The Triangle's primary training arena was a massive dome of reinforced steel and layered glass.
From the outside, it resembled a professional stadium.
From the inside, it felt like a proving ground.
The ceiling arched high overhead, interlaced with suppression arrays to dampen stray explosions. The floor was segmented alloy—impact-resistant, self-repairing, faintly etched with energy-diffusion patterns.
Everything about the space communicated one message:
Break things.
Just don't break the structure.
Class A students filtered in slowly, not in loud clusters but in controlled entrances. No one rushed. No one panicked.
They moved like people aware that being watched was constant.
And today, they were.
I walked in without hurry and chose a bench near the center—not too forward, not too peripheral.
Peripheral meant irrelevant.
Center meant challenge.
I aimed for neutral exposure.
The air hummed with magic signatures.
Even inactive students leaked pressure—wind flickering around ankles, faint static at fingertips, controlled bursts of earth energy under boots.
Privileged geniuses didn't just carry confidence.
They carried expectation.
And a handful of them carried wounded pride.
My arrival had displaced three seats on day one.
That kind of entrance wasn't subtle.
I sat down and folded my arms casually.
Lucas arrived moments later, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed in a way that felt almost deliberate.
"You're early," he said.
"Couldn't sleep," I replied.
He glanced toward the floor where a few students had begun warm-up drills.
"Good," he said. "Means you're thinking."
Thinking.
Not nervous.
Not excited.
Thinking.
He studied me openly, as always.
He wasn't suspicious.
He was building a model.
Before I could respond, the arena floor shook.
BOOM.
A compressed burst of wind detonated near the far wall, sending a ripple across the alloy surface.
Students flinched instinctively—
All except Lucas.
He blinked once.
That was it.
At the epicenter of the gust stood Raisel Silvius.
White hair drifting.
Purple eyes faintly illuminated.
Wind magic spiraled around her calves, tightening like a coiled spring before dispersing.
She hadn't attacked anyone.
She had simply landed.
A warm-up jump.
Arlo's voice sounded from behind us. "That's dramatic for 8 a.m."
Lucas exhaled through his nose. "She trains hard."
Raisel pivoted slightly.
Her gaze swept across the arena—
Then stopped on me.
It wasn't hostility.
It wasn't admiration.
It was classification.
Where do you fit?
That question lived in her eyes.
I didn't look away.
But I didn't stare back either.
Too much attention was an invitation.
Students began forming loose clusters across the dome.
Wind-users near the eastern quadrant.
Earth-users closer to the reinforced wall.
A few fire-types claimed central space.
The politics of proximity were quiet but precise.
I activated Eyes of Truth lightly—just enough to perceive energy flows without altering my own too drastically.
The arena shifted into layered clarity.
Wind magic pulsed erratically—high-output, high-burn.
Earth magic moved slowly but dense, like a weighted current.
Fire flared in spikes—sharp, emotional.
Water flowed smoothly, adaptive.
Lucas's energy stood apart.
Not magic energy.
Mana.
It moved differently—structured yet fluid.
He wasn't broadcasting it.
But it was there.
Controlled.
Reserved.
"You watch differently," Lucas said without looking at me.
"Different how?" I asked.
"Like you're reading patterns instead of people."
I deactivated Eyes of Truth immediately.
He caught too much.
"Observation's cheap," I said. "Mistakes aren't."
He smirked faintly.
Before he could push further, Instructor Lean entered.
No dramatic entrance.
No energy flare.
Just presence.
"Class A."
Conversations died instantly.
"Line up."
Students formed ranks quickly. No scrambling. No hesitation.
Hierarchy obeyed efficiency.
Lean walked before us, hands clasped behind his back.
"You are not here to become comfortable with each other," he said evenly. "You are here to understand your own limits relative to the room."
That phrasing mattered.
Relative.
Not absolute.
"Today," he continued, "you familiarize yourselves."
A subtle murmur moved through the line.
We all knew what that meant.
Lean clapped once.
"Free sparring. You choose your opponent."
The arena ignited with motion.
Challenges issued.
Glances exchanged.
Small rivalries sparked into formal bouts.
I stayed still.
Volunteering aggressively would signal insecurity.
Avoiding all confrontation would signal weakness.
Wait.
That was the correct choice.
Lean's gaze found me anyway.
"Dreyden."
Of course.
"You will spar."
"With who?" I asked.
Lean's mouth curved faintly.
"With someone appropriate."
He turned slightly.
"Thorne."
A tall boy stepped forward from the western quadrant.
Galen Thorne.
Sharp features.
Calculated smirk.
Wind signature strong—high velocity, efficient layering.
Resentment radiated off him like heat.
He had trained for a month.
He had earned his seat.
Then I arrived.
He cracked his neck slowly.
"So you're the replacement."
"I didn't replace anyone personally," I replied.
"You replaced three," he shot back.
There it was.
Not hatred.
Displacement.
We moved to the center.
The room gave us space.
Dhara stood near the edge—silent, attentive.
Riven leaned close to her, speaking quietly.
Arlo grinned openly.
Raisel crossed her arms.
Lucas watched without expression.
"Begin," Lean said.
Galen moved first.
Wind compressed around his legs—
Then he vanished forward in a blur.
Fast.
Not reckless.
His first strike curved—wind blade angling for my shoulder.
I sidestepped.
Too narrow.
The edge grazed cloth and skin.
Controlled aggression.
He didn't overcommit.
Good.
Second strike from the blind side.
I rotated instead of retreating, letting the momentum carry his arm slightly past center.
Eyes of Truth flickered on—
His energy output spiked before each burst.
Predictable micro-pattern.
Third strike.
I stepped inside the arc instead of away.
His eyes widened slightly.
He expected retreat.
I caught his forearm mid-swing.
Wind shredded across my sleeve.
Pain bit.
I ignored it.
Circulation flowed—
Fire Fists.
Not full power.
Controlled density.
Blue flame wrapped tight around my knuckles.
Galen tried to disengage, but I'd already anchored stance.
Impact.
BOOM.
The shockwave burst outward in a compressed ring.
He skidded backward, wind cushioning partially but not enough.
Gasps echoed.
Not outrage.
Surprise.
Galen forced himself upright, face flushed—not injured badly, but rattled.
He surged again, pushing harder.
Wind layered thicker this time.
His speed increased.
He aimed low—leg sweep backed by pressure.
I lifted, pivoted—
Then disengaged completely.
He stumbled half a step forward, overshooting.
Control wasn't the same as dominance.
I didn't need to crush him.
I needed clarity.
He turned, breathing heavier.
Humiliation hung in the air.
"Enough," Lean said.
Galen froze mid-motion.
"Winner: Dreyden."
No applause.
Just recalculation.
Galen stepped back without looking at me.
He didn't lash out.
That impressed me slightly.
Resentment was contained.
Contained resentment became future rivalry.
Not immediate chaos.
I returned to the bench calmly.
Lucas leaned closer.
"You didn't overextend," he said.
"No reason to."
"You could have finished harder."
"Yes."
Arlo grinned wide. "You folded him clean."
"It wasn't clean," I said. "It was early."
That mattered.
Early dominance made enemies.
Measured control created doubt.
Raisel's gaze rested on me a moment longer this time.
Not dismissive.
Not impressed.
Interested.
Dhara whispered something to Riven again.
The room resumed movement, but the tone had shifted.
Whispers threaded quietly:
"He adjusted mid-fight."
"That energy density wasn't normal."
"Does he have family backing?"
"Stella… that name sounds familiar."
I ignored it.
Reaction fed narrative.
Narrative shaped threat levels.
Lean's voice cut across the arena.
"Pair rotations continue."
More clashes ignited.
Wind collided with fire.
Stone barriers cracked.
Water turned to ice in midair before shattering.
I watched three matches without participating again.
Not because Lean prevented it.
Because information was valuable.
By the end of the session, I had learned:
Raisel's wind control was refined beyond Galen's—layered, multi-threaded.
Arlo's strength output was explosive but stamina-draining.
Dhara hid her actual capability—she held back deliberately.
Lucas didn't spar once.
No one challenged him.
And he didn't challenge anyone.
That spoke louder than any match.
When the session ended, students dispersed in clusters.
Galen avoided me.
Good.
Conflict delayed.
Lucas stood and stretched lightly.
"You adapt fast," he said.
"I don't like repeating mistakes."
He studied me again.
"You don't fight like someone trying to prove something."
"That's because I'm not."
He smiled faintly.
"Everyone here is."
Maybe.
But I wasn't trying to prove I belonged.
I was proving I could remain.
As we exited the dome, the morning air felt cooler than before.
Not physically.
Socially.
The arena had done what it was meant to do.
It updated everyone's internal rankings.
I had moved.
Not to the top.
But firmly into relevance.
Relevance meant pressure.
Pressure meant opportunity.
Lucas walked beside me without speaking.
Finally, he said quietly:
"Welcome to Class A."
This time, it didn't feel like a challenge.
It felt like acknowledgment.
And acknowledgment—
Was the first real currency of the Triangle.