The Aegis Amphitheater had a way of making you feel small.
It wasn't just the scale — the tiered stone bleachers carved directly into the hillside, the wide concrete stage below — it was the weight of everything watching. Tall pillars ringed the outer edge like silent sentinels, and today, the eyes of six house leaders were added to that judgment.
Students filed in and found their seats with the low murmur of people pretending not to be nervous. Landen picked a spot near the middle of the bleachers and was still settling in when the white-haired boy dropped into the row behind him and leaned forward as if they'd already been mid-conversation.
Landen had noticed him early — it was difficult not to. There was something about the boy that drew the eye even when he wasn't doing anything. His name hadn't been announced yet, but Landen had already filed him under primary competition and underlined it twice. They both knew what this assessment meant. For front-line fighters, strength wasn't one stat among many. It was the whole argument.
Then Professor Halvek stepped onto the stage, and the murmuring stopped.
"Before we begin your strength assessment," he said, his voice carrying easily across the stone bowl, "I'd like to welcome our additional guests." He gestured to the side.
A ripple of whispers moved through the bleachers. Landen followed the class's collective gaze to a raised enclosure to the left of the stage — a small set of seats cordoned off from the general student section, currently occupied by six figures. They all wore the insignia of the major houses on the heart of their chest.
"Six house leaders," came a voice from the other side. Number 56 dropped into the seat next to Landen.
Landen glanced over. "Do they come every year?"
"No," the white-haired boy said, not looking at either of them. "The last few cohorts were dry. They're here because they're looking for future ADCs — replacements for their outgoing seniors."
Landen scanned the bleachers, wondering if anyone here would fill that role.
"So who's our real competition?"
"The big ones, obviously," said 56. "And the girl with the longbow. Slightly too tall, but the size of the bow is telling."
He tilted his head slightly. "There's a girl near the back. Short. Dark hair. Don't look yet." A beat. "Watch her when it's her turn."
"Why?"
"Because she's smaller than everyone here, and she's the least nervous person in these stands." He paused. "That's usually information."
Landen nodded like he understood. He didn't. He'd watched enough fights to know that reach and mass were the whole equation. Whatever point 56 was trying to make, it would have to prove itself.
— — —
The obelisk rose from the center of the stage without warning.
It was obsidian-black, inscribed with runes that pulsed dull amber, standing roughly two meters tall. At chest height near its base sat a wide, flat plate — the stone around it worn smooth in a way that spoke of decades of use.
Halvek stood before it.
"The Kinetic Wave Assessment. The objective is to measure the amount of force you can exude with one attack." He spread one hand toward the pillar. "This obelisk measures the force applied to this plate, converts it to energy, and transmits that energy outward." He casually swung down from where he stood and hit the center of the plate.
GONG!!!
The sound hit like a struck bell the size of a building. A shockwave of bright energy burst from the base of the obelisk, traveled across the stage floor in a rippling ring, and slammed into two of the outer pillars. They flared brilliant white, then dimmed to a steady glow.
"Take a look around you," he said, waving his hand high. "There are ten pillars surrounding this amphitheater," Halvek said, straightening his jacket. "Each of you will have two attempts to strike the plate. The more pillars you illuminate, the better your score." He scanned the bleachers. "No abilities. This is a test of raw physical output — nothing more." A pause. "First up. Number 115."
115 was a normal-looking boy, the kind of person your eyes moved past at a party. He walked to the plate with his shoulders up near his ears and the expression of someone who had already decided they were going to disappoint themselves. He planted his feet, pulled back his fist, and punched.
One pillar lit. A ghost of a second flickered and died.
115 walked back to the bleachers, staring at the ground.
— — —
One by one they went. The scores settled into a rhythm — two pillars, two and a half, occasionally three. A tall girl with an archer's build managed three and a fraction, and a smattering of genuine applause followed her back to her seat. There was one boy, broad-shouldered with thick hands, who hit four, and the house leaders in the VIP were still unfazed.
Then a girl with short dark hair stepped onto the stage.
56 and Landen glance at each other in acknowledgement. It was the same girl 56 had pointed out from the stands — the one he'd told them to watch. She didn't look like much from here. Small. Compact. The kind of person you'd overlook in a crowd without a second thought, which was probably exactly the point.
She approached the plate without ceremony, without any of the nervous shuffling or performative deep breaths that had preceded half the class. She just walked up, set her feet, and hit it.
GONG.
The shockwave rolled out across the stage floor — and the pillars answered. One. Two. A third. The crowd had started murmuring by the fourth, fallen silent by the fifth, and by the time the sixth pillar flared to life, nobody was making any sound at all.
The amphitheater went briefly quiet.
Landen was taken aback by her strength.
How can someone so small, be so strong? He wondered.
"Are you familiar with how strength translates to power?" The system's voice surfaced in Landen's mind.
Not really, he thought back.
"Whether you're a tank, fighter, or marksman, the damage output depends solely on the strength density which is the ratio of the body to the strength stats."
"For fists, strength density does not translate much, but for weapons like blades, bows, or energy projectors, the ratio becomes critical."
A smaller frame with proportionally high strength can produce devastating weapon damage. That girl almost certainly reads as a marksman. The obelisk captures weapon potential, not just raw impact."
Landen let that sit, then turned his attention to his stats.
His strength stat currently read 2. Low — embarrassingly so by the standards of what he'd seen today. But he had unallocated stat points he hadn't touched yet, held in reserve for exactly this moment. His plan was simple: take his first attempt without allocation, get a baseline reading, see where he stood. Then, on his second strike, pour everything he had into strength and show everyone in this amphitheater what a real jump looked like.
This will be an epic display of strength. He thought. He couldn't wait to see everyone's face.
But there was a problem. He'd never actually thrown a real punch before. He'd been in fights, but he was usually the one absorbing them, not delivering. But maybe with this new and improved body, it will be different.
And he'd watched thousands of hours of boxing and MMA — the footwork, the hip rotation, the snap of the follow-through. He understood the mechanics.
How hard could a simple punch be?
— — —
"Number Twenty-Eight."
A few heads turned as he stood.
"It's Mifaso."
"He looks fit."
"Yeah he actually looks strong."
"I have a feeling he's going to surprise us."
Landen walked on stage. He stretched and punched air almost like a demonstration. He swung around his arms, stretching his shoulders. And threw a couple of punches in the air. The form looked okay. Not bad. A little stiff, but not bad.
He got down on the ground and began to stretch his legs. Then his back. A minute passed as he continued to warm up.
"Quit stalling," someone yelled.
Landen quickly stood, rolled his shoulders one last time, and faced the plate.
Then in an instant ran at the target—and then his untied shoelace snagged under his own foot. The punch became a stumble, into a lurch, then into Landen, driving head first into the stone. Instead of a loud GONG, it made a sound that could only be described as a thwonk.
Landen hit the stage floor on his back and stared up at the sky.
From somewhere above him, he heard the amber runes pulse once — weakly — and die. Not a single pillar lit.
The silence in the amphitheater was complete.
Professor Halvek cleared his throat. When he finally spoke, his voice was entirely neutral.
"A reminder to all students," he said at last, his voice entirely composed, "that shoelaces should be secured before approaching the plate." He paused. "Number Twenty-Eight has set a new record. We will not be specifying which one."
Somewhere in the VIP enclosure, one of the house leaders leaned over and said something quietly to another. The second one nodded. Neither of them was looking at the stage anymore.
The darkness that came for Landen was honestly a relief.