Felicia felt everything inside her clench. It wasn't surprise—more like a heavy, sinking premonition that had become reality. She had seen it starting when the mentors were just leaving, had even tried to say a few words about restraint, about responsibility, but her voice was drowned out by the general excited hubbub. Now, all that remained was to observe.
She counted. Not with the cold detachment of an analyst, but with the growing anxiety of a head student losing control of her class. She counted the bursts of power, the ill-considered actions, the first signs of how quickly the fragile illusion of a "learning space" was crumbling under the onslaught of… what? Not ill will, no. Just the intoxicating sensation of possibility.
Everything was happening exactly as she had feared—and that only made it more bitter. No satisfaction from being right, only a dull disappointment.
Her classmates, the guys she knew, with whom she had discussed plans for the future just yesterday, rushed not towards knowledge. They rushed to demonstrate themselves. To seize the power of the moment. And power here was not structure, not the reasonable application of their gift, not the system. Power was the opportunity—to do whatever they wanted. To break. To shine. To announce themselves with a shout or a flash of light.
Felicia watched, standing at the edge of the garden, feeling increasingly helpless. She didn't intervene. Not because she didn't want to—the head student's instinct demanded intervention, to call for order—but because she understood that her soft persuasions would simply not be heard now. Her authority, already shaky in this new reality, had evaporated in the first minutes of euphoria. She could only watch and hope that no one would be seriously hurt. Who would be the first among them to do something irreparable? —she thought with anxiety.
The garden—once so calm, majestic, conducive to quiet awe—had turned into an arena of unrestrained childishness with dangerous toys in half an hour. At first—hesitant steps. Whispers of power. Leaves dancing in the air, the air trembling as if in a mirage, shadows bending contrary to geometry. And then… then the barriers fell.
Everything mixed together. Streams of energy, random flashes of light, claps and explosions. Powers, not yet fully comprehended, not named, but already eager to manifest themselves, to find a way out, to get a response.
B-class… Oh, those guys. Felicia had always been a little afraid of their unbridled energy. They were the first to move from experiments to outright destruction. Their boulder-throwing tournament resembled a primitive ritual. Huge stones, torn from the ground, flew with a roar, collided with each other, and shattered. The roar was so loud that it made your ears ring. When one of the boulders, launched, it seemed, by someone from Max Tian's company, broke through the castle wall, Felicia felt a chill inside. But instead of fear or an awareness of the danger—approving shouts and applause rang out. Someone whistled. Someone shouted something like "That's power!". Felicia noted this reaction with bitterness: a complete lack of understanding of the consequences. They rejoiced at the destruction, like children who had broken an expensive vase.
A-class, her own class, which she had tried so hard to live up to, took a different path. They didn't smash. They "created". They showed grace, control… or what they thought was control. . The nearest castle hall was filled with illusions, iridescent veils of light, shimmering portals, levitating armchairs and tables. Someone even created a miniature aurora borealis under the ceiling. It was beautiful, no doubt. But… so pointless. Such a waste of energy on empty posing. Felicia felt a pang of disappointment. Don't they understand that this power is not given for tricks?
The girl with telekinesis—Mira Spear, I think her name was—staged a real dance for the furniture. She laughed so contagiously that Felicia smiled for a moment. And then Mira suddenly burst into tears when someone nearby applauded enthusiastically. Too many emotions, too strong a response. She simply couldn't control herself. Felicia felt sorry for her. Such power—and such fragility.
C-class… These guys kept to themselves. Felicia saw one of them whispering something to the stones, and another girl listening to a tree, as if it was telling her ancient secrets. They were almost unnoticed, considered strange, "not of this world". Felicia herself didn't know what to think of their abilities, so unlike the brute force of B-class or the flashy tricks of A-class. They were quiet, inconspicuous. Maybe that was for the best? At least they didn't hurt anyone.
By evening, the garden was a sad sight. A field of chaos. Mutilated flower beds, exotic plants torn out by the roots. Lianas, animated by someone's magic, had entwined the statues, and they were now moving, muttering something or even arguing with each other in verse. One Mars was threatening Venus with his finger, another Apollo was trying to play an invisible lyre. The air was heavy with pollen, magic, and some kind of nervous, hysterical laughter. Some students, it seemed, no longer understood where they were, intoxicated by their own power and permissiveness.
One of the A-class, I think, Theo Clay, tried to create a wooden golem. The creature turned out clumsy, stood up, swayed… and crumbled into dust, dragging with it a piece of the path and two guys from B-class who were standing too close. At first—silence, then an explosion of laughter. But Felicia was not amused. She saw something more in this fall—a symbol of their common unpreparedness. And she felt anxiety constrict her throat. This will not end well.
Then there were other incidents. Jasper set fire to a bush. Blake extinguished it with ice—thank God, it worked out. Someone teleported unsuccessfully and got stuck in the wall—he was pulled out with difficulty, scared to death. Someone was crying from fatigue and overexertion. Someone was laughing at other people's mistakes. Someone was just sitting on the grass, staring blankly into space.
It was a holiday. Loud, bright, dangerous. A holiday of children who had suddenly received the power of gods and did not know what to do with it.
Felicia watched all this with a heavy heart. She felt her responsibility as the head student, but understood that she was powerless to change anything. All that remained was to observe. And hope.
And then came morning.
Quiet. Cold. Sobering.
Many came out into the courtyard, still keeping excitement of yesterday. With the hope that the fun would continue. But there was no fun.
There was cold metal and silence.
The ship, which they had almost not noticed yesterday, had changed. It had spread its segments, turning from a transport vessel into something else. Huge. Threatening. Functional. Like a giant training ground. Or an arena. Or a cage.
Felicia watched this transformation with a sinking heart. It was… impressive. And scary. Steel platforms, barriers, incomprehensible mechanisms. Drones in the sky, like soulless observers. Automatons along the walls, frozen like statues. Order. Harsh, inhuman order had replaced chaos. But it didn't make it any easier.
The reaction of the others was different. B-class perked up, sensing a challenge. A-class fell silent, trying to analyze the new reality. C-class… they seemed to shrink, retreated into the shadow of this metal monster.
And then he appeared.
Michigan.
He emerged from behind the corner of the platform so suddenly that Felicia shuddered. He didn't walk—he strode firmly, confidently, with some mechanical inevitability. Worn jacket, battle-scarred equipment. Face—stern, impenetrable. Eyes—sharp, attentive, without a trace of a smile. They swept over the crowd of students, and Felicia thought she felt their gaze on herself.
Everything about him spoke of authority. About strength. About discipline.
About the fact that the time for games was over.
It was this that made Felicia tense up. She felt not fear, but a sharp understanding: this man was not just an instructor.
He was the embodiment of a new reality. Harsh. Demanding. And, perhaps, the only thing that could now keep them from self-destruction.
He stopped. And the silence became thicker.
"And hello again," he said. His voice was not loud, but there was metal in it. "First day of training. Today I will begin to turn you into what you must become. Or what will be left of you if you don't."
Pause.
He didn't smile. He didn't wait for a reaction. He stated a verdict.
"See this?" he waved his hand. "My station. Deployed overnight. For you."
Shiny arches, simulators, fields, towers, auto-cannons. Everything was ready. Everything was at the ready.
"You may think this is a gift. That you deserve something."
He took a step forward.
"Don't flatter yourselves. This is not a reward. This is a torture chamber given as collateral for hope."
Snap of fingers. Two drones broke off their stand. Whizzed. Froze in the air above the crowd. One fixed itself above the center, the other—chose someone random. A flashing scarlet eye. Someone instinctively ducked.
"First race," he said, slightly louder. "Three laps around the inner perimeter. Anything is allowed. Magic, technology, teleportation, running, jumping, ceiling dances—doesn't matter."
He raised his fingers, began to bend.
"Everything is possible. Except for one thing."
He lowered his hand.
"You can't interfere with others. You can't attack. You can't kill."
And then his voice became quieter. Straighter. More dangerous.
"The last one to arrive…" he paused, "I will shoot."
It sounded like "I'll have breakfast." Like "I'll put on a jacket." Not a threat. A fact.
The crowd shuddered. Whispers died down. Shoulders tensed.
"Yeah, right now," someone from B-class muttered. Logan Carter. Tall. Heavy. Self-confident. He took a step forward, not looking at Michigan directly. "We'll see how you…"
A shot rang out.
The bullet flew past an inch from his eye and left a thin, oozing scratch. Blood dripped onto the floor. The crowd jerked.
"Warning," Michigan said calmly. "Logan is the strongest after all. The fastest. Almost an alpha."
He looked him in the face. Not with his eyes. With a sight.
"Next time—higher. Or lower. Eye or liver. Depends on your motivation."
And again silence. Someone swallowed. Someone froze.
One of the A-class students—Richmond?—opened her mouth. And closed it. Michigan just raised an eyebrow. That was enough. She lowered her eyes.
"You can complain," he continued. "Call me a tyrant, a bastard, a machine. I don't mind. But here's what you need to understand."
He took a step closer. He spoke quieter.
"I am the only thing that separates you from death. Not magic. Not cannons. Not drones."
He nodded towards the mechanics.
"All this is my tools. I am your only insurance."
Pause. Then:
"And now…" he snapped his fingers again. "Three laps. Anything is allowed."
He waved his hand. Not like a trainer. Like a judge launching the mechanism of execution.
Felicia went cold. She had seen that look, that stance, that tone – she had seen them many times in chronicles, in holorecordings of old battles. This was no mere instructor. This was an executioner vested with power. And he was relishing his role. Suddenly she felt fear not for them – for these self-assured youngsters who had imagined themselves gods – but for him himself. What if they rebelled? What if their powers, their uncontrolled might, turned against him? She instinctively leaned forward, ready to intervene, to shout, to stop this insane race.
The first to rush from their places were the B-class. They didn't run – they raced, driven by animalistic fervor and fear. Someone turned their legs into something like springs, pushing off the ground with such force that they left cracks in the floor. Someone took off, using crude telekinetic power, crushing the air around them, as if fleeing from a pack of hellhounds. Logan Carter, with a bloody scratch above his eye, rushed ahead of everyone, spewing curses and glaring at Michigan with hatred. He seemed to be trying to prove – both to himself and to this man – that he was not broken, that he would survive, even if he had to tear victory with his teeth.
The A-class ran with cold fury, but restrained. They didn't waste energy on brute speed – they demonstrated "grace". Alexandra Richmond created a path of shimmering light beneath her, gliding along it like a queen on a parquet floor, and contemptuously twisting her thin lips with each thrust. Someone teleported in short jumps, leaving behind only a trail of sparks and the smell of ozone, as if mocking the primitive running of the others. They ran not from fear – from humiliation. And with every movement, they seemed to be saying to Michigan: "We are not like these savages. We deserve more."
C-class… C-class is drowning.
Illusions slip away like a haze in a strong wind. Tactics crumble like a house of cards under the onslaught of a hurricane. Their abilities are not designed for this. Their bodies do not rush forward, as if bound by invisible chains. Someone falls, stumbling over an unevenness, and can no longer get up, looking at the retreating backs with resignation in their eyes. Someone tries to cut corners, losing their way in the labyrinth of metal structures, and crashes into a wall, leaving a bright trail of blood on it. Someone stops to catch their breath, gasping for air like a fish thrown onto the shore – and immediately loses pace, realizing that this is the end.
They are children thrown into a wolf pack. They run not for victory. They run from the shot, from imminent retribution, from the terrifying unknown that awaits the last one.
Felicia watched this race of despair and vanity, feeling nausea rising within her. This was not a competition. It was a slaughter. And Michigan was the butcher, calmly watching his victims thrash in their death throes. She suddenly realized the full horror of their situation. They were no longer students. They were—experimental subjects. Their lives now belonged to this man, this place, this insane game.
She looked at Michigan again. He stood motionless, like a statue, and there was not a drop of pity in his eyes. Only cold, calculating interest. He was looking not at the runners – at the finish line. He already saw who wouldn't make it. He was already choosing his victim.
Nora from C group is the last to arrive.
Thin. Slow. Her face is tear-streaked and distorted with horror. The skin under her eyes is gray, like ash. She stumbles at the finish line, falls to her knees, clutches the floor with a hand turned white from tension, as if it were her last hope for salvation, as if it were life itself. She gasps. Chokes on her own tears and saliva. Her chest heaves from convulsive, intermittent breathing. Panic and shame overwhelm her at once, burning with a coldness worse than an ice shower. Her whole body is shaking. She awaits the bullet as a deliverance from this nightmare.
Everyone freezes. The runners stop, catching their breath and looking at Michigan with horror. The drones hang in the air, as if enchanted by this scene. Even the ubiquitous automatons seem to momentarily cease their monotonous patrolling. Silence falls, so thick and heavy that it seems you can touch it. And in this silence, only Nora's intermittent, agonizing gasp is heard, like the countdown to the last seconds of her life.
Michigan approaches. Calmly. Slowly. Like death, which has time.
Felicia went cold. She had seen that look, that stance, that tone – she had seen them many times in movies and games. This was no mere instructor. It was an executioner vested with power. And he was relishing his role. It was this that terrified Felicia the most. Not the threat to their lives – she was beginning to get used to that, like an unavoidable evil. She was terrified by that cold, almost detached fury with which this man dispensed his strange justice. As if they were not living beings, but puppets in his cruel spectacle.
He looked down. He was silent. And in this silence, there was more threat than in the loudest of Max Tian's screams. In him, you could feel not just strength, but a kind of refined, perfected cruelty. He seemed to savor every moment of their humiliation, their fear.
Then he took out a gun. Casually, almost lazily. As if it were not a weapon, but a pointer. And he fired – nearby. The bullet struck the ground a few centimeters from Nora's hand. Stone dust sprayed the girl's face. A light shriek, full of horror and surprise, escaped her throat. She didn't move. Couldn't. Her body seemed paralyzed with fear, with the realization of how close she had been to death.
Felicia felt her own instincts as the head student tearing her apart. She wanted to shout: "Stop! What are you doing?". But she held back. She understood that any intervention on her part now would be perceived as weakness, as another reason for this man to show his power. She had to be strong. For their sake.
He leaned over. Grabbed Nora by the collar with his huge, rough hand. Lifted her. Not like a human. Like garbage. Like a trophy. Like a warning. Her body hung helplessly in the air, like a broken doll. Felicia saw her hands trembling, tears streaming down her cheeks. And at that moment, Felicia saw not just a student. She saw a child. And her heart was torn apart by pain and fury.
"I'm not going to kill you," he said. His voice was quiet, even, but even more sinister because of that. There was not a drop of sympathy in it, not a hint of remorse. Only cold, calculating cynicism. "I'm training you."
He scanned the others with his gaze. His eyes – sharp as knife blades – slid over their faces, seeking fear, despair, weakness. And he seemed to find what he was looking for. Satisfaction.
"By the end of the course, you will all hate me. You will want to gouge out my eyes. Curse my mother. Burn me at the stake."
He looked at Nora again – at the girl hanging in his hand, like a pathetic semblance of a human. In his gaze, there was a mixture of contempt and… something else. Something elusive that Felicia couldn't immediately recognize. But it definitely wasn't pity.
"And me?" he continued, raising his voice slightly. Now there was an open challenge in it. "I will throw you into the mud. Into the shit. Into the sewers. Where you belong."
He paused. He gave them time to realize the full depth of his words, the full vileness of his intentions. His gaze was not on Nora. On them. On the crowd. He seemed to be throwing them a challenge, provoking them to riot. And Felicia began to understand. This was not just cruelty. This was a method. Perverted, sadistic, but… a method.
"But you know what?" he said, and in his voice, there was suddenly a strange, hoarse note. Something like… pain? Or disappointment? Felicia wasn't sure.
He lowered Nora to the ground. Casually, almost disdainfully. She didn't stand. She just stayed on her knees, broken and humiliated. But alive.
"You will survive," he pronounced this word with a strange, almost solemn intonation. As if it were not a statement of fact, but a prophecy. "Because you will have no choice."
He raised one finger.
"First path: fight. To blood. To screams."
Second finger.
"Second: stand. Look death in the eye. Without whining. Without tears."
He took a step back. His figure, tall and grim, dominated them, like the embodiment of death itself.
"The choice is yours."
Then, without turning to Nora, he said almost wearily:
"Get up. You passed. You all passed."
Pause. He seemed to give them time to digest his words, to realize all the horror and all the… hope that was contained in them.
"But it will be worse further."
He turned to the others. And Felicia saw in his eyes not only cold cruelty, but something else. Something similar to… sadness? Or… care?
"That's all for today. These two will deal with you."
The gates of the training complex opened, and Il'Ravel and Elael entered. And Felicia understood that this was only the beginning. The real hell was yet to come.