The first round of the exhibition matches took place in a massive arena housed in a separate building.
Clyde and I split up in a long corridor—one exit leading to the stands, the other descending toward the arena floor.
The moment I stepped onto the arena, I fully understood the scale of it.
It was enormous—easily the size of two football fields. Rows of seating rose in tiers around it, starting about three meters above the ground, sealed off by a thick glass barrier.
The three lowest tiers were filled with spectators of lower status. The fourth and fifth were reserved for aristocrats—wider seats, softer, spaced apart. Behind them stood rows of bodyguards.
On the fifth tier, glass booths rose above the rest like towers.
Seven of them.
In one, I spotted the Holivans.
My parents.
Surrounded by guards I didn't recognize—or maybe I had simply never noticed them before.
The booths loomed over the arena like watchtowers, marking the people inside as untouchable.
Director Gordinstrit sat in one of them, Pavel standing behind her. Around them, in the remaining booths, were six more figures—judging by their attire, directors of other academies.
We—the candidates—stood in formation below.
Fifteen in dark gray.
Thirteen in dark blue.
Sixteen in dark green.
Two in orange.
One in violet.
Three in blood red.
"And so—the long-awaited day has arrived!" Marta's voice carried across the arena, though I couldn't see her.
"Throughout the exhibition matches, you will be accompanied by myself, Samir Bolton, Head of Recruitment, and Marta Kowalski, Head of Seer Regulation. We hope this year's program meets your expectations."
"Yes, this year promises to be especially interesting. We have more candidates than ever before—a clear sign of strong results. Let's begin."
"The first academy to present its candidates—Grandana Academy, led by Director Seimus Bol. Sixteen specials."
Sixteen candidates in dark green stepped forward and bowed.
In one of the booths, a tall elderly man in a pale green suit stood and raised his hand.
The crowd roared.
In the lower tiers, I even spotted banners—so the academies had their own supporters.
"Next—Gordinstrit Academy, led by Director Amelia Gordinstrit. Fifteen specials."
Our director raised her hand as we stepped forward and bowed.
The response was louder.
"Third—Margona Academy, led by Director Aran Blodi. Thirteen specials."
A shorter man stood among the directors—noticeably younger than the others. No older than thirty-five. Black suit. Neatly styled hair. Glasses catching the light.
He smiled.
The reaction shifted—less support, more attention.
"Also participating this year—the private Dragnyl School, under Stan Dragnyl, presenting two candidates."
Two in orange stepped forward.
Their director—a slightly heavy man with a mild expression—stood to acknowledge the modest applause.
"Each year, the Bortsov School, founded by Gleb Bortsov, presents only the best of the best. This year—one candidate. But one worthy of your attention."
A single figure in violet stepped forward.
In the directors' section, an extremely old man rose slowly. Bald head. Long gray beard. Even lifting his arm seemed difficult.
"And finally—the young Blocking School. Still new to us, but its founder, Kogon Blocking, has chosen to present three candidates."
Two young men and a girl in blood-red uniforms stepped forward.
And then—
he moved.
In the directors' booth, a tall young man stepped forward.
Too young.
Too composed.
Too noticeable.
He smiled—just with his lips.
Then his gaze moved across the arena.
It stopped on me.
For a second—
something struck.
Sharp.
Like a jolt under the skin.
Not fear.
Something heavier.
Something wrong.
He wore a deep red suit matching his students. His jet-black hair was tied into a low, short tail. He looked more like a model than the founder of a school for specials.
Barely older than Clyde.
And judging by the whispers spreading through both the stands and the candidates—
I wasn't the only one who noticed.
"And now—all fifty candidates have been presented!" Marta's voice rang out again. "Let's begin the first event."
"Each candidate will be assigned a number and given a uniform to conceal both identity and academy. The use of abilities is strictly prohibited. You will be fitted with suppression bracelets that block the flow of power."
Excited murmurs spread through the arena.
A show.
That's what this was.
"Your task is to demonstrate your physical ability and earn points from the audience. At the end, our distinguished guests will each select one candidate they consider worthy of the highest score. Based on their votes, we will determine the winner of this round."
"Candidates—leave the arena. You have five minutes."
To the sound of applause, we exited and followed an attendant.
"Women that way. Men this way," he said curtly.
Inside, rows of lockers lined the room, each marked with a name.
I found mine and opened it.
A loose black outfit.
A balaclava.
Silence.
Heavy.
No one spoke.
We weren't classmates anymore.
We were competitors.
There were thirty-eight of us here.
That meant twelve women.
I changed quickly and followed a tall figure out.
The same attendant was waiting.
"Stop."
The man ahead of me froze.
One hand pressed to his back, the other to his chest—
and glowing white numbers appeared.
Forty-two.
My turn.
A faint tingling spread across my skin.
Then sharper.
The number formed.
Slowly.
Thirteen.
Front and back.
I moved on without waiting.
"Hand," another assistant snapped near the exit.
I extended my right hand.
A cold metal band snapped shut around my wrist.
And instantly—
everything disappeared.
No flow.
No pressure.
Nothing.
The absence hit hard.
My body felt wrong.
Too empty.
For a second, I stood there, trying to adjust—
before the assistant's impatient gesture pushed me forward.
Move.
I took a breath and stepped back into the arena.
"And here comes number thirteen!" Bol's voice rang out. "Take your position. Leave space."
I scanned the field.
More than half were already in place.
I walked forward and stopped short of the center.
One by one, the rest entered.
The tension tightened.
And then Marta's voice cut through it:
"Three… two… one—begin!"