The next morning arrived fast.
The city looked different in the dawn haze—like it hadn't decided if it wanted to shine or crumble. Tson stood in front of the Vortex Academy entrance, surrounded by dozens of hopefuls. Some had flashy suits, others glowing tattoos or bio-mods that pulsed with latent power. It was a crowd of ambition, desperation, and barely-contained energy. Everyone wanted a shot at glory. Most wouldn't even make it past the first test.
Kevin arrived late, hoodie draped low over his head. His new suit—sleek and seamless—clung like a second skin, segmented with plates of silvery-gray metal that caught the light in sharp glints. Faint orange-red pulses ran along the lines of the armor, humming with contained energy. A hood masked his form, shrouding him in a shadowy, assassin-like silhouette.
His face was hidden behind a smooth, expressionless mask—pale white with streaks of chrome, and twin red eyes glowing like coals beneath the hood. A ghost in full armor.
But his eyes—they were locked in.
He found Tson—or rather, Sentinel.
The suit was striking: jet-black or dark metallic, with glowing electric-blue lines pulsing like veins across his torso, arms, and legs. They weren't just for show; the light patterns were integrated directly into the suit's power systems, humming with barely-contained energy. At the center of his chest blazed a bold, radiant "S" enclosed in a circle—unmistakable.
His helmet was smooth, seamless. No eyes. No mouth. Just a sleek, aerodynamic design that made him look like something forged for battle in another world. Unstoppable. Inhuman.
Gasps rippled through the crowd of students as they took him in.
"Is that—?"
"No way—he's real?"
"They helped Skyclave!"
"They're Hoods!"
Whispers erupted into questions. Curiosity. Admiration. Suspicion.
Eyes flicked between Sentinel and the figure beside him: Kevin—Ghost Shade—his own suit sleek, spectral, and just as infamous.
The room buzzed with divided opinions. Some students stared in awe. Others recoiled, whispering with disdain. Hoods? Here? That was the question. If they were underground vigilantes… why were they at Vortex Academy?
Tson didn't say a word. He didn't need to.
Across the room, Sentinel turned—his armor glowing—and gave Kevin a single nod.
That was it.
No words. No dramatic speeches. Just one look.
They were ready.
A booming voice echoed through the courtyard as a woman floated down from the upper atrium in a swirl of silver energy. Her cloak shimmered with data-filaments, and the air pulsed around her with gravity-tuned pressure.
"Welcome to Vortex Academy," she said, her voice amplified not just by tech, but presence. "I am Proctor Nyra. Today, you are not heroes. You are not chosen. You are applicants. And the Vortex does not care for dreams—it measures reality. Let's see who survives it."
A section of the courtyard shifted beneath their feet, massive plates rearranging into a circular arena. The ground cracked, glowed, then stabilized.
"Phase One: Test of Might."
The announcement echoed through the arena.
"Destroy as many as you can."
Lost in thought, Tson stood still. His gaze was focused on the machines, not the audience or the goal. With their heavy footsteps resonating through the earth, towering humanoid robots strode ahead. He stared at their armor for a long time, admiring the quality. They brought back memories of his early drawings. Cruder, heavier, but still masterpieces.
Each one was a towering juggernaut of destruction, clad in deep shades of purple and steel blue with glowing magenta accents pulsing at the joints and torso like veins of light.
Their massive frames were built like walking fortresses, thick with armor and shaped like industrial power-lifters—designed for brute force and resilience. At the center of each chest, a fiery orange core pulsed steadily, radiating energy that hinted at either a reactor or a powerful sensor system.
Their dome-shaped helmets were cold and faceless, with sunken eyes that glowed like burning coals, giving them an eerie, skull-like presence. Despite their overwhelming size, their movements were disturbingly smooth—joints turning with mechanical precision, every step deliberate. They weren't just machines. They were executioners.
The first one stomped into the field. Then another. And another. Dozens more emerged, shoulder to shoulder, each one exuding menace.
Tson exhaled slowly.
Whoever built this machine knew exactly what they were doing. After all his own years spent designing, refining, and perfecting his craft—he could recognize the signature of mastery when he saw it. The robot standing before him wasn't just functional; it was familiar. It mirrored techniques he might've used himself. And that, more than anything, impressed him.
This was going to be fun.
The announcer leaned back in his chair, a smug grin playing at the corners of his mouth. "Well, this year we've got our work cut out for us," one of the observers muttered, arms crossed as he watched the unfolding spectacle. "No need to send Tier D heroes in waves like before—just let the machines test them, see who rises."
Another chuckled, shaking his head. "And to think… we found someone willing to sell us the system. Real reasonable price too. Strange guy, calls himself Ohce. Weird name. Weird vibe."
Meanwhile, the robots advanced toward the applicants—each one clad in a different type of suit. Some were sleek and agile, others heavy and imposing. They looked less like enemies and more like tailored trials, crafted specifically to provoke, push, and measure.
The ground trembled as the machines took their places, forming a wall of metal and menace around the circular arena. A low mechanical hum began to rise—like the machines were breathing in sync, waiting for the command to strike. The air grew tense, charged with expectation and uncertainty.
Tson rolled his shoulders once, loosening his frame beneath the armor. Beside him, Kevin remained still, his glowing red eyes locked forward through his mask. The arena lights caught the edges of his hood, casting shifting shadows across his faceplate. No one spoke. They didn't need to.
Suddenly, the center-most robot raised its arm, and from its forearm unfolded a massive weapon—part cannon, part blade—crackling with volatile magenta energy. Others followed suit, deploying a variety of armaments: energy halberds, kinetic gauntlets, plasma drills. It was clear these weren't just tests of strength. Each bot was calibrated for a different kind of combat. Each one a measuring stick for a different kind of hero.
Proctor Nyra hovered above, watching without flinching. "Begin," she commanded.
The word hit like a starting gun.
The robots surged forward.
A blur of motion erupted from the crowd—one student launched into the air, fire erupting from their feet. Another slammed the ground with seismic force, creating a ripple that knocked two bots back. Explosions, energy bursts, shockwaves—all collided in a storm of power and panic.
Tson didn't move yet. He was watching.
Cataloging.
Analyzing.
Kevin stepped forward first. Quietly. Cleanly.
One of the robots lunged toward him, swinging a heavy plasma blade. Kevin dodged low, his form ghosting beneath the strike, and then countered with a short, sharp blow to the core. A pulse of orange flickered—then the robot collapsed in on itself, systems fried. Silent takedown.
Spectral efficiency.
Tson smiled beneath his mask.
"Let's begin, then," he whispered, more to himself than anyone else.
He dashed into the fray like a bolt of lightning, blue lines on his suit surging with power. Every movement was deliberate—every strike calculated. He didn't just attack; he dismantled. One bot lost its arm, another its core. His precision was surgical, almost poetic.
Above, the observers watched in silence.