The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, throwing a cold glow onto the concrete floor. Xavier pulled the hood of his sweatshirt over his head, wishing he could teleport out of this mess. But no such luck—he was here, stuck in the Lower Dorms, surrounded by a bunch of other unranked nobodies waiting for the system to either chew them up or let them climb.
He hated mornings.
Not in the "ugh, my alarm went off" kind of way. No—mornings here meant another chance to get beaten, ranked, tested, judged, and reminded that failure wasn't an option. That if you fell behind, nobody would reach out a hand to help you up.
Just another day trying not to die.
The dorm was loud despite the early hour. Some students were already moving—shuffling toward the training wings, getting ready for drills, or arguing over something stupid, like stolen protein bars. Xavier ignored them, tossing his bag over his shoulder and heading toward registration.
Aurum Combat Academy had one rule: fight, rise, survive. No breaks, no second chances—just nonstop grinding until you either became strong enough to move up or got stomped so hard that nobody remembered your name.
And right now? Xavier barely had a name.
Rank 312. Lower Dorms. Bottom feeder.
He stepped into the registration hall, scanning the room. It was massive, all steel and glass, with digital screens flickering overhead. Names constantly shifted on the ranking boards, updating in real time as fights happened across the academy. Xavier's own ranking sat untouched. Stagnant.
Unacceptable.
The clerk barely looked at him as he scanned his chip. "You're assigned to Combat Basics this morning, followed by endurance drills. Don't be late."
Xavier took his schedule without a word and walked out. Being late meant getting punished, and punishment here didn't mean detention—it meant losing ranks. And losing ranks meant getting stomped.
The training hall smelled like sweat and metal.
Mats covered most of the floor, scuffed and torn from years of impact. Heavy bags lined the walls, marked with deep imprints from students who had thrown punches harder than any sane human should. Everything in this room told a story—every crack, every dent, every faded stain. This was where students bled, fought, and either learned or got tossed aside.
Xavier stepped into line with the rest of the newcomers. Some were excited, hyped, chatting about their future ranks. Others looked nervous, shifting uncomfortably, keeping their heads down. Xavier was somewhere in between.
He didn't need to talk to anyone. He just needed to not suck.
The instructor—a thick-shouldered man with a scar down his left cheek—clapped his hands once, loud enough to silence the room. "Alright, welcome to Combat Basics. If you think you already know how to fight, congratulations—you're wrong. If you think this class is just about throwing punches, congratulations—you're gonna get your ass kicked."
Xavier exhaled slowly.
Already love this guy.
The instructor paced in front of the group, eyes scanning each student like he was picking out the weakest links. "In this academy, fighting isn't just about hitting. It's about control. It's about efficiency. You throw a punch and don't know what the hell you're doing? You just wasted energy. You throw a kick and forget to guard? You just lost a fight."
Silence.
"Every move has a purpose," he continued. "Every strike should mean something. And if it doesn't, then what the hell are you doing here?"
Xavier rolled his shoulders, feeling the tension creep in. He'd fought before—not in tournaments, not in rings, just in streets where winning meant walking away and losing meant waking up with fewer teeth.
But this? This wasn't survival.
This was a calculated war.
The instructor stopped abruptly, then pointed.
At him.
"You. Kael. Step up."
Xavier blinked. "Me?"
"Yes, you. What's your name?"
He swallowed. "Xavier Kael."
The instructor nodded. "Alright, Kael. Let's see what you've got."
A sudden rush of adrenaline hit Xavier's veins.
First test. First fight. First shot to prove that he wasn't just rank 312 trash.
He stepped forward into the training ring, facing another student—a taller guy, probably ranked higher, with a cocky smirk like he already knew how this was gonna end.
"Fight."
The moment the instructor said the word, the taller student lunged.
Xavier reacted instantly.
Duck—too slow. A fist grazed his shoulder, knocking him off balance.
Recover—keep moving.
His opponent pivoted, already throwing another strike. Xavier barely dodged, his instincts kicking in too late.
He was fast—but not fast enough. The next hit came hard, a solid jab to the ribs that made Xavier stumble.
A voice snapped through the noise.
"Sloppy."
The instructor's critique cut deeper than the punch. Xavier gritted his teeth, reset his stance, and ignored the pain.
Fine. If finesse wasn't working, he'd rely on survival.
His opponent smirked and threw another punch—but this time, Xavier reacted faster. He twisted his body, let the strike glance past him, and in that split second, he saw his opening.
He grabbed the guy's wrist—twisted hard—and threw him off balance.
The taller student staggered, tripped, landed flat on his back.
Silence.
Then—laughter.
The instructor chuckled, arms crossed. "Not terrible, Kael. Messy, but effective."
Xavier exhaled, rolling his sore shoulder.
He'd won—barely—but it wasn't pretty.
Not bad for a first shot.
And more importantly—he wasn't rank 312 anymore.