《X-Grade Meta》 Chapter 1: Do-Over Chapter 1: Do-Over Calum had to admit it¡ªthis reincarnation thing was a total scam. No flaming swords. No system notifications blinking in his periphery. No dragon-riding elves offering him a destiny. Just a bad case of deceased parents. Seriously? Where was his golden finger1? His cheat skill? His OP magic? His hot demon sidekick? All he got was a bad case of the Mandela Effect2 as this world was almost identical to his last¡ªbarring one notable exception: superpowers existed. Unluckily for Calum, there was only like a 30% chance you would develop them. Even worse they only began developing during puberty, and he had started this whole reincarnation business from infancy. The doubt and anticipation had been slowly driving him insane. The one upside? His brain hadn¡¯t reset to factory settings. Sure, being trapped in the body of an Elementary schooler sucked. But Calum¡¯s thirty-year-old, caffeine-scorched mind? Still intact. Mostly. So here he was breezing through high school trigonometry while his classmates struggled to spell ¡°Pythagoras.¡±Sure, Calum hadn¡¯t been a super genius in his first life. But cramming 30+ years of memories of a doctoral candidate into a kid¡¯s skull with enough neuroplasticity to learn just about everything? It was like giving a rampaging chimpanzee meth. And now, at the ripe old age of twelve, he was just days away from graduating high school, with Ivy League schools drooling over him like he¡¯d cured taxes. But all he could think about was what kind of powers he would develop. It didn¡¯t help that no one could predict what ability they¡¯d awaken. Genetics played a role, sure, but there were too many outliers to call it a science. Some people got powers that fit their personalities or deepest desires. Others got ones that seemed entirely random. Graduation day arrived with the subtlety of a cymbal crash. The auditorium buzzed with parents clutching camcorders and valedictorians rehearsing speeches through gritted teeth. Calum slouched in his oversized gown, fiddling with the tassel on his cap. It was surreal¡ªa prepubescent prodigy paraded like a circus act. The dean had begged him to give a speech, but Calum had declined. What would he say? ¡°Thanks for the diploma, now where¡¯s my laser vision?¡± His foster aunt, Margo, elbowed him as the procession began. ¡°Smile, kiddo. You¡¯re making headlines again.¡± She wasn¡¯t wrong. News vans idled outside, hungry for a soundbite from the ¡°Non-supe Twelve-Year-Old Genius.¡± Calum forced a grin, but his mind raced elsewhere. Puberty had been a ticking clock since he¡¯d turned ten, and every morning he¡¯d wake up half-expecting his skin to crackle with lightning or his thoughts to pierce the veil of reality. So far? Nothing. Just acne and a voice that squeaked when he forgot to modulate it. The ceremony blurred into a montage of handshakes and hollow applause. But as Calum accepted his diploma, a prickle shot up his spine¡ªa sensation like static dancing under his skin. He froze, heart hammering. Was this it? For a breathless moment, he swore his vision flickered, the world dissolving into a mosaic of kaleidoscopic colours. Then Margo hugged him and the sensation vanished just as quickly as it appeared. While the crowd erupted in cheers Calum was stuck in contemplation. Had he imagined it? Or was the universe finally, mercifully, throwing him a bone? Snapping himself out of his analysis, Calum scanned the auditorium¡ªreally looked¡ªfor the first time since the ¡°flash¡±. Something was off. Not wrong, exactly. Just¡­ bizarre. Connections hummed where there shouldn¡¯t be connections. The velvet curtain beside the stage thrummed in time with the flickering exit sign above it. The principal''s coffee cup vibrated sympathetically with his wristwatch. It wasn¡¯t a visual effect. More like a gut-deep awareness, as if the world had slipped into a language he¡¯d always known but never learned to speak. He reached instinctively toward the nearest thread¡ªa taut, invisible line but the moment his fingers grazed it, his head split. White-hot needles stabbed his temples. He staggered, catching himself on a chair as the sensation faded, leaving behind the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. Had he bitten his tongue? Around him, the crowd milled obliviously. No one noticed the boy genius clutching his skull like a grenade had gone off behind his eyes. The afterparty was worse. Balloons clung to the gym ceiling like radioactive jellyfish. A DJ played a remix of a song Calum vaguely remembered hearing in his first life. Margo had parked him at a table with a slice of cake he didn¡¯t want and a paper crown that read ¡°GRADU8TED!¡±. He prodded the frosting, watching it shimmer under the disco lights. Shimmer? No¡ªpulse. The cake¡¯s vanilla scent sharpened into something chemical, and suddenly he could taste the relationship between sugar and the plastic fork in his hand. A sharp, oily, chemical, wrong-flavored kinship, like licking a deep-fried battery. ¡°You okay, kiddo?¡± Margo slid into the seat beside him, reeking of dollar-store perfume and secondhand smoke. ¡°Peachy,¡± he lied. Her cigarette pack in her purse called to him. Not the nicotine¡ªthe potential? Filters + Margo = something? His fingers twitched. ¡°C¡¯mon, let¡¯s get air.¡± She tugged his arm, and the thread between them snapped taut. A charge¡ªa charge?¡ªdrained from somewhere behind his sternum. Margo¡¯s grip turned scalding, her skin flickering translucent. For a heartbeat, he saw her skeleton, her veins, the writhing shadow of her COPD3. Then it vanished, and she was just Margo again: smoker¡¯s laugh, crow¡¯s feet, and all.Find this and other great novels on the author''s preferred platform. Support original creators! ¡°You¡¯re burning up!¡± She pressed a hand to his forehead. Am I? His body felt normal. But the room¡­ The room was alive. The punch bowl whispered recipes to the paper cups. The basketball hoop overhead plotted trajectories with the deflated volleyball in the corner. And the exits¡ªoh god, the exits itched, pulsing with a low, electromagnetic whine that made his molars ache. He bolted for the bathroom. Locked in a stall, Calum pressed his palms to the graffiti-scarred metal door. The hinges sang to the pipes in the walls. The flickering fluorescent light overhead crooned a duet with the sink¡¯s dripping faucet. Everywhere, connections. Everywhere, combinations. He gagged, doubling over as a fresh wave of awareness hit. The toilet paper roll unspooled in his mind, its fibres bonding with the chlorine stench of the cleaning supplies. For one delirious second, he could feel how to "connect" them¡ª how to make the paper repel water instead of absorb it. A stupid, useless trick. But his body thrummed with the certainty of it, like a muscle he¡¯d forgotten he had. Two charges drained this time. He counted them instinctively, though he didn¡¯t know how or why. By the time Margo pounded on the door, the world had settled back into its usual, boring parameters. Mostly. The fork in his pocket still vibrated softly, harmonizing with the vending machine down the hall. ¡°You¡¯re sure you¡¯re not sick?¡± Margo asked later, buckling him into her rust-eaten Corolla. ¡°Positive.¡± He stared at his hands. They looked normal. Felt normal. But between his fingers, faint threads shimmered cobwebs linking Margo¡¯s keychain to the gum stuck under her seat, the cracked dashboard to the pine air freshener dangling from the mirror. He clenched his fists, but the connections pulsed stubbornly, humming with possibility. As the car pulled away, Calum watched the school shrink in the rearview mirror. For the first time since his reincarnation, he kind of missed being ordinary. Home was a cramped duplex that smelled of microwaved tuna and regret. Margo tossed her keys into a bowl shaped like a grinning skull¡ªa thrift-store find she¡¯d dubbed ¡°Mr Optimism¡±¡ªand flopped onto the couch. ¡°Gonna nap. Don¡¯t burn the place down, Einstein.¡± Calum retreated to his room which was barely big enough for both his bed and the mountain of textbooks Margo called ¡° Paper Everest.¡± He collapsed onto the mattress, staring at the water stain on the ceiling that looked disturbingly like one of his first life¡¯s bosses. The threads followed him. His desk lamp buzzed a jaunty rhythm with a pair of earplugs (Margo was a very loud snorer). His half-empty water bottle harmonized with the dust bunnies under the bed. He squeezed his eyes shut, but the connections sharpened, itchier now as if his brain had decided subtlety was for cowards. Fine. He grabbed the lamp, its warmth seeping into his palms. The earplugs popped into his peripheral vision, begging to be¡­ merged. Before he could overthink it, he pushed¡ªnot physically, but somewhere deeper. A charge snapped loose inside him, sharp as a rubber band. The earplugs disappeared, the lamp flared and then died. ¡°Shit.¡± He flicked the switch. Nothing. Not even a flicker. But the room... Christ was the room quiet. No traffic outside. No Margo snoring. Just the deafening thud of his own heartbeat. Panicking, he yanked the cord from the outlet¡ªand sound crashed back into the room. Margo¡¯s snores, the fridge¡¯s hum, the distant wail of a police siren. It felt like getting sucker-punched by a symphony. Calum spent the next 44 minutes experimenting with his new magical sound-cancelling lamp. When it it lost all mystical sound-cancelling effects he felt the loss like a phantom limb: three charges left. Nine had become six, then three, each vanishing with the visceral snap of a wishbone breaking. His ribs ached where the charges had anchored, hollowed out and raw. With his stomach not feeling the best dinner was saltine crackers and existential dread. During which Margo scrolled through her phone, cackling while showing him headlines like: ¡°Prodigy Graduates, Still Powerless.¡± Which all had comments roasting him as a ¡°late-blooming dud.¡± Joke¡¯s on them, he thought, eyeing the saltine. It vibrated in tandem with the fridge, humming a duet. He could fuse them. Knew he could. Make the cracker cold? The fridge¡­ crumbly? Sleep came in fits, his dreams a fever-dream montage: flaming textbook mountains, Margo¡¯s skeleton ¡°Mr Optimism¡± tap-dancing to Russian hard bass and other such various nonsense that he immediately forgot as he opened his eyes. Despite his fitful rest, he woke to the pleasant tingling of six charges buzzing under his ribs, crisp as new batteries. The fresh morning perspective gave him no answers. No control. Just a twelve-year-old with a PhD in regret and a superpower that gave him sensory overload. But as he lay there, dawn bleeding through the blinds, Calum grinned. Thirty years of adult cynicism warred with something he¡¯d nearly forgotten¡ªcuriosity. The kind that made kids poke beehives and eat glue. A childlike smile split his face as he stood, scanning his room for test subjects. His gaze snagged on the water bottle and remembering the connection from last night he ducked under his bed. Ignoring the lint¡¯s suspicious stickiness he grabbed both of his subjects. Fusing the two items¡ªno screens flashed, no notifications popped¡ªbut he felt it. A click in his ribs, like a key turning in a rusted lock. Fuse Activated: Water (Object) + Lightness (Concept) Cost: 1 Charge | Duration: 15 Minutes The liquid sloshed, suddenly buoyant as a soap bubble. Not useful for fighting dragons or impressing damsels in distress. But cool? Hell yes. For ten minutes, he sat cross-legged in the dark, tossing the bottle marvelling as it drifted downward like dandelion fluff. It wasn¡¯t a flaming sword. It wasn¡¯t a cheat skill. But it was his.
Footnote 1 Golden finger: Web novel slang for a protagonist¡¯s overpowered cheat ability. Think: instant mastery of magic, a godly artefact, or a HUD only they can see. 2 Mandela Effect: When a bunch of people misremember the same detail¡ªlike the Berenstain Bears being spelt ¡°Berenstein¡± or Darth Vader¡¯s iconic line. Coincidence¡­ or universe-hopping proof? 3 COPD (Chronic Obstructive Pulmonary Disease) is a progressive, chronic lung disease characterized by persistent airflow limitation that makes breathing difficult.
Chapter 2: Red Tape Chapter 2: Red Tape Calum had powers. Obviously. Not that he understood their limitations, their rules, or could explain what exactly they did. The real kicker? He¡¯d spent years obsessing over what power he¡¯d get, not a single brain cell spared for the ¡°what now?¡± part. A classic oversight, really. First order of business: registration. The government demanded it, naturally. There was a grace period, sure¡ªforgive a few accidental fires or rogue fusions¡ªbut to use his power legally long-term? He¡¯d need paperwork thicker than a tax audit. The pamphlets made it sound like a DMV visit with extra existential dread. ¡°Join the Super Registry! Protect the public! Submit to quarterly power audits!¡± Hard pass. Of course, there were¡­ alternatives. He could vanish into the underworld, and become some shadowy crime lord. But let¡¯s face it: Calum lacked the required charisma, ambition, and tolerance for spandex. Not to mention that going rogue meant dodging hero squads and that one Karen neighbour who¡¯d narc on him for accidentally levitating her cat. His phone buzzed. Margo¡¯s latest text lit up the screen: Margo: Saw ur face on the news again. ¡°Genius Minor Possibly a DUD?¡± Want me to egg the studio? Calum: No. But thx. Margo: U sure? I¡¯ve got a carton expiring Tuesday. He snorted¡ªthat Margo¡¯s idea of moral support involved vandalism. Margo: Btw, Got pizza. Quickly trudging to the kitchen like a hungry zombie he saw the largest pizza box he had ever seen. The pizza box sat like a titan among men, it looked as if the table was struggling to hold it up. Margo smirked, her cigarette bobbing as she spoke. ¡°So. Registration.¡± He froze. ¡°How¡¯d you¡ª?¡± ¡°Kid, you¡¯ve been acting off since yesterday.¡± She flicked ash into Mr. Optimism¡¯s skull bowl. ¡°Just do it. Get a fancy license. Maybe they¡¯ll give you a badge.¡± ¡°Or a tracking chip.¡± ¡°You¡¯re twelve. They¡¯ll give you a juice box and a participation sticker.¡± He scowled. She wasn¡¯t wrong. *** The Super Registry Office smelled like stale coffee and shattered dreams. Calum slouched in a plastic chair, eyeing the security drones hovering near the ceiling. Their lenses swivelled toward him every 4.3 seconds. Probably scanning for rogues. ¡°Next!¡± A clerk with a name tag reading Janice: Compliance Officer waved him over. She had the welcoming countenance of a kindergarten teacher who¡¯d been in the business for decades¡ªa smile sharp enough to slice through tantrums, eyes that said, I know you hid the glue sticks. The kind of person who¡¯d mastered the art of talking down to children without technically talking down to children. Calum shuffled forward, hands jammed in his hoodie pockets. Janice glanced at her tablet, then up at him, her eyes meeting his. ¡°Calum Vey?¡± He nodded. ¡°Follow me, hon.¡± She led him to a windowless room painted the colour of expired yoghurt. A laminated poster on the wall declared, ¡°Your Power = Your Responsibility!¡±. Janice tapped her tablet. ¡°Let¡¯s begin. You¡¯re here to register your ability, correct?¡± ¡°Yeah.¡± ¡°And what would you classify your ability as?¡± Calum paused. This world categorized powers into a couple of broad groups the three primary being: Physique¡ªalterations to the body itself, like superhuman strength, speed or stone skin; Conjurers¡ªthose who generate creatures, items, elements or energy, from fireballs to lightning; and Modifiers¡ªabilities that manipulated or transformed external objects, forces, or even abstract concepts. His power fell squarely into the last but explaining it without inviting invasive testing was another matter entirely. ¡°Modifier,¡± he said finally. ¡°I can¡­ alter properties of objects. Temporarily.¡± If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. Janice¡¯s stylus hovered over her screen. ¡°Any subcategory? Control? Enhancement?¡± He chewed the inside of his cheek. ¡°Hybridization. Combining traits between objects.¡± Her eyebrow twitched. ¡° How exactly does this ''hybridization'' affect objects?¡± ¡°Like¡­ making something heavy feel light. Or altering how materials interact.¡± He kept his voice flat, avoiding specifics. ¡°Duly noted.¡± The interrogation unfolded with bureaucratic precision. Liability waivers. A pamphlet titled So You¡¯re a Meta! featuring a cartoon owl in a lab coat. Calum¡¯s knee bounced under the table as Janice recited legal restrictions with the cadence of a grocery list. At some point near the end, she asked if he would consent to power testing and after his firm refusal, she slid over his last document. With its header reading the following. CLASSIFICATION: Object Manipulation (Subtype: Temporary Hybridization) RISK LEVEL: Suspected C (Untested) LEGAL RESTRICTIONS: See Appendix 12: Restricted Modifications. He skimmed the clauses¡ª no human experimentation, no altering regulated substances (explosives, pharmaceuticals, dairy products?), and a strict ban on ¡°willful distortion of public infrastructure.¡± After his brief perusal, Calum scribbled his name on the dotted line, the pen squeaking like a disgruntled mouse. ¡°Congratulations,¡± she intoned, devoid of enthusiasm. ¡°You¡¯re now a registered Meta. Your ID badge will arrive in 6-8 weeks. Until then, keep this provisional certificate on your person at all times during power use.¡± She handed him an unlaminated card adorned with a holographic seal. It felt cheap and flimsy, like a grocery store receipt. *** The reception area''s fluorescent lights buzzed like wasps as Calum stepped outside. Margo leaned against her Corolla, puffing a cigarette. ¡°Well?¡± He flashed the certificate. She squinted. ¡°Huh. Looks like a library card.¡± ¡°Feels like one too.¡± As the Corolla rattled away from the Registry office, Margo squinted at the road, one hand tapping ashes into the cupholder. ¡°So. What exactly can you do, kid?¡± Calum hesitated. The threads hummed around him as he flexed his fingers, the charges under his ribs buzzing like cicadas. ¡°I¡­ apply properties of one thing to another?¡± ¡°Kinda like Alloy1, but on objects?¡± ¡°Kinda but it feels more like a bizarre form of modifier with auditory-visual hallucinations.¡± He pulled a nickel from his pocket. It vibrated faintly, synced with an old fast food receipt on the floor of the passenger seat. ¡°Watch.¡± One charge snapped free, sharp and bright. The coin¡¯s edges blurred as it disappeared, while the receipt became hard and metallic. Margo whistled. ¡°So you can turn some trash into tin foil, Bravo.¡± ¡°For fifteen minutes, yeah.¡± ¡°Huh...¡± She flicked her cigarette butt out the window. ¡°Back in my day, they called people with powers like that transmuters. Had a buddy who could turn anything into a bird. Drove his wife nuts.¡± Calum blinked. ¡°You knew other metas?¡± ¡°Kid, I am one.¡± She grinned, mischief crinkling the corners of her smoke-lined eyes. With a snap of her fingers, a tiny flame sparked above her thumb¡ªno bigger than a birthday candle, its tip tinged blue. ¡°Pyrokinesis. Level¡­ eh, call it a F+. Just enough to light cigs and scare off Jehovah¡¯s Witnesses.¡± ¡°You never registered?¡± ¡°Nah. they''re only after the big fish.¡± The fire winked out, and she shrugged. ¡°Besides, my power¡¯s as exciting as a wet match. Yours though¡­ could be something¡± She side-eyed him. ¡°You¡¯re gonna need training. Real training if you want to do anything big with it.¡± ¡°Training?¡± The word felt foreign to a kid who disdained any form of physical activity. ¡°Metahuman gym. Off 5th and Cypress. Buncha has-beens and wannabes lifting dumbbells with their minds. You¡¯ll fit right in.¡± She chuckled, then grew uncharacteristically quiet. ¡°Look¡­ the gym¡¯s not perfect. Half the equipment¡¯s held together with duct tape and hope. But the guy who runs it? He¡¯s legit. Taught me how not to accidentally¡ª¡± She air-quoted, ¡°¡ªset my bra on fire.¡± The car swerved around a pothole, its suspension groaning Calum gripping the overhead handle in panic. "Do I really have to do all this?" She jabbed a finger at him. "You have a gift kid, something potentially special, you should not waste it." *** The gym, when they finally went, was exactly as Margo described¡ªa converted auto shop with graffiti-tagged walls and a flickering neon sign that read META-FIT: NO SUPERSIZING. Inside, a muscle-bound woman bench-pressed what looked like at least six minivan engine blocks skewered by what appeared to be a road roller¡¯s axle. While a teenager in noise-cancelling headphones juggled amorphous spheres of glowing green energy like they were hacky sacks. And in the corner, amid a nest of sparking wires and half-dismantled treadmills, stood the owner: a grizzled man in a grease-stained tank top, his left arm a shimmering prosthetic of liquid metal. ¡°Margo.¡± He nodded, a voice like gravel and WD-40. ¡°Here to finally return my extinguisher?¡± ¡°Bite me, Rusty.¡± She shoved Calum forward. ¡°This¡¯s my kid. Go easy on him.¡± Rusty¡¯s prosthetic morphed into a wrench, then a soldering iron, before settling back into a hand. His gaze pinned Calum like a bug to corkboard. ¡°Modifier-class? Huh. Let¡¯s see what you¡¯ve got.¡±
Footnote 1 Alloy: Once a renowned superhero from about two decades before the story takes place who possessed the extraordinary ability to transmute their body, absorbing the properties of any material they touched. By selectively incorporating traits from various damage-resistant objects Alloy could become nearly impervious to conventional weapons and physical assaults, all while retaining his superhuman strength speed and agility (his strength also became proportionately stronger depending on his density). Despite his peerless defence, he met a dramatic end when he was disintegrated on live TV.
Chapter 3: Power Testing Chapter 3: Power Testing Jackson was the human equivalent of a screensaver¡ªa perpetually glazed-eyed bureaucrat subsisting on coffee brewed so thick it could¡¯ve been used to tar roofs. His job, if you could call it that, involved existing in a cubicle that smelled of stale Cheeto dust and pretending to monitor a system that had never once pinged urgent in the six years he¡¯d warmed this chair. Thank God for Uncle Frank¡¯s golf buddy being the deputy director of something. He was mid-YouTube deep dive into ¡°10 Pets Who Saw Ghosts¡± when his monitor flared crimson. The alert screeched like a fax machine giving birth. Jackson choked on his fourth cup of sludge, spraying espresso-coloured spit across his cubicle ¡°What the actual¡ª¡± The prompt demanded a 12-digit authorisation code Jackson hadn¡¯t updated since his onboarding He fumbled through Post-its stuck to his keyboard: Password1234, Password2345, ILoveLamps??. When he finally found the equally uninspired but correct password the screen blinked and displayed: SEER ALERT: SECTOR 3 ¨C X-GRADE ANOMALY DETECTED. ¡°Oh nononono¡ª¡± Jackson fumbled for the laminated cheat sheet hidden under his ¡°World¡¯s Okayest Employee¡± mug. X-Grade: Impossible to measure. Protocol: Contact Site Supervisor immediately! Casualty estimate: ¡°Apocalyptic" X-Grade was the ¡°oh shit¡± classification. The ¡°evacuate the continent¡± tier. The ¡°Why the hell did they let a guy who failed remedial algebra handle this?¡± Jackson¡¯s soul briefly vacated his body. He nearly tripped over his ergonomic footrest sprinting to Supervisor Patrick¡¯s office. The door to his office was a slab of reinforced steel that screamed ¡°I audit war crimes for fun.¡± Inside of the lair looked less like an office and more like a dictator¡¯s panic room¡ªwalls barren save for a framed photo of Patrick shaking hands with a senator mid-nervous laugh. The man himself loomed behind his desk, a human cinder block in a tie. He was well over 7 ft with the body of a professional strongman, rumor was he¡¯d once been Special Forces Metahuman. Jackson¡¯s voice squeaked. ¡°Sir, the Seer¡ªSector 3¡ªX-Grade, it¡¯s¡ª¡± Patrick didn¡¯t look up. ¡°Spit. It. Out.¡± ¡°Sir, The Seer¡ªSector 3¡¯s precog¡ªflagged an X-Grade threat. Some kid. Calum Vey. He is apparently some, uh, child prodigy?¡± Jackson¡¯s voice cracked, sweat pooling under his clip-on tie. ¡°Interviewer classified him as a C-Level Modifier. To, uh, avoid spooking him before we can call a team in.¡± Patrick¡¯s pen stopped mid-scrawl. "What''s his power." Jackson¡¯s tablet chose that moment to reboot, its cracked screen flickering through error messages until it finally revealed what he was looking for. ¡°His file says ¡®hybridisation¡¯? Combines object properties. Although the telepath on-site couldn¡¯t get a read¡ªkid¡¯s head¡¯s a¡­ uh¡­¡± He squinted at the report. ¡°¡®Cognitive hurricane. Almost impossible to read like trying to read a Super Genius or a high-level sensory superhuman.''" Patrick leaned back, his chair groaning like a tortured soul. He tapped a keycard on his desk, and the wall screen lit up with security footage: Calum at the registration office, slouched in his chair, fingers drumming a rhythm only he could hear. *** The gym reeked of sweat, ozone, and poor life choices¡ªa bouquet of desperation and burnt rubber. Calum stood in the centre of Meta-Fit¡¯s ¡°Experimental Zone,¡± a corner cordoned off with caution tape and a handwritten sign reading BREAK IT, BUY IT in marker so faded it might¡¯ve been a relic from the Cold War. Rusty loomed over him, his prosthetic arm morphed into a Roman-style tower shield that gleamed like liquid mercury. ¡°Quit stalling, kid,¡± Rusty barked. Calum eyed the smorgasbord of junk Rusty had scavenged: a half-used roll of duct tape, a chipped dumbbell, a novelty mug labelled CAFFEINATED & MALADJUSTED, and a 45-pound plate crusted with the fossilized sweat of a thousand failed New Year¡¯s resolutions. He grabbed the duct tape and plate, their threads humming in his mind One charge snapped loose, sharp as a rubber band to the spleen. " Shit..." The plate didn¡¯t just become sticky, it ravenously adhered to anything it touched almost as if it hungered for it. The place suctioned to his palm with the desperation bonding it so fiercely Calum felt like his hand was trapped in the steel jaws of a starving wolf. Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit. ¡°Shit¡ªshit¡ª!¡± He flailed, the plate swinging wildly as he tried to pry it off with his free hand. The duct tape¡¯s adhesive properties had apparently concentrated the entire roll¡¯s worth of grip into a single, tyrannical bond. All while Margo and Rusty failed to hold in their laughter. ¡°Not. Helping.¡± Calum dropped to the floor, slamming the plate down. It stuck fast to the textured concrete floor, shifting to an amateur deadlifting stance Calum pried his hand free with a sound like far too moist velcro. ¡°There. Happy?¡± He wiggled his raw, red palm, now missing a layer of skin. Rusty crouched, his prosthetic finger morphing into a screwdriver to prod the plate. It didn¡¯t budge. ¡°Huh. Gonna need a crowbar. Or maybe a forklift.¡± He straightened, his arm shifting back into a hand with a liquid-metal schlorp. ¡°But let¡¯s talk about limitations. All powers got ¡¯em. They are what separate the wheat from the chaff.¡± He began pacing, his boots crunching. ¡°First: How many objects can you fuse at once? Two? More? If it¡¯s two, can you fuse a third to the result? Hell, can you even maintain two fused items simultaneously?¡± Rusty¡¯s prosthetic arm morphed into a pointer finger aimed at Calum¡¯s forehead. ¡°Second: Living things. What happens if you fuse a cockroach to a toaster? Or worse¡ªpeople?¡± ¡°Third, can you fuse stuff to yourself? Most manipulators can¡¯t self-target. Would your skin turn to concrete? Or would your spleen suddenly develop Bluetooth connectivity?¡± ¡°Fourth: Size limits. Can you fuse a skyscraper with a grain of sand? Or could you even Target either in the first place? Fifth: Powered objects or meta-artifacts. What if you mashed a block of C4 into a cryo-grenade?¡± ¡°Sixth: Control. When you fused that tape and plate, did you choose the adhesive property? Or did your power just¡­ pick the shittiest possible combo?¡± Calum opened his mouth, then closed it. ¡°Exactly,¡± Rusty said. ¡°and these are just off the top of my head. You¡¯re playing Russian roulette. You need to test everything. Then test it again. And when you¡¯re out of things to test?¡± He leaned in, his breath smelling of peppermint schnapps. ¡°You are wrong. Your power¡¯s not a toy it''s a tool and a weapon and using either without proper training is a quick trip to injury or death." Rusty¡¯s gaze sharpened, the glint in his eye shifting from lecture mode to something far more dangerous. ¡°Enough lecturing. Let¡¯s test the real nightmare fuel.¡± Before anyone could protest, his prosthetic arm snapped upward with a hiss. The fingers reconfigured into a telescoping mesh net, snatching a fly mid-air. It buzzed furiously against the silver filaments as Rusty shoved the trapped insect toward Calum. ¡°Fuse it. Right now.¡± ¡°With what?¡± Calum recoiled. ¡°Your pocket lint, a gum wrapper¡ªhell, use anything.¡± Calum¡¯s and went into his pocket in slight panic grabbing the first thing he touched. Gesturing towards the cage his fist uncurled, revealing the sweat-slick Lincoln cent. He swallowed, threads humming as the fly¡¯s frantic wings brushed against his consciousness. One charge snapped. The fly¡¯s exoskeleton rippled, its iridescent green shifting to a coppery patina. It darted faster now, a metallic blur ricocheting inside Rusty¡¯s cage-arm with a sound like pennies down a gutter. Margo leaned in, fascination overriding caution. ¡°Is it¡­ ok?¡± ¡°Only one way to find out.¡± Rusty pulled a toothpick out of his pocket and jabbed the insect. The sound of the pick snapping echoed throughout the room. ¡°Christ. Exoskeleton¡¯s solid copper. Mobility intact.¡± He whistled. A red LED blinked above them. Rusty froze, following the light to the security camera in the gym¡¯s far corner¡ªa dented relic he¡¯d bolted up years ago to deter protein-powder thieves. ¡°You functional?¡± he barked at the device. The lens zoomed audibly. Calum stared at the plate, its edges warped where the concrete had begun cracking around its unnatural grip. ¡°So¡­ crowbar?¡± Margo tossed him a rusty pry bar from the equipment rack. As Calum wedged the bar under the plate, the gym¡¯s overhead lights flickered. A low hum vibrated through the floor, the kind that makes molars ache. Margo stiffened. ¡°You hear that?¡± Rusty¡¯s prosthetic arm shifted into a serrated blade. ¡°EMP dampener. Someone¡¯s locking down the block.¡± The hum crescendoed into a scream. Across the room, the reinforced windows darkened to obsidian as blast shutters slammed into place. A distorted voice boomed through the wall: ¡°CONTAINMENT PROTOCOL X-12 INITIATED. ALL RESIDENTS REMAIN IN DESIGNATED SAFE ZONES.¡± Margo cursed, pulling out her cell phone. Its surface flickered through various alerts before resolving into a live feed of the street outside. ¡°Oh, you¡¯ve got to be kidding me.¡± The screen showed six armoured vans and a helicopter encircling Meta-Fit. Calum froze, the crowbar slipping from his grip. ¡°Are those¡­?¡± ¡°Government meta-swat,¡± Rusty growled. ¡°They only roll out for real serious shit: interdimensional incursions, high-level meta-terrorists ¡­ and Class X assets.¡± His glare landed on Calum. ¡°Kid. When exactly did they do your intake interview?¡± "Wh¡ª" "CALUM VEY VACATE THE FACILITY IMMEDIATELY!" The crowbar clattered to the floor. Calum¡¯s throat tightened as the voice boomed again, metallic and merciless: ¡°CALUM VEY. VACATE THE FACILITY IMMEDIATELY. YOU HAVE 20 SECONDS TO COMPLY.¡± Calum¡¯s stomach dropped. Chapter 4: Pleasant Kidnapping Chapter 4: Pleasant Kidnapping The past 30 minutes passed in a blur¡ªliterally. Rusty¡¯s gym, a kaleidoscope of shouts, flashing lights, and the distinct sensation of being dragged through a hallway that smelled like burnt popcorn. Consciousness flickered in and out like a dying lighter. Then¡ªsnap¡ªreality rebooted. He was slumped in a chair that was so aggressively ergonomic that it felt like it was cradling him in an intimate embrace. The room reeked of lemon disinfectant and existential dread. Across a mahogany desk sat a woman who looked like a suburban book club host who¡¯d discovered dark magic. Her bifocals were comically thick, magnifying eyes the colour of expired aspirin. ¡°Ah, you¡¯re back with us!¡± Her voice was warm milk laced with arsenic. ¡°How¡¯s the head, dear? Temporal displacement can be such a nuisance.¡± Calum¡¯s tongue felt woolly, his thoughts slogging through molasses. ¡°Did¡­ did you roofie me?¡± She laughed, a sound like wind chimes in a hurricane. ¡°Such a vulgar term. Let¡¯s say we¡­ expedited your commute. Coffee?¡± She slid a porcelain cup toward him. It smelled wrong¡ªlike almonds and bad intentions. He didn¡¯t touch it. ¡°Where¡¯s Margo?¡± ¡°Unimportant.¡± She slid a photo across the desk: a security still of him fusing the duct tape and plate. ¡°Your power¡¯s volatility is fascinating. How many objects can you fuse before losing coherence?¡± Calum¡¯s tongue felt like it had been dry-cleaned. ¡°Margo?¡± Rolling her eyes at his repeated question she spoke "Oh, she¡¯s fine. A little distracted, perhaps.¡± The woman tapped her tablet, and security footage bloomed on the wall: Margo outside Meta-Fit, arguing with a small army of police officers. Calum¡¯s fingers twitched. The threads here were different¡ªsynthetic, sterile. ¡°What do you want?¡± ¡°Straight to business! I admire that.¡± She steepled her hands. ¡°You can call me Dr. Voss. I¡¯m here to discuss your potential. That little stunt with the fly? Fascinating. We haven''t seen a power that could do something similar in decades. Not since¡­¡± ¡°But let¡¯s not dwell on the past.¡± Dr. Voss slid a file across the desk. The file cover bore a blood-red X . Dr. Voss¡¯s manicured nail tapped the symbol. ¡°You¡¯ve been upgraded, Mr. Vey. X-grade. A designation reserved for powers with¡­ existential scalability.¡± Calum snorted. ¡°My registry card says C-class. ¡®Low-risk manipulator, non-combative applications.¡¯¡± ¡°A necessary fiction.¡± Dr. Voss¡¯s smile tightened. ¡°We don¡¯t announce X-classifications to the recipients. We smile, we stall, we let you think you¡¯re harmless while the Blackstone Division races to your location." The words hit like a gut punch. Calum¡¯s grip whitened on the chair. ¡°You¡¯re saying I could¡ªwhat, crack the planet open?¡± "Precisely. Hence your draft notice.¡± She leaned in, bifocals reflecting his pale face like funhouse mirrors. Calum¡¯s throat constricted. The room¡¯s sterile threads hummed louder now. Dr Voss stood, smoothing her pumpkin-spice cardigan. ¡°The good news? You¡¯re being fast-tracked into Vanguard. Top-tier training, purpose-driven community. Any questions¡± Calum¡¯s voice frayed. ¡°What if I refuse?¡± Her grin widened, all teeth and no warmth. ¡° That''s the fun part, you can''t.¡± *** Being kidnapped by the government wasn¡¯t nearly as bad as Calum had imagined. The facility he now called home was essentially a five-star hotel¡ªMichelin-level cuisine, impeccable service, and amenities that would make even the most jaded executive blush. Still, the subtle tension in the eyes of the staff made it abundantly clear: to the powers that be, Calum was less a guest and more a walking, ticking arsenal of potential destruction. But now he found himself in a place significantly more familiar. After all, he¡¯d spent nearly a decade in a similar environment in his previous life¡ªa college-style lecture hall. This one was modest, seating at most a hundred people, yet at this moment, it lay completely empty. He had been escorted here by a small army of soldiers who offered no instructions or directions. Although it was pretty clear this is presumably a part of the so-called "top tier training" he was meant to receive. The old wooden double doors behind him creaked open, groaning like coffin lid being pried open. A figure stepped inside¡ªa tall, dark-haired college-aged kid. Standing there he looked like someone had fed an Abercrombie catalogue into an AI art generator¡ªjawline sharp enough to cut glass, hair styled by a team of wind machines. A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation. His eyebrows knit into a frown as he scanned the room. When his gaze landed on Calum, a puzzled expression bloomed across his face. He backtracked swiftly, ducking into the hallway to verify the room number. Calum heard a muffled ¡°Huh,¡± followed by the squeak of sneakers returning. The guy strode back in, raking a hand through artfully tousled hair. The stranger¡¯s sneakers squeaked against polished linoleum as he slouched into the seats directly in front of Calum, sprawling across three chairs like a sunbathing cat. He threw a casual grin over his shoulder, the kind of smile that belonged on a toothpaste commercial or a cult leader. ¡°You waiting for Orientation too?¡± he asked, his voice all lazy confidence. Calum blinked. ¡°Uh¡­ maybe?¡± ¡°Hah! Well, that¡¯s reassuring.¡± The Stranger pivoted, extending a hand that glinted with a silver thumb ring shaped like a serpent. ¡°Name¡¯s Enoch. Nice to meet you. I¡¯m new here, so¡­ y¡¯know. Go easy on me.¡± Calum stared at the hand and then shook it ¡°Ha. Join the club. I¡¯m still half-convinced this is a fever dream.¡± Enoch plopped backwards into the seat beside him. ¡°Right? Place is wild. Got picked up yesterday after I, uh¡­ ''allegedly'' did a little domestic terrorism. Long story. You?¡± Just as Calum opened his mouth to respond, the doors creaked open again¡ªthis time disgorging a small crowd. His eyes flicked over the newcomers. The group split like oil and water: a handful in civilian clothes and a larger contingent of college-aged kids clad in light grey and burgundy uniforms that screamed military academy meets Hunger Games cosplay. The uniformed pack moved with eerie synchronicity, marching into the first two centre rows like they¡¯d rehearsed it in a previous life. Their jackets bore a crest¡ªan eagle clutching a lightning bolt in its talons¡ªand their stares carried the warmth of freshly sharpened scalpels as they glanced at the "civilians". One girl with a platinum braid coiled tighter than a noose actually tsked when a guy in a Nirvana shirt tripped over his own laces. Enoch leaned over, stage-whispering, ¡°Bet you five bucks the one with the braid has a stick shoved so far up her bum that it shows when she opens her mouth." ¡°She also apparently has quite good hearing,¡± Calum muttered as the woman hit Enoch with a glare sharp enough to flay skin. Enoch twisted in his seat, meeting her death-ray gaze with a lazy wave. ¡°Y¡¯know what? On second look, she¡¯s kinda cute. Like a haunted porcelain doll.¡± "Ahem." The sound cracked through the room like a gavel. Behind the lectern stood a man so aggressively professorial he might as well have been assembled from clich¨¦s: tweed blazer with elbow patches, thin-rimmed circular glasses and a beard trimmed to mathematically precise scruff. The man¡¯s fingers drummed a staccato rhythm on the lectern, his gaze sweeping the room with the intensity of a hawk eyeing field mice. The uniformed students snapped to attention, spines rigid as steel rods. Then, like a deflated balloon, his posture crumpled into something far more casual. He slouched against the lectern, grinning like a kid who¡¯d just shoplifted a jawbreaker. ¡°Hah! Look at all your faces. Priceless." After taking a moment to recompose himself he spoke up again " I¡¯m Provost Cain, head chef of this little experimental dumpster fire. Typically, we babysit X-grades one-on-one. But lately?¡± He whistled while mimicking a plane taking off with his hand. ¡°Turns out apocalyptic demigods are trending. So the higher-ups decided dumping you all into the S-grade class might ¡®promote camaraderie¡¯ or whatever HR bull they¡¯re peddling." ¡°Well!¡± Cain clapped, the sound echoing like a gunshot. ¡°Enough dilly-dallying. Let¡¯s make our way to the playground.¡± He strode toward the doors, tweed jacket flapping like a demented cape. Enoch twisted toward Calum, eyebrows raised. ¡°Wasn¡¯t this supposed to be a lecture course?¡± Calum shrugged. ¡°Not a clue, man.¡± The S-grades rebooted like glitching androids, their pristine composure briefly short-circuiting at Cain¡¯s whiplash tone. They rose in unison, marching after him with the enthusiasm of condemned prisoners. The platinum-braided girl lingered, shooting Enoch a look that could curdle milk. *** The walk to the training hall confirmed two things: Enoch had never encountered a silence he couldn¡¯t smother with chatter. He was weirdly good at it. By the time they arrived, Calum knew about Enoch¡¯s obsession with vintage sneakers, his hatred of cilantro (¡°tastes like soap and lies¡±), and his theory that the facility was built on an ancient alien burial ground (¡°explains the WiFi dead zones¡±). ¡°¡ªand that¡¯s why I¡¯m banned from PetSmart,¡± Enoch finished, just as Cain shoved open a pair of blast doors with a dramatic flourish. The training hall wasn¡¯t a room. It was a landscape. The vaulted ceiling soared high enough to house storm clouds, and the floor stretched into a horizon line of polished black composite. It looked less like a gym and more like an obsidian hellscape and at the far end, a cluster of combat drones hung dormant in charging cradles, their faceless heads tilted skyward like worshippers of the dark gods that called this place their home. Calum¡¯s eyes snagged on the ceiling¡ªribbed with glowing conduits that pulsed like veins. The threads here were alive, humming with a predatory static that made his molars ache. Enoch whistled. ¡°Could fit a Walmart in here.¡± ¡°Several,¡± Cain corrected. ¡°But let¡¯s start small.¡± He snapped his fingers, and panels in the floor disgorged what looked like nightmare playground equipment: obstacle courses studded with rotating blades, floating drones armed with paintball guns firing neon gel, and a pit filled with¡ª ¡°Is that lava?¡± an X-grade girl squeaked. ¡°Molten wax,¡± Cain said. ¡°Same scream, less cleanup.¡± Cain hopped onto a floating platform, hands jammed in his pockets. ¡°Welcome to the Sandbox! Today¡¯s agenda?¡± He snapped his fingers. Holograms exploded into being LIMIT TESTING!!! :D. The S-grades stiffened, recognition flashing across their faces. The rest of them just looked nauseous. Chapter 5: Watching a Show Chapter 5: Watching a Show The training hall had devolved into a Michael Bay wet dream. The young superhumans moved like gods slumming it at a demolition derby. Take the mountain masquerading as a person: a 10-foot-tall meat slab who bulldozed drones like they were cardboard cutouts. His biceps had biceps. When he punted a molten-wax cannon into the stratosphere, it left a crater that probably was deeper than Calum was tall. Then there was Katana Kid. He was some weeb¡¯s fever dream brought to life. His blade sliced through steel like warm butter, leaving a trail of bisected drones that glittered with anime-grade impracticality. Calum half-expected a JRPG victory fanfare to blare every time he struck a pose. Worse was the girl with the disintegration aura. Things just¡­ un-existed near her. A drone swooped too close? Poof. Now a pile of dust. And then there was her, Platinum Braid, the S-grade''s apparent ice-queen commander. Her power had to do something with controlling movement. In her radius, drones froze mid-air like flies in amber, and pellets suspended themselves in the air as if you were to stop time in a rainstorm. The X-grades, meanwhile, were more avant-garde. Enoch in particular fought like someone had fed a John Wick marathon into a shredder and snorted the confetti. One second he was dodging lasers with Matrix-level flair, the next he was dismantling a drone¡¯s circuitry with a paperclip and chewing gum. Was it super-speed? Precog? Superintelligence? Time manipulation? Calum gave up guessing after Enoch somehow produced a bag of Skittles mid-combat. The S-grades looked equally baffled. Katana Kid actually paused his anime protagonist routine to gawk as Enoch taunted a drone swarm by doing the Electric Slide. Calum had the best view of the entire field mostly because he was currently dangling 100 meters above them, trapped in a net suspended by a drone that resembled Wall-E¡¯s meth-addicted cousin. Could he break free? Probably. But why bother? Down there was a no-man¡¯s-land of rogue laser fire, eldritch disintegration fields, and a dude who produced supersonic shrapnel by barreling through everything within sight. Up here? Quiet. Peaceful. A front-row seat to the show below. A gel pellet whizzed past, barely missing his net. Looking down to find its origin Calum found Enoch waving from atop a collapsing obstacle, grinning like an 8-year-old visiting Disneyland for the first time. ¡°C¡¯mon, bro! The waters warm!¡± Calum closed his eyes and reclined in his nylon hammock. ¡°Hard pass.¡± The chaotic battle blurred into white noise, lulling Calum toward a nap¡ªuntil the net vanished beneath him. His stomach lodged in his throat as he plummeted, already drafting his obituary (Here lies Calum Vey, who thought napping mid-combat was smart). He hit the ground with a thud softer than a dropped pillow. Looking up, he found the entire class staring. Provost Cain stood over him, holding the shredded net like a disappointed parent with a broken vase. ¡°Sleeping on the job, Mr. Vey? How¡­ ambitious.¡± The S-grades snickered. Enoch mimed snoring. Cain tossed the net aside. ¡°Now that everyone¡¯s here¡ª¡± he smiled at Calum, ¡°¡ªlet¡¯s proceed to Phase Two: Limit Testing. Based on your earlier flailing, I¡¯ve devised educational matchups. Testing weaknesses finding limitations that kind of thing¡± He tapped his tablet and the screens flared: IVAN vs. CASSANDRA. The mountain¡ªIvan¡ªlumbered forward. He moved like a glacier with each footstep cratering the floor as he stepped into a freshly materialized arena. The human-shaped boulder cracked his neck, the sound echoing like a tree trunk snapping. Cain yawned. ¡°Cassandra, sweetheart, usually I¡¯d say ¡®hold back to avoid fatalities,¡¯ but¡­¡± He gestured at Ivan. ¡°Try your worst.¡± She quickly took her position her hands glowed faintly the air around them warping as if reality itself were fraying at the edges. This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. ¡°Begin!¡± Cain barked. Cassandra struck first, hands sweeping outward in a lethal arc. A cone of distortion rippled forward, turning the floor to sand and the air to acid-tinged mist. A drone caught on the edge crumbled like a sandcastle in a hurricane. But despite the destruction around him, Ivan walked through it seemingly unaffected. His boots disintegrated. His shirt dissolved. His pants became a very unfortunate loincloth. But his skin? Unscathed. Not even a sunburn. ¡°What the¡ª¡± Cassandra¡¯s smirk faltered as Ivan kept advancing. ¡°Hit him harder!¡± Katana Kid yelled, earning a middle finger from Cassandra. Meanwhile, Ivan had reached Cassandra. She backpedalled, sweat dripping as her power lashed out wildly. A support beam aged to dust beside them. Ivan¡¯s fist swung¡ªslow but inevitable, a continental plate in motion. Cassandra dodged¡­ mostly. The shockwave of the punch¡¯s miss sent her skidding, her disintegration field sputtering like a faulty neon sign. ¡°STOP FUCKING MOVING!¡± she screamed, desperation creeping in. Her next cone attack flickered¡ªweaker now, fraying at the edges. Ivan grabbed a chunk of collapsed piller ¡ªhalf-disintegrated concrete¡ªand threw it. Cassandra vaporized it mid-air, but the debris became a sandstorm of particles that choked her. He was on her before she recovered. One hand closed around her wrist. ¡°Yield,¡± Ivan rumbled, his first word of the day. Cassandra¡¯s free hand flared, disintegration sputtering against Ivan¡¯s chest¡­ ¡­and fizzling. In desperation she flailed around like a badger with its hand caught in a bear trap it was clear to everyone that there was no possible way of escaping his grasp. ¡°Yield,¡± Ivan repeated. And after much reluctance, Cassandra spat a frustrated. ¡°Fine!¡± The class erupted into murmurs. Enoch whistled. ¡°Dude¡¯s built like one of those old Nokias.¡± Cain clapped, grinning. ¡°Excellent!" ¡°Any key takeaways? ¡°¡ªIndestructible assholes ruin everything,¡± Cassandra muttered, nursing her wrist as she slunk back to the S-grade ranks. Ivan shrugged a tectonic shift of muscle that made his braid clink faintly, like a wind chime made of anvils. The Katana Kid raised his hand like he was in an elementary school " Don''t get in a fistfight with a Bruiser?" ¡°Yeah yeah, sure" Cain waved dismissively in this direction "But the real lesson? Ivan¡¯s not just a meat castle. He¡¯s a clever meat castle. Notice how he herded her into the debris cloud? Remember nothing is more dangerous than a person using their power with a little bit of forethought.¡± Cain¡¯s grin sharpened as the screens flickered again. ¡° ENOCH vs. Lt. FINN!¡± Enoch was in the arena before anyone had even noticed wearing a pair of red-tinted circular sunglasses that seemingly appeared from nowhere. ¡°Finally, a worthy opponent! Our battle will be legendary!¡± Enoch¡¯s grin didn¡¯t falter, even as Lieutenant Finn stepped forward. The S-grade telekinetic moved like a chess piece come to life¡ªall crisp angles and cold calculation. Her platinum braid immaculate, her uniform starched to knife-edge, and her glare promised a very painful death. ¡°Oh, hello,¡± Enoch purred, rotating the serpent ring on his thumb. ¡°You here to teach me posture?¡± Lt. Finn didn¡¯t dignify that with words. "Begin!" Enoch moved first to the naked eye, he simply flickered. A hailstorm of projectiles materialized mid-air: throwing knives, shuriken, darts tipped with neon gel, even a handful of screws stolen from the arena¡¯s mangled drones. They hung suspended inches from Finn¡¯s face, frozen in her telekinetic grip. The only proof the projectiles were thrown instead of just appearing was Enoch¡¯s arm, frozen still extended in a follow-through, fingers loosely cradling another dagger. Finn didn¡¯t flinch. Her polished boots clicked against the floor as she advanced, trailing a finger through the metallic swarm. She plucked a knife from the air, examining its edge with the disdain of a chef inspecting discount cutlery. Her power had Enoch stuck in place like a statue unable to move even an inch. She closed the distance like an Executioner''s axe, it was clear to the observers that the fight was already over. She was five meters away when his sunglasses ignited. The lenses flared nuclear red, twin supernovas that punched beams of concentrated light straight through her torso. The smell of burnt hair hung in the air as Finn staggered, clutching the cauterized holes beneath her ribs. For a heartbeat, the arena held its breath¡ªthen the telekinetic crumpled, her rigid posture dissolving into a twitching heap. Chapter 6: Fight Chapter 6: Fight The moment Lieutenant Finn hit the floor, the room froze¡ªnot the crisp, elegant stasis of her power, but the jagged silence of a group of pedestrians watching a drive-by. Calum¡¯s brain short-circuited. Since when did training mean murder? Even in a world where a guy down the street could sneeze mustard gas, this felt¡­ excessive. Cain¡¯s laughter shattered the stillness, a wet, gurgling chuckle that belonged to a hyena on nitrous oxide. ¡°Oh, marvellous!¡± He skipped toward Finn¡¯s smouldering body, humming show tunes. Calum¡¯s stomach did a backflip as Cain crouched. The provost¡¯s left arm twitched. Then it¡­ unfolded. His flesh rippled like a time-lapse of roadkill decomposing, tendons slithering like eels, bones elongating with the snap-crackle-pop of Rice Krispies. By the time Cain¡¯s hand? Tendril? Probe? plunged into Finn¡¯s torso, it resembled something out of HP Lovecraft''s darkest dreams. The squelch echoed. ¡°Ah, perforated liver!¡± Cain crooned, "elbow"-deep in Finn¡¯s abdomen. Calum dry-heaved. The healing process was worse. The grind of reforming ribs, the wet snap of skin stitching itself¡ªwould haunt his nightmares for weeks to come. Finn¡¯s back arched off the floor, a silent scream trapped in her throat as Cain¡¯s hand pulsed like an artery made of living maggots. When he withdrew, Finn¡¯s skin sealed together like molten plastic, leaving unblemished porcelain skin that gleamed like melted wax. She bolted upright, gasping, alive, intact, and visibly traumatized. ¡°Ta-da!¡± Cain wiggled his now-human fingers, still glistening with her blood. ¡°Now that we¡¯re done with our little¡­ interlude¡± His grin widened. ¡°let¡¯s continue!¡± The hologram screen displayed accompanied by confetti and a kazoo rendition of Happy Birthday CALUM vs FELIX Calum''s lungs forgot how to breathe as Finn¡¯s trauma-vacant eyes and the squelch of Cain¡¯s probe-tendril looped in his skull on repeat. Distracted by his thoughts he hadn''t realised when his legs had carried him into the arena. Across the arena, Felix spun his katana with the casual flair of a guy who¡¯d mainlined too much Demon Slayer. The blade caught the light, casting anime-grade sparkles that suddenly felt a little bit too menacing. Katana Kid¡¯s eccentricities suddenly weren¡¯t so laughable now that Calum could see just how sharp that katana was. With a fluid motion, Felix sheathed his sword. In the same heartbeat, the blade flashed¡ªshink!¡ªlike a scene torn from an anime. Three meters away, a steel training dummy slid apart with a sigh, its severed edge mirror-smooth. Calum¡¯s bladder threatened mutiny. Cain''s voice boomed, warped and distant, as if heard underwater: ¡°¡­aaaaand BEGIN!¡± The word detonated in Calum¡¯s skull rebooting panic spiral. His body moved before his brain could think¡ªfight-or-flight jackhammering through his veins like a rabid animal. It was funny how he had never realised how deep powers burrowed into your lizard brain. Just like flinching from a car backfire the use of powers can happen reflexively. His subconscious mind clawed through options, frantic as a rat in a flood: Concrete floor¡ªtoo brittle, too weak. Nitrogen in the air¡ªuseless. Aluminum gum wrapper? Pathetic. his blade cuts steel like warm butter¡ª The gum? Not the wrapper. The gum itself. Stale, half-melted, wedged in his pocket forgotten. His subconscious latched onto it and didn¡¯t hesitate. Channels tore open inside him, a firehose blast of power. Charges burned¡ªtwo, three, four, gone in a heartbeat, scorching his nerves like vodka poured straight into his veins. The gum jumped into his palm snaking up his arm in a molten polymer tide, his skin screamed. His cells itched. *** All of Felix¡¯s training had not prepared him for this. X-grades loomed in his mind as forces of nature tsunamis in human skin, calamities that could shred S-grade teams like tissue paper. But the trembling boy across the arena? Pathetic. The X-grade stood frozen, sweat glueing his shirt to his chest. Felix had done his homework: during the warm-up chaos, he¡¯d catalogued every threat. But Calum? The kid had spent half the session napping. The only anomaly was his friendliness with that monster ¡ªa fact that coiled in Felix¡¯s gut like rancid sushi. Catching Enoch''s grin out of the corner of his eye a suspicion grew that maybe this Callum was more than what meets the eye. ¡°Instincts,¡± Felix muttered. Standard meta-combat doctrine¡ªrattle the newbie, trigger their fight response. His blade had sung through a dummy¡¯s neck, steel parting like hair under a razor. He¡¯d watched for the telltales: ozone crackle, temperature drops, the vrrrt of gathering energy. Instead, Calum just¡­ trembled. Like a rabbit hearing the shotgun¡¯s click. ¡°No tells,¡± Felix breathed. Either the kid was Oscar-worthy at playing prey, or his power operated without any obvious visual clues. Neither option sat well. Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings. Has Cain announced the beginning of the bout Felix¡¯s thumb caressed his katana¡¯s hilt. No instinctive defence. No aura. Just¡­ fear. Classic C-grade tells. Maybe the X-classification was a fluke. A clerical error. Or¡ª Calum¡¯s arm twitched. At first, Felix thought it was a tremor. Then the boy¡¯s hand bulged, skin stretching like overfilled latex. ¡°What the¡ª?¡± Calum¡¯s scream was raw, animal. His fingers bloated into sausage links as something swelled beneath his skin¡ªa molten, honey-coloured ooze surging up his veins. Felix¡¯s katana flashed, reflexively defensive. The blade sliced the air as Calum¡¯s arm erupted. It wasn¡¯t an arm anymore. It was an elastic whip of semi-liquid polymer, snapping forward with the crack of a bullwhip. Felix twisted¡ªtoo slow. The gum tendril grazed his sleeve. Mistake. His jacket hardened mid-swing, fabric crystallizing into a concrete prison. Momentum became an anchor. Felix¡¯s ribs slammed arena tiles, breath escaping in a whoof. Above him, the tendril recoiled, dripping honeyed sludge that splattered across the arena. Move. His dagger flashed¡ªa hidden shiv biting through petrified cloth. Freed, Felix rolled imagining the gum-whip cratering the space where his skull had just been. Adrenaline sang in his teeth as he vaulted upright, katana raised¡­ and froze. Calum hadn¡¯t advanced. The boy stood rooted, staring at his nearly severed tendril only held on by the barest traces of sinew. Felix¡¯s blade arm trembled¡ªwith relief? Triumph?¡ªuntil the X-grade knelt. No. Pressing the tendril to the stump it reattached like magic and it was then that Felix knew he was in for the fight of his life.
Here''s a brief description of the power grades G-Grade: Average human ability. F-Grade: Peak human ability. D-Grade: Transcends natural human limits. C-Grade: Surpasses all natural terrestrial organisms. B-Grade: Exceeds all pre-1940s human-engineered creations. A-Grade: Comparable to the destructive force of a nuclear warhead. S-Grade: Exceeds A-Grade capacity by a minimum tenfold multiplier. X-Grade: Beyond measurable quantification. Speed: Composite of reaction velocity, sprint capacity, and striking speed. Power: Raw force/energy output producible by an individual. Durability: Ability to resist harm/alteration to their base condition. Intellect: A composite of the user''s general intelligence, fight IQ, information recall, creativity, and computation speed Potency: The extent to which one¡¯s abilities modify reality and supersede opposing powers. Potential: Composite of capacity for power escalation and circumstantial transformative impact. Utility: Composite of versatile functionality, adaptability across scenarios, and practical value. The following is an estimate of the characters'' attributes using the previous criteria based on displayed ability in the story so far. Ivan P.- S-Grade, Power: Invincibility? + Super Strength? Minor Gigantism (11 ft 7 in) Speed: D+ Power: B+ Durability: X Intellect: C- Potency: X Potential: B Utility: A- Felix B.- S-Grade, Power: Weapon Enhancement(Sword Focus)? Minor Super Speed? Speed: B- Power: ~S+++ (Variable, max X, more realistically B-A) Durability: F+ Intellect: D- Potency: A+ Potential: A+ Utility: A- Lt. Finn- S-Grade, Power: Motion stopping field? (Doesn''t seem to affect lasers) Speed: S++ (power activation speed is instant, F without accounting for activation speed) Power: ~X Durability: ~ (durability not including power- G+, with power active S++) Intellect: B Potency: X Potential: A+ Utility: S+ Cassandra C. - S-Grade, Power: Disintegration field? Speed: B+ (power activation/ attack speed is A+, D- without accounting for that) Power: S+ Durability: D- Intellect: F Potency: S+++ Potential: A+ Utility: S++ Enoch - X-Grade, Power: ??? Minor Super Speed? Speed: ??? (minimum B+) Power: ??? (presumably over D) Durability: ??? (unknown hasn''t been hit yet) Intellect: ??? (minimum B+) Potency: ??? (power unknown) Potential: ??? (power unknown) Utility: ??? (power unknown) Callum V. - X-Grade, Power: Fuse. Speed: G Power: ~ (Variable, without power G-) Durability: G- Intellect: C- Potency: ~ Potential: X Utility: X