It came to a head during an advanced sparring session. Dr. Craith had requested private matches—not just from Class 1E, but students from all classes. The arena was packed, whispers trailing every movement. Malik found himself paired with a student from 1A—or at least someone arranged to be.
The others watched from beyond the thick glass walls, eyes sharp, breaths held.
Malik was reluctant at first. But something inside him twisted—a hunger to see if, this time, something would finally spark.
His opponent entered the ring confident, aggressive—moving with the assured precision of a top-tier fighter.
But halfway through the match, Malik flinched.
A whisper slid into his ear—low and razor-sharp, like the hiss of a blade.
Craith.
"You're a danger, you know," the voice murmured, cold and deliberate. "We just want to understand your mutation, before the invaders take it from your corpse."
Malik froze. His heart slammed against his ribs. His vision blurred. He turned—not to his opponent—but to the shadows behind the glass.
Craith stood there, smiling.
"You're not one of us."
The words fell like ice.
The instructor's smile deepened. "Finally."
---
What happened next was a blur.
The fight abruptly stopped, Craith entering the room with an excuse to intervene—but the heavy metal doors sealed behind him, locking tight.
"You'll fight me now," Craith said, peeling off his outer coat to reveal sleek combat armor, gleaming under the arena lights.
"On what grounds?" Malik snapped, his voice low but steady.
"Because I believe you're a threat," Craith replied, voice sharp as steel. "Your power is real. And someone must confirm it—before they send someone worse."
This wasn't a duel. It was an ambush.
Craith moved like liquid steel—fast, trained, lethal. His ability crackled to life, energy spikes bursting from his palms, fracturing the air like electrified glass.
Malik dodged, barely. His shoulder slammed into the cold wall. Blood bloomed across his side.
"Still no spark?" Craith taunted, eyes gleaming. "Maybe it's just rumors."
Then he said something Malik would never forget.
"Your father begged us before we ended him."
Time stopped. Malik's eyes flared.
The pain vanished. Fear melted into furious heat. A red fog descended.
Snap.
Malik lunged—not with fists, not with flame or energy—but with Craith's own talent, experience, every ounce of will he could muster.
His hand grazed Craith's chest.
Craith stumbled back, arms spasming violently. The glowing energy crackling at his fingertips fizzled out.
"What... what did you—?!" Craith gasped.
Malik stood, breath ragged, unable to explain what happened—but he knew.
Craith collapsed to one knee, gasping, crawling toward the door.
"What… are you?"
Malik said nothing. He walked away as alarms began to blare.
---
Craith was hospitalized that night.
The official report claimed equipment malfunction.
But whispers started—an instructor stripped of power? The unranked student who walked away without a scratch?
Most dismissed the rumors. But not everyone.
---
From the shadows of the East Wing observatory, a silhouette leaned into the dim light.
A girl with eyes like silver embers smiled, tapping a slender finger against the glass screen displaying the fight footage—a secret recording, retrieved from a drone the academy didn't even know existed.
"So," she whispered, eyes gleaming.
"The Dormant Spark lives."
By morning, the academy buzzed. The official bulletin read:
"Instructor Craith hospitalized due to unexpected system malfunction during a solo training exercise. Investigation pending."
But no one believed that—not entirely.
Eyes turned, unspoken, toward one classroom: 1E.
Toward one student: Malik Barn.
---
Malik returned to class, silent.
He sat through drills, movements stiff and measured. The bandages on his side hidden beneath his training uniform.
No one asked. No one dared.
But every glance carried questions:
"Did you really fight Craith?"
"Did you hurt him?"
"Do you even have powers?"
No one spoke aloud.
Even instructors seemed cautious—curious, yet distant. Like he wasn't quite a student anymore.
Something else.
Margaret didn't approach until their shared break near the south courtyard, where spring flowers bloomed—an odd contrast to the storm swirling beneath the surface.
"You haven't said anything," she began, sitting beside him on the stone bench.
"There's nothing to say."
"I saw the security flags," she whispered. "That room was sealed. Alarms went off, then cut out. You walked out. He didn't."
Malik clenched his jaw.
"I need to know," she pressed. "Did you—?"
"I touched him," Malik said.
Margaret blinked. "Touched him?"
Malik looked down at his palm. "I was scared, then angry. When I touched him, something inside me woke. It pulled something out of him."
"You mean…"
"I think I can take powers," he said quietly. "I don't know how or why it happened."
Margaret sat back, mind racing.
"That's why it only works sometimes. Maybe you should figure out what triggers it."
Malik nodded slowly. "It's like my body defends itself. It remembers. Like during the test session."
She smiled faintly. "I'm glad it happened with him—away from the public. I don't think you need more attention."
Malik murmured, "Neither do I."
---
The leaderboard changed again:
Malik Barn: Rank 1 — Ability: Unknown
Whispers grew louder—not mockery, but fear.
Some claimed he was a government plant. Others insisted he was part of a secret project.
One theory said he could erase data. Another, that he could control machines.
But the strangest thing remained: he was never in the middle. Always first or last. The system couldn't explain it.
By week's end, the Board of Directors issued a directive:
"Monitor Malik Barn's combat and academic sessions under Level 2 Discreet Protocol. No interference unless critical anomaly detected."
In simple terms?
Watch him. But don't provoke him.
---
Meanwhile, in the deep network monitoring the academy beyond public eyes, a second report was filed. Off the books.
Recipient unknown.
The message read:
"Subject MB. Dormant activation confirmed. Hostile triggers required. Ability theft possible. Recommend extraction or neutralization within three weeks before potential alignment shift."
No reply came.
---
But in a dark room on the far side of the moon's satellite base, a figure stood before a glowing display of Malik Barn's combat footage.
A scar ran down their palm—burned, old, aching.
"Bring him alive," the voice rasped. "Or not at all."