutors had stopped pretending not to care.

Connor’s mother frowned. Blake’s mother leaned forward slightly. The male tutor’s gaze sharpened.

“Interesting,” he murmured.

Roy stepped off the ring, rolling his shoulder once. It protested. He ignored it.

That was when the pressure in his chest shifted.

Not violently.

Not urgently.

Just… closer.

Roy paused mid-step.

For the briefest moment, he thought he heard something — not a voice, not words — more like a presence stretching, as if waking from a nap.

He shook his head.

“Yeah, no,” he muttered. “Definitely not today.”

Blake clapped him on the back. “Man, you’re ridiculous.”

Roy grinned. “I aim to please.”

By late afternoon, assessments wound down.

Results were logged. Tutors retreated into private discussions. Students clustered in groups, replaying fights with animated gestures and exaggerated retellings.

Roy sat on the edge of the training field, watching the sky shift toward evening.

He felt… good.

Tired. Bruised. Alive.

That was when the academy gates creaked open again.

Heads turned.

A lone figure stood at the entrance, silhouetted by the fading light.

She was late.

Her uniform was pristine but dusted with frost along the edges, breath visible in the warm air. Pale hair fell loose around her shoulders, and her eyes — calm, sharp, unreadable — scanned the academy grounds as if measuring them.

The temperature dropped.

Not drastically. Just enough.

Roy felt it immediately.

The tutors noticed too.

The male tutor straightened. “Ice aura,” he said quietly. “Strong.”

The screen nearest the gate flickered to life.

Name: Lira Ben

Age: 16

Registered Origin: Nephron Academy

Ability: Ice Aura

Rank: A

Whispers rippled outward.