"Why is everyone so weird today?" Mateo complained inwardly as he headed to Training Bay Alpha.
An hour and a pool of sweat later, the other students returned. Most were healed, only a few sporting bandages where the deeper cuts had been.
Reeves had mentioned earlier that they would "review the tactics used in your rescue operations and how they can be used more efficiently." As the students lined up with military precision, Reeves walked into the wide room, her expression stern—but Mateo noticed the slight tremor in her left hand as she consulted her tablet. Dark circles ringed her eyes, making her look older than her thirty-something years.
"Now that you've all been healed," she said, examining them with calculating eyes, "we can continue the session. No time to waste."
There's never time to waste here, Mateo thought.
"Let's start with the B-3 team—the best performers."
Ben, Seraphine, Marina, and Amara straightened as their team was called out.
"You showed quick thinking, utilizing your powers to save the majority of mannequins," Reeves praised. "Turning water columns into ice to catch the falling dummies, then using water jets to slow the glass ones so Ben could grab them safely—that was smart teamwork."
Their faces went from apprehensive to beaming. They had genuinely worked well together.
"Which is why I'm offering your team a bonus." Reeves smiled slightly—the first genuine expression Mateo had seen from her all week. "As a reward for earning first place, you'll have time off from evening training to do whatever you want."
Then she lowered her voice, focusing on them alone. "Though I'd strongly advise sticking to training anyway. We don't have much time before deployment."
The four students gulped and nodded as Reeves addressed the rest of the class.
"This is an incentive to push harder in the coming days," she announced. Mateo found it contradictory to pressure them into regular training even after winning, but he was starting to understand the Academy's logic. Everything was preparation for war.
"As for the other teams' performances—" She turned to the B-1 team. "You fared the worst, saving only five mannequins, mostly because you think being a hero only means fighting."
"The B-2 team," she continued, looking at Mateo's group, "performed adequately, but lacked proper teamwork."
Mateo recalled Alex recklessly pulling mannequins toward herself, breaking them and injuring herself in the process. He'd wanted to grab her arm, force her to follow the plan, but that would have made things worse.
"But you also showed quick thinking when the original plan failed," Reeves added, her eyes lingering on Mateo longer than the others. "It's a good start, but we need to focus on improving teamwork in future challenges."
Mateo nodded while Alex scoffed under her breath. Henrik shuffled nervously and Akira stood silent, but Mateo caught the way her jaw tightened.
"Now then," Reeves clapped briskly, drawing everyone's attention. "As you know, in five days we'll be deploying to active warzones to assist pro-heroes. But before that, we're having another challenge—a show of strength between students."
"One-on-one combat duels. I won't tell you who you're fighting, but I want you to prepare and train your hardest. Develop every aspect of your quirks to the maximum. You won't be disqualified if you lose, so don't worry about that."
"Like they'd actually disqualify anyone," Henrik muttered. "Can they really afford to when they're running low on soldiers?"
Mateo heard him but had no response. The news reports they glimpsed during meals painted a grim picture—entire hero agencies wiped out, evacuation zones expanding daily, civilian casualties mounting faster than the media could count.
"Now that you're all here," Reeves concluded, "it's time for physical training."
The five days blurred together in a haze of exhaustion and adrenaline.
Mateo barely had time to think, let alone relax. Every hour was packed with grueling training sessions that left his muscles screaming and his quirk drained to empty. When he wasn't pushing his body and abilities to their limits, he was either wolfing down food, washing blood and sweat from cuts and bruises, rushing to the next session, or collapsing into dreamless sleep.
The training escalated each day. On day two, Akira took a full-force punch to the ribs during combat drills—Mateo heard the crack from across the room. She got up anyway, transformed her companion into a bear, and kept fighting until Henrik literally had to catch her when she swayed on her feet.
Day three brought the obstacle course from hell. Alex pushed herself so hard that she collapsed halfway through, her energy quirk completely drained. But when Ben offered to carry her, she snarled at him and crawled the rest of the way on her hands and knees, leaving bloody handprints on the concrete.
By day four, even Switch had stopped making jokes. They were all running on fumes and stubborn will.
They managed to earn one bonus period as a team—barely scraping together enough points when Henrik figured out how to use his merge quirk to fuse with debris, using slabs of concrete as biological armor, creating an improvised arsenal. Against his better judgment, Mateo used the free time for extra rest. His body was screaming for it.
Mateo had imagined the Atlas Academy as the year his life would truly change. Maybe he'd break out of his shell, make real friends, even find a girlfriend. He'd never attended a proper school due to the ongoing crisis, so his expectations were skewed by stories from others and TV shows.
God, I was naive.
Besides, Mateo had never had real friends before.
Not that his week at Atlas was entirely bleak. With limited free time, all his social interactions came from training sessions. He'd grown closer to some of the guys—Anon, Ben, and Switch—though Inferno remained an impenetrable wall that Mateo wasn't interested in cracking.
He wasn't exactly friends with the girls yet. Amara usually just teased him, while Seraphine, Marina, and Maya maintained friendly but indifferent relationships with him.
The real bonds Mateo had formed were within the B-2 team: Alex Velez, Henrik Mercer, Akira Nagasaki, and himself. To say their relationship was rocky would be an understatement.
Initially, Alex's behavior created constant tension. She'd argue with Mateo's plans and act recklessly, costing them points. The breaking point came on day three when she ignored his signal to retreat and nearly got crushed by a training robot. Mateo had to launch himself forward with a slime catapult to pull her out of the way, and they both ended up scraped and bloody.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" he'd snapped, adrenaline making him bold.
"I had it handled!" she shot back.
Akira always tried mediating before conflicts escalated, while Henrik mostly observed the drama in silence. But Mateo noticed Henrik watching Alex after that incident, his usually passive expression sharpening into something like concern.
Gradually, though, Alex became more receptive to Mateo's leadership. Not enough for casual conversation, but she followed his strategies more often. She provided the team's raw power, Akira served as their social glue keeping them from falling apart completely, and while Henrik remained quiet, he and Mateo had grown closer through shared experiences—both were from the outskirts, grew up poor, and had lost family to the crisis.
With Alex's powerhouse quirk, Akira's shape-shifting animal companion, Henrik's object-merging ability that let him store weapons and other objects inside his body, and Mateo's increasingly versatile slime quirk fueling creative strategies, Team B-2 quickly became the strongest in Class B.
But strength meant nothing if they couldn't trust each other with their lives.
Now, on the final day, Mateo woke to tension hanging in the air—a calm before the storm. It wasn't just about the upcoming duel, but the reality that after today, they'd be fighting real battles with their lives on the line. The safety of Atlas Academy would be gone forever.
Each student had their reasons for becoming a hero. But did they have the conviction to see it through?
Mateo clenched his fist, feeling the ache in his knuckles from yesterday's punching drills. Good. He'd be one step closer to getting his revenge. That was what he wanted, right?
Right?
The others were already stirring at 0700, despite Reeves not blaring her usual wake-up call through the intercom. Their bodies had adapted to the routine over five days of conditioning.
Speaking of her alarm, Mateo checked the dorm clock. 7:02 AM, and still no wake-up call? Was she taking pity on them for their last day?
A knock at the door interrupted his thoughts. Unlike the casual entrances of their roommates, this person waited patiently for permission.
Mateo exchanged confused looks with the other five boys. Who could it be?
He opened the door to find a student wearing a light-blue, skin-tight hero suit that accentuated his broad chest and muscular calves. His wavy dark hair seemed to move with an invisible breeze, giving him an otherworldly presence.
"Hey, Class B, how are you all doing?"
It was Stratos, carrying a stack of metal boxes of various sizes. Only Ben, Switch, and Anon greeted him enthusiastically. Henrik remained characteristically quiet, while Inferno probably thought himself too important for pleasantries.
Stratos entered with graceful confidence, dropping the heavy boxes on the floor with a thud. "Reeves asked me to deliver your suits and equipment. Crazy how it feels like it's been just a week since we've been here and we're already becoming real heroes, right?"
"It HAS just been a week," Henrik corrected, rummaging through boxes until he found one labeled 'Mercer.' He pulled out a black cloak that engulfed his entire frame in a menacing aura.
"Looks like you're planning to haunt someone," Switch commented without malice as he opened his own box. Inside lay a single weapon—a gleaming black blade serrated on both sides, so sharp Mateo was sure it would cut fingers if touched carelessly. Switch tested it with practiced flicks before sheathing it at his hip.
Mateo had always wondered why Switch relied on a knife instead of his quirk. Now he understood—'Switch' only allowed position swapping with opponents, causing temporary disorientation but no direct harm. Without the weapon, he'd be limited to martial arts against most villains.
Inferno retrieved his hero suit next—a masterwork of practical design that probably cost more than Mateo's family had made in a year. The form-fitting black bodysuit featured bold red accents and protective armor plates that wouldn't sacrifice mobility. His utility belt sat heavy with equipment, while his crimson cape was lined with purple that flashed when it moved. The ensemble was undoubtedly impressive, possibly modeled after his father's costume.
Ben and Anon hadn't requested special costumes—Ben's invulnerability made flashy gear unnecessary, and Anon's role as strategist kept him away from direct combat.
That left Mateo's box sitting alone. He lifted it carefully, surprised by its weight, and placed it on his mattress.
Inside lay a dark-green leather suit, almost black in the dim light. Metal plates lined vital points for protection, with utility belts at the waist. As he put it on, the suit felt familiar, fitting perfectly since his measurements had been taken for custom design.
The boots had soles lined with small holes and iron heels that clanged satisfyingly on the floor. The gauntlets were heavier than expected, with five metal cylinders on each wrist and knuckle—the hydraulic system Anon had designed. When Mateo clenched his fists, they produced a satisfying mechanical crunch.
Next came a five-kilogram iron block, intended as a flail by attaching slime tendrils. He tested his quirk, watching slime flow through the suit's specially designed porous fabric without hindrance.
Finally, he lifted a helmet that combined mask and protective headgear. Green eye-holes provided clear vision while microscopic fiber-mesh protected against trauma. The adjustable jaw featured a respirator that clicked into place when closed.
He stood there for a moment, fully suited, feeling the weight of the gear and the weight of what it represented.
"Woah," Switch said quietly. "You look like you're ready for war."
"Good thing," Henrik muttered, "because that's exactly where we're going."
The room fell silent. Even Inferno looked uncomfortable.
"The horns are a nice touch," Anon said, breaking the tension. "Though I'm not sure how they help tactically."
Mateo's hand went to the black metal horns crafted at his temples—twenty centimeters long, glossy and dark, curving slightly backward like an oryx's horns. He had requested the suit be made exactly as it appeared to Reeves, but Anon was right; they served no practical combat purpose.
The question hung in the air, and Mateo felt everyone's eyes on him. His throat tightened.
He went to his backpack, hands moving almost without his permission. He'd never told anyone about this. But these guys—they'd bled and sweated and nearly broken alongside him for a week. If he couldn't trust them with this, who could he trust?
From his backpack's depths, he pulled out his 'totem'—a cylindrical object wrapped in white cloth that tapered to a sharp point.
He unwrapped it slowly, revealing a white horn weathered smooth by anxious handling.
"It was my brother's horn," he said, voice rougher than he intended. "That was his quirk. Nothing flashy. Just two horns."
The room went dead quiet. Mateo could hear his own heartbeat.
"He wanted to be a hero, but villains killed him in the outskirts." The words came out mechanically, the half-truth he'd practiced. "That's why I became a hero—to save people who can't save themselves."
That was the story he told Oblitus during his interview, the story he told his friends and sometimes even himself. But standing there in his war gear, holding his brother's horn, the real truth felt heavier than ever.
All I want is revenge. To kill whoever took everything from me.
Henrik's expression grew somber as Mateo spoke, and for just a moment, his usual composure cracked. Maybe he'd lost someone too. Maybe that's why he'd come to Atlas.
The others remained quiet, the room's atmosphere growing heavy. Mateo carefully rewrapped the horn and returned it to his backpack, feeling the weight of shared silence and unspoken understanding.
Time moved differently after that moment of revelation. The weight of Mateo's confession hung in the air as they finished suiting up, each lost in their own thoughts about what drove them to this path. The morning light streaming through their dorm windows felt different somehow—more urgent, more final.
Breakfast was a subdued affair. The mess hall's wall-mounted screens showed footage of destroyed city blocks and evacuation convoys, the volume turned low but the images speaking louder than words. Conversations were muted by the knowledge that their training phase was ending, replaced by something far more dangerous and uncertain.
As they made their way to the assembly hall, Mateo caught glimpses of other students adjusting their own hero gear, some excited, others visibly nervous. A girl from Class A was throwing up in a corner while her friends held her hair back. The reality of their situation was sinking in for everyone—they were no longer just students playing at being heroes.
Mateo ran through his abilities one more time: slime tendrils for grabbing and restraining, catapult launch for mobility, the iron flail for heavy impacts, and cushions for defense. Five days of brutal training had pushed each technique to new levels, but would it be enough?
The assembly hall felt different too—less like a classroom and more like a briefing room before a military operation. Which, Mateo realized, was exactly what it was.
"Mateo vs Zeke. You're up first."
His heart dropped into his stomach. Inferno—of course his rotten luck would pit him against the strongest fighter in class, son of a top-three pro hero.
"Shit," Switch muttered beside him. "You got Inferno?"
The murmur that went through the Class B students confirmed what Mateo already knew—everyone thought he was screwed.
The tall, muscular redhead gave no comment as he walked toward the arena, apparently located in one of the fake model cities designed to simulate residential warzones. His cape billowed dramatically behind him, and Mateo wondered if that was natural or part of his quirk.
What does this prove? Mateo thought as they climbed a crumbling apartment building to reach their fighting arena. That rich kids with famous parents are stronger than orphans from the outskirts?
But maybe that wasn't the point. Maybe the point was to see who would keep fighting even when they were outmatched. Who would stand up when everything seemed hopeless.
They reached the rooftop where their fight would begin. There were no pleasantries between them, no gracious "may the best man win." The city sprawled below them, artificially scarred by non-existent years of warfare, and somewhere out there, real villains were planning real attacks on real people.
Mateo and Inferno III weren't the type for false courtesy.
The real battle was about to begin.