The morning's cultural exams faded into a dull memory, their weight eclipsed by the anticipation pulsing through Northview High.
The physical fitness tests—three grueling trials of strength, speed, and reflexes—were the true measure of a fighter's potential, the gateway to a life beyond Frosthaven's concrete walls.
David Holt stood among the crowd, the air heavy with the scent of sweat and polished metal, his heart a steady drumbeat of resolve.
This was his moment, the crucible where he'd forge his reborn destiny.
Northview High wasn't Frosthaven's elite academy, but its halls had birthed geniuses before, raw talents rising from the ordinary.
Twelve graduating classes, nearly 700 students, converged for the exam, their futures hanging on the results. The cultural scores had barely settled on the screens when the physical tests began, the campus activity room transformed into an arena of judgment.
The room buzzed with tension, its high ceilings echoing the hum of machines and the murmurs of onlookers.
At one end stood the boxing strength test machine, a hulking device with a rubber mat that absorbed blows, its mercury column gleaming under fluorescent lights.
Nearby, the neural response tester loomed, a sleek chamber ringed with infrared emitters, ready to simulate a hail of gunfire. Students lined up at the entrance, their faces a mosaic of nerves and bravado, while the judging seats brimmed with authority.
Invigilators, stern and clipboard-wielding, oversaw the process, but the real power lay with the recruiters.
Tables bore nameplates from Frosthaven's martial arts academies—Storm Academy, Ironclad Academy, Apex Academy, Skyforge Academy, Blue Horizon Academy, Galeheart Academy, and lesser gyms.
Military officers, their uniforms sharp, scanned the candidates for Frosthaven's defense forces. Government agents, their expressions unreadable, sought talent for civil roles, but only for those who met the score threshold.
Below that line lay university—a path of quiet obscurity, a life without the academies' glory. In this era, college was a shadow, and graduation day was destiny's dividing line.
"No. 1, Grade 3, Class 9, Samuel Wade enters," the invigilator called, voice cutting through the din.
David, at the back of the line, stifled a groan.
The ranking, reversed from the cultural exams, placed him last—punishment for submitting his paper first.
He shifted his weight, the cold floor seeping through his shoes, his patience fraying. How long would he wait while others faced the machines?
Samuel Wade, a slight boy with a nervous gait, stepped forward, his eyes darting to the recruiters. "Let's begin," the invigilator said. "First item, boxing test."
Samuel approached the strength machine, its rubber mat unyielding. "Start, use your greatest strength, left hand first!"
With a strained shout, Samuel swung. The mercury column surged, the electronic screen flashing: "103kg!"
The recruiters' faces remained impassive, a few shaking their heads. The minimum for academy recruitment was 200kg—Samuel's punch was barely above a civilian's.
His right hand fared little better, hitting 112kg, still far from the mark.
"Fist speed test, start. Hit continuously at your fastest speed for one second."
Samuel's fists hammered the mat, a frantic rhythm. "71kg, 68kg, 66kg, 62kg!" The screen reported four punches per second, a dismal score that drew no interest from the tables.
"Neural response test," the invigilator directed.
Samuel entered the chamber, its walls sealing around him.
Infrared beams, mimicking rifle fire from a hundred meters, erupted in a chaotic storm. Samuel flailed, dodging blindly, his movements more panic than precision.
Bullets tracked his every step, unrelenting. After a minute, the results flashed: "Sixty bullets per minute, 59 effective hits, one successful evasion, three effective dodges. Overall neural response: 0.43/m."
Samuel emerged, his face ashen, the weight of failure crushing his shoulders.
The path to university yawned before him, a life without the academies' glory.
David watched, a pang of sympathy stirring, tempered by his own resolve. He had known that fate once, in his past life—never again.
The tests dragged on, student after student facing the machines.
Of the first 300, only three passed, their scores scraping the minimum.
The best, from Class 2, managed 221kg punch strength, 5.7 punches per second, and a neural response of 0.097/m—decent, but not enough for Storm, Ironclad, or Apex.
A smaller gym claimed him, a flicker of hope in the grim tally. The military took fewer than ten, their standards unforgiving.
"It's Northview, what did we expect?" muttered an Ironclad recruiter, twirling his pen, his paper blank. "Hard to find genius here."
The Apex representative chuckled, leaning back. "We knew coming in. The real talent's at the top schools—First, Second, Third High. They're wrapping up now, and I hear there's a prodigy at Second. We're just fishing for scraps."
"Who wouldn't want the bonus for spotting a gem?" the Ironclad recruiter sighed. "But today's looking like a bust."
"Don't count it out yet," said the Storm Academy representative, his voice calm, eyes sharp. "Half the students are left. One might surprise us." He had a target in mind, a name whispered among the instructors, though he kept it close.
As they spoke, Alex strode in, his presence commanding, the faint palm print on his cheek a silent taunt. "Test begins, fist strength, left hand," the invigilator called.
Alex faced the machine, his expression cold, and swung.
The impact echoed, the mercury column soaring. The screen flashed: "266kg!"
The Apex recruiter leaned forward, eyes narrowing. "Not bad. If his right hand's stronger, he's got potential."
"Right hand test, start."
Alex's fist struck, the machine shuddering. "291kg!"
The Ironclad recruiter's pen paused, a spark of interest flaring. "With training, he could break 300kg. That's a find."
"Fist speed test, start."
Alex unleashed a flurry, his fists a blur, the screen spitting numbers: "216kg, 225kg, 222kg, 228kg, 217kg, 229kg!" Six punches per second, all valid, a performance that silenced the room.
The Ironclad and Apex recruiters exchanged glances, a silent contest brewing.
Alex was no prodigy, but among Northview's crop, he stood out—a prize worth fighting for. Only the Storm representative remained unmoved, his standards loftier.
As Frosthaven's top academy, Storm sought the exceptional, and Alex fell short unless his neural response was extraordinary.
In the neural response chamber, Alex stood firm, the infrared storm erupting around him. Unlike Samuel's panic, he moved with purpose, his dodges measured, not swift but effective.
He anticipated some shots, twisting just in time. A minute later, the results appeared: "Sixty bullets, 51 effective hits, nine successful evasions, 21 effective dodges. Overall neural response: 0.082/m."
"We want him at Ironclad Academy!" the Ironclad recruiter declared, his voice cutting through the murmurs.
The Apex representative laughed, shaking his head. "Too late. Alex, your Uncle Thomas told me you're set for Apex. The contract's ready—generous terms. Just sign."
Alex's lips curved into a smile. "I'm with Uncle Thomas. Apex it is."
The Ironclad recruiter tossed his pen down, frustration creasing his brow.
A prime candidate, snatched by connections. Alex's signing sparked a ripple of excitement—Northview's first student claimed by a top academy.
He donned the Apex uniform, its sleek lines marking him as a fighter, a step above his peers.
At the line's end, Alex's gaze found David, a sneer twisting his features. "David, David," he muttered, voice low, venomous. "I'm an Apex fighter now. Just wait—I'll crush you underfoot."