One observer leaned in, squinting at the battlefield feed. "That's not just tech," they muttered. "That's intuition. He's reading the fight like it's written in his first language."
"He's not reacting," another added, fingers steepled. "He's composing."
Below, the training field was an orchestra of chaos—messy at first glance, but with a rhythm buried beneath the noise. Students unleashed their full arsenals: magnetic waves, telekinetic bursts, projectile storms, and raw elemental wrath. The machines responded in kind—fluid, calculating. A fire wielder was instantly shut down by a bot deploying cryofoam. A speedster miscalculated, caught off guard by a counterroutine woven into the drone's gait.
This wasn't just about power. This was adaptation unfolding in real time.
One bot shifted mid-swing as Tson blitzed in—anticipating him. He twisted under the blade, pivoted, let it graze past his chestplate, then drove a charged fist straight into its core. The impact crumpled the machine, sparks leaking from its seams before it collapsed under its own weight.
A quiet chuckle crackled over comms. Kevin. "They're learning."
Tson replied calmly, "So are we."
Kevin moved through the battlefield like a glitch in the simulation—blinking in and out, his suit flickering between frames like a broken hologram syncing with reality. Where Tson was kinetic thunder, Kevin was interference incarnate.
A cluster of bots closed in on a panicking student.
Kevin didn't wait.
He flashed in, blades sliding from his gauntlets. Three precise strikes—three dead cores. The final bot raised its arm, but Kevin was already gone, vanished into the shadows between moments.
Above, Nyra narrowed her eyes, mouth drawn tight.
Then something caught Kevin's attention.
Across the field, a figure stumbled into view. A man wearing a modified riding suit, lightweight armor stitched into the fabric. His helmet was sleek but scuffed, visor cracked from older battles. A red armband on his left bicep read: "Gear." Fingerless gloves. Heavy boots made for foot chases when the moped inevitably failed. He wasn't fighting—he was running. Or trying to.
Kevin stepped forward to intercept—then paused.
A massive bot loomed, barreling toward the rider.
But the man moved.
His suit hissed and clicked, a spring-loaded slingshot unfolding from the upper back. He braced, fired—thunk. A metal payload rocketed out and punched clean through the bot's knee. Sparks burst. The machine faltered, buckled, and slammed to the ground in a heap.
Kevin raised an eyebrow beneath his visor.
Not just a runner after all.
Tson, meanwhile, became a blur of lightning and muscle—zipping across the battlefield, dismantling machine after machine. Every hit was a statement. Every takedown, a signature. He was carving a name for himself into the annals of this year's trials. If there was a record to break, he'd be the one to break it.
But Kevin?
Kevin turned back toward the man with the slingshot rig. He walked over, offered a hand without a word. The man hesitated, then took it.
"You built that?" Kevin asked, nodding toward the smoking sling.
The man gave a half-smile. "Wasn't sure it'd work."
"It did."
And for a moment, in the eye of the storm, something clicked—between two survivors, two minds wired for survival. One an inventor, the other something close. Two gears turning in sync.
Kevin extended a hand, steady and calm. "I'm Ghostshade," he said.
The man—no, maybe just a boy pretending to be older—took it, pulling himself up with a slight nod.
"I'm Gears," he replied. "Nice to meet you, Ghost."
The two stood for a beat longer than necessary, the battlefield noise dimming around them. For just a second, it felt like they weren't in the middle of a live trial but on the verge of something bigger—like this handshake marked the beginning of a different kind of war.
Then came the whirring.
Three bots snapped into view over the ridge, their limbs unfolding with lethal grace. One of them had a scorched knee—limping, learning.
Gears backed up instinctively, fingers twitching toward a pouch at his side. "I've got one more shot," he muttered. "But it's not calibrated. Might ricochet."
Kevin didn't flinch. "I'll handle the first two. You take the one that remembers you."
"You sure?"
"Let's test your gear," Kevin said with a faint grin. "See if it's more than just scrap and hope."
He vanished mid-sentence, blurring into motion. The bots tried to lock on—but he was already slipping through one like smoke through steel. In a blink, he reappeared between them, blades unsheathed, a storm of sparks flaring as both machines jerked back, limbs twitching, systems scrambling to catch up.
The limping one locked eyes—optics—on Gears.
He sighed and muttered, "Yeah, yeah, I see you too."
The slingshot clicked into place once more, improvised from moped parts and suspension coils. Gears knelt, aimed, fired—
The shot screamed through the air, curving slightly from the instability he hadn't had time to correct.
The bot sidestepped—but not fast enough. The projectile clipped its shoulder, spun it around. Kevin was there in an instant to finish the job with a flash-step and a clean strike to its exposed back.
When it dropped, Gears exhaled sharply. "Okay… maybe not just scrap and hope."
Kevin smirked, adjusting his stance as the last echo of resistance faded from the field.
"Not bad," he said. "You freelance, or you looking to join a real team?"
Gears dusted off his gloves, trying not to look too eager. "Depends. You recruiting?"
"I might be."
Above them, Nyra's voice came through the comms, cool and clipped. "Ghostshade. Tson. Debrief in five. And bring the new guy."
Kevin gave Gears a knowing look. "Guess you're in."
Gears blinked. "Wait, really?"
Kevin was already walking. "You've got potential," he called back. "And you didn't die. That's a solid start."
Behind him, Gears jogged to catch up, a lopsided grin spreading under his cracked visor.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Not bad for Day One."
Tson shot past them like a lightning strike with purpose, tearing through another cluster of drones so fast the trailing shockwave sent nearby machines toppling. He called out over the noise, half-laughing, "What's this—flirting or forging an alliance?"
Kevin didn't turn. "Little bit of both."
Gears blinked. "Wait—what?"
"Relax," Kevin said. "He jokes when he approves. It's his version of clapping."