The two hours that separated the moment I received the luxurious suite and the scheduled time for the "Mandatory Initial Physical Assessment Training" passed both like the blink of an eye filled with anxiety and like an eternity of unpleasant anticipation.
I spent them pacing around the suite like an animal trapped inside a golden cage, examining the elegant furniture while wondering how quickly it would turn into debris if some monster decided to pay me a visit.
Could I "analyze" these pathetic muscles of mine and make them grow faster in the next two hours? I thought with biting sarcasm as I stared at my reflection on the glass surface of the coffee table.
Or did the Narrative Architect Planner skill only work on things that had a more dramatic storyline than my boring everyday life—which had suddenly turned into a horror movie?
I didn't find any particularly suitable training clothes in the built-in wardrobe. It mostly contained more formal uniforms and some stylish casual outfits that the original Adam Lester seemed to prefer.
So I wore the simplest thing I could find in the "welcome package"—a dark charcoal cotton shirt and a pair of light gray training pants. Both felt rough against my skin, as if they were made from recycled industrial fibers.
At least if I throw up from extreme exhaustion, it won't ruin any expensive new clothes that I don't even own, I consoled myself as I tied the plain running shoes that had also been part of the academy's "generous gifts."
When the scheduled time approached, I followed the coordinates that appeared on the screen of my wrist Cardinal device. They led me through winding corridors and perfectly trimmed courtyards until I finally arrived at Main Training Ground No. 3.
"Impressive."
The arena was enormous—intimidatingly so. Its floor was made of a matte black material that seemed to absorb both light and sound. Towering walls surrounded it, carrying massive screens that currently displayed the glowing emblem of the Vanguard Academy, staring down at us like a silent warning.
Most of the Class Alpha students had already gathered, forming small groups here and there.
Some whispered nervously, their voices barely audible over what were probably the pounding of their own anxious hearts. Others spoke with exaggerated confidence, laughing loudly as if they were on a casual outing.
I spotted Ethan Riddell, our golden protagonist, performing warm-up exercises with the grace of a lion preparing to pounce. Every movement radiated strength and incredible control, his muscles swelling impressively beneath a sleek training outfit that looked as if it had been tailored specifically for him.
Drake Mallory, as usual, stood apart in the shadows, observing everyone with sharp, cold eyes—like a predator studying its prey before deciding how it would play with it.
What an emo bastard.
Serena Valerian was quietly speaking with two other female students. Her movements were calm and graceful, suggesting discipline and focus.
And me? I thought as I searched for a distant corner to hide in.
Well… I had accepted my fate.
Suddenly, without any warning, a strange and tense silence spread across the arena. Even the most talkative students stopped whispering at once, as if someone had pressed a mute button on the entire world.
I felt a tangible shift in the atmosphere. The temperature seemed to drop a few degrees, and a cold draft brushed the back of my neck, making the hairs on my body stand up.
Then, from one of the arena's side entrances—
She entered.
Professor Aurora Fenix.
She looked exactly as I remembered from the few rare illustrations that appeared in the novel "Vanguard Academy Chronicles." But here, in this tangible and undeniable reality, she was far more… overwhelming.
Her long silver hair—like strands of liquid moonlight—flowed down her back like a frozen waterfall, creating a stunning contrast with the tight black training uniform that highlighted her athletic, graceful figure without any effort.
Her eyes—cold sapphire blue, like the heart of a glacier—were as sharp as shards of polished glass. They swept across our tense faces in a single glance that made the back of my neck prickle, as if an icy needle had touched it.
There was no smile on her precisely shaped lips. Not even the faintest hint of one.
Only an expression of icy calm and flawless control.
She radiated an aura of raw power and unyielding discipline—an aura so intense that even Ethan Riddell, normally brimming with confidence, looked slightly tense and swallowed hard.
Rank 5… what the hell, I thought, feeling a cold bead of sweat form on my forehead and slowly slide down my temple.
This woman could probably turn all of us into perfectly sculpted ice statues with a single glance if she wanted to.
I sincerely hoped I wouldn't give her any reason to be angry—or worse, attract even the slightest bit of her attention today.
Professor Fenix stopped at the center of the arena, her hands clasped behind her back. She looked over all of us with one sweeping gaze, as if evaluating a group of new recruits before sending them on a suicide mission.
"Students of Class Alpha," she finally said.
Her voice was terrifyingly calm, yet sharp as an icy blade cutting through the heavy silence of the arena.
"I am Professor Aurora Fenix. Over the coming period, I will be responsible for evaluating your basic physical capabilities… and working to improve them."
She paused for a moment—
"…or at least determining which of you possesses any potential worth developing."
Then she fell silent, as if savoring the tension her words had created.
I don't care who you are, which prestigious family you came from, or what flashy abilities you think will make you heroes. Here, in this arena, the only things that matter to me are your ability to endure until the end, your speed in escaping danger, and your raw strength to confront what cannot be avoided."
Another cold glance swept across our faces.
"If you lack these fundamentals, then you are nothing more than a burden on your teammates… and a corpse waiting to be identified and catalogued."
What a wonderful way to begin a healthy, productive relationship built on trust, I mocked inwardly as my limbs began to feel cold.
I can practically feel the motivation flowing through my veins…
Or maybe that was just pure fear starting to freeze my blood.
"The assessment begins immediately," she continued without any further introduction or empty words of encouragement.
"We will start with an endurance test. Thirty full laps around the perimeter of this arena, at the maximum speed your adolescent bodies can produce."
She paused, and her tone grew even more threatening.
"Anyone who stops before completing the thirty laps—or dares to contaminate the clean floor of my training ground with the contents of their stomach—will receive an unfortunate failing evaluation… along with an additional afternoon training penalty that will make them wish they had never been born."
"Is that clear enough for all of you?"
It wasn't really a question. It was a declaration.
A faint murmur of nervous agreement—more like a collective suppressed groan—passed through the students.
Thirty laps?
My eyes widened.
Around this arena that looked the size of a small country like Luxembourg?
Is she joking in some kind of sadistic way?
I quickly recalled the status screen burned into my memory.
My endurance stat: [F-].
I'd be lucky if I managed to complete even one lap before collapsing and crying for a mother who didn't even exist in this world.
"Begin!"
Professor Fenix shouted suddenly, her voice cracking through the cold air like a whip, making me jump.
Boom.
Most of the students surged forward like a herd of terrified buffalo fleeing a massive fire.
Ethan, Drake, and Serena were already at the front, launching ahead with astonishing grace and power, as if they had tiny jet engines attached to their shoes.
Their movements were smooth, perfectly coordinated, overflowing with strength.
As for me…
I started jogging with slow desperation and felt my lungs burning after the first hundred meters.
Every step felt like I was dragging invisible weights behind me.
It was far worse than I expected.
Far worse than any athletic nightmare I had experienced in my previous life.
The first lap was hell.
The second lap was pure torture.
By the third lap, every muscle in my body was screaming for mercy, and my heart felt like it was about to leap out of my chest and declare independence.
"...Huff… hff… haah…"
Every breath carried the sharp metallic taste of blood, and the edges of my vision began to blur.
Other students passed me easily, as if I were moving in slow motion.
Some shot me quick glances—a mixture of pity and concealed disdain.
I tried to ignore them.
Ignore the burning in my legs.
Ignore the dizziness that was beginning to overtake me.
"Remember, Adam," I whispered to myself between ragged breaths, the air moving in and out of my lungs like shards of broken glass.
"You're here to survive."
Even if that meant becoming the class joke—the turtle trying to catch up with superpowered rabbits.
The dead don't feel embarrassment.
…At least, I hoped they didn't.
I don't know how—whether through desperate willpower or just sheer stubbornness—but somehow, by a small miracle, I managed to complete those thirty cursed laps.
"Ha—hff… haa… huff… haa… hff!"
When I finally stopped, I staggered like a drunk who had just lost a bar fight.
Colorful stars danced in front of my eyes, and I felt like I was about to empty the contents of my stomach—probably empty anyway—onto the disgustingly clean arena floor.
Fortunately, with one last shred of willpower, I managed to hold it in at the last moment. I bent over with my hands on my knees, panting like an old hunting dog.
"Ugh…"
I looked around with difficulty.
Ethan, Drake, and Serena were breathing deeply, their faces slightly flushed, but they looked like they had just returned from a pleasant morning walk in a park full of butterflies.
Most of the other students—even those who weren't in the lead—were in far better condition than I was.
Without a single doubt, I was at the bottom of the food chain in this damned academy.
Dead last.
The absolute bottom.
"Not too bad… for an earthworm that decided to try marathon running."
Professor Fenix's cold voice—utterly devoid of sympathy—cut through the fog of exhaustion surrounding me.
She was standing directly in front of me now, only a few steps away, looking down at me with those piercing sapphire eyes that held no expression I could read.
I didn't know whether she was skillfully mocking me or delivering a precise, objective evaluation of my disastrous performance.
Probably both.
Thank you so much for that warm, human encouragement, Lady Iceberg, I thought bitterly, my gaze fixed on her polished black boots, which looked cleaner than my future in this academy.
I didn't have the energy—or the courage—to raise my head and meet her eyes.
I was exhausted.
But unfortunately, this was only the beginning of my personal hell.
After the endurance test that nearly killed me, another series of physical "evaluations" followed—each seemingly designed specifically to demonstrate just how pathetic I was.
Strength Test.
I stood in front of a set of different weights, feeling every pair of eyes in the arena directed toward me, waiting for my next comedic performance.
I chose the smallest weight available—a metal bar that barely looked heavier than a moderately fat house cat.
I bent down, grabbed it with both hands, and gathered every ounce of strength in my body.
"Huup!"
I tried to lift it.
My arms trembled violently.
The weight moved slightly off the ground—maybe a few centimeters at most—before dropping back onto the rubber mat with a dull, humiliating thud, as if it were laughing at me.
Wonderful.
Another spectacular failure.
In front of an entire audience.
I felt heat rising to my face, certain that it had turned the color of a ripe tomato.
I heard a few muffled laughs and mocking whispers from somewhere behind me.
"Lister, do you need help lifting a pencil this time? Or is that too heavy for you as well?" someone shouted with obvious sarcasm, followed by a few quiet snickers.
I ignored them—or at least tried to pretend I did—while Professor Fenix wrote something on her tablet without the slightest change in her icy expression.
She was probably writing:
Adam Lister — Status: Completely hopeless.
Excellent candidate to become the first casualty in an F-rank gate… or perhaps even in the cafeteria if he chokes on a piece of dry bread.
The agility test was another farce.
A series of hurdles of different heights had been set up, and we were supposed to leap over them. I watched the others clear them with the grace of gazelles or the power of a tiger chasing its prey.
When my turn came, I felt like an elephant trying to perform ballet on a tightrope stretched over an active volcano.
I tripped on the first hurdle and nearly fell flat on my face in a thoroughly undignified manner.
I barely managed to get over the second hurdle after two failed attempts.
The third…
Well, the third hurdle apparently decided to take personal revenge on me and knocked me to the ground rather unceremoniously, earning another wave of muffled laughter.
At least the rubber floor here is relatively soft, I thought while struggling to stand again, my dignity scattering like dust in the wind.
Thanks a lot, you cursed hurdle, for that lesson in humility.
The reaction test, however, was the peak of dark comedy.
Colored lights flashed randomly and rapidly across a massive wall, and we had to touch them as quickly as possible.
I was always at least half a second too late—touching the spot where the light had been a moment earlier, as if I were desperately trying to play tag with an extremely hyperactive ghost.
I was slow.
Painfully slow.
If anything attacked me with the speed of a drunk snail suffering from a migraine, there was a very real chance I'd end up as its meal before I even realized it existed.
In every test, I watched Ethan Riddell, Drake Mallory, and Serena Valerian achieve astonishing results, as if they had been born to become superheroes—as if these exercises were nothing more than casual entertainment for them.
The gap between me and them wasn't just a gap.
It was a bottomless abyss—a vast ocean of physical incompetence.
When the "evaluations" finally ended, after what felt like an eternity of physical and psychological humiliation, I was lying on the ground, gasping like a fish thrown onto a hot harbor dock.
My entire body ached as if a massive cargo truck had run me over…
…and then reversed just to make sure it finished the job properly.
"Huff… haa… hff…!"
I panted like a dog trying desperately to catch my breath.
Professor Fenix gathered the results on her tablet and then looked at all of us—the exhausted remnants of the brilliant Class Alpha.
"The preliminary results… are interestingly varied," she said with her usual coldness that could probably freeze hell itself.
"Some of you have shown very promising potential."
"And others…"
"Well, others have a great deal of hard work ahead of them if they hope to survive until the end of this academic week—let alone graduate."
I felt her piercing gaze linger on me for a moment longer than necessary, as if she were trying to drill through my skull and see just how empty it was inside.
No doubt she was talking about me.
I was definitely part of the "others."
"These results will be analyzed carefully," she continued, "and individualized training programs will be designed for each of you based on them."
Finally, she waved a hand dismissively.
"Now go eat… if any of you still have an appetite."
"Practical training will begin tomorrow. Since today is the first day, you will not be pushed too hard."
Then, without another word, she turned and left the arena with the same icy calm she had entered with—leaving behind a group of exhausted and stunned teenagers.
I stayed lying on the ground for a few more moments, trying to recover my breath—and whatever fragments of dignity I had left scattered around the arena.
Not pushed too hard?
Is this woman trying to kill us with exhaustion before the real monsters even get the chance?
"Hey… are you okay? Do you need a hand?"
I heard a familiar voice carrying genuine concern.
With great difficulty, I lifted my head, feeling like my neck was about to snap.
It was Ethan Riddell, standing over me and extending his strong, steady hand.
His sweat-covered face held an expression of sincere concern, and his blue eyes looked at me with clear worry.
The noble hero comes to rescue the weak peasant once again, I thought sarcastically.
But this time…
the sarcasm was mixed with a very small—very, very small—trace of something that almost resembled… gratitude.