Jacques Shair stood in the combat ring with practiced arrogance, his posture radiating confidence that came from never experiencing genuine consequence.

Finally, he thought, surveying the arena with satisfaction. Finally getting the chance to demonstrate my superiority. Finally proving I belong at Sparkshire.

He'd begged his parents for the Academy admission—not because he cared about the military service or defending the Republic, but because Celestine Aurin had been selected, and Jacques was obsessed with the beautiful noble daughter who'd never given him serious consideration.

She'll notice me here, Jacques told himself. She'll see me excel in this combat assessment. She'll recognize that I'm worthy of her attention.

His cores were… functional. Barely.

Size Manipulation—absorbed because he'd been insecure about his manhood, had wanted an ability to enhance himself in ways that natural development hadn't provided. The fact that it also had combat applications was a fortunate accident rather than an intentional build planning.

Weight Stabilization—this was selected to compensate for Size Manipulation's obvious problem. Increasing a single limb's size without stabilizing the weight distribution would make him topple from an unbalanced mass. The core solved that issue while also providing combat benefit—enlarged, weight-stabilized fists hit hard, the increased surface area and stable mass creating a devastating impact.

He was a low initiate—something he took a quiet pride in. It already put him ahead of most candidates, and whether anyone said it out loud or not, the rank itself was proof enough. Not just of progress, but of exceptionality.

The fact that he'd reached Initiate rank through purchased cores rather than merit, through family resources rather than combat experience, through political connections rather than earned advancement—that didn't matter. Rank was rank. Power was power.

His opponent entered the ring.

Outpost trash, Jacques assessed immediately, his prejudice automatic. Lanky build. Cheap weapon. Probably barely educated beyond basic survival skills.

This will be easy.

The match proctor activated the combat matrices. "Standard duel rules. First to yield, first incapacitated, or proctor intervention determines winner. Begin."

Jacques enlarged his right fist immediately—Size Manipulation making it grow to twice normal dimensions, Weight Stabilization keeping him balanced, the enhanced mass creating a weapon of his arm.

Hit him once, Jacques calculated. One solid impact would ends this.

He charged forward with telegraphed aggression.

-----

Bright on the other hand watched Jacques approach with analytical detachment, his spatial foresight tracking the enlarged fist's trajectory, his danger sense remaining… quiet.

There was no constant echoing sound in his head as they were most times in the outpost, Bright recognized with surprise. My danger sense isn't activating. This opponent isn't actually a threat to me.

The realization was almost disappointing.

He'd expected his first Academy combat to be challenging. Had anticipated facing skilled opponents whose capabilities would push him to his limits. Had prepared for tactical complexity that required careful maneuvering.

Instead, he faced a noble whose technique was predictable, whose strategy was obvious, whose combat capability was clearly purchased rather than earned.

I just have to adapt, Bright told himself. Treat this as a learning opportunity. As a chance to demonstrate my capability without revealing my full potential.

Jacques's enlarged fist swung with all the subtlety of an avalanche—powerful but completely telegraphed, following an arc that Bright's spatial awareness had predicted seconds before execution.

Bright sidestepped casually, his movement economical, his katana remaining sheathed.

Not even worth drawing my weapon yet, Bright assessed. Let's see what else he has.

"Stand still!" Jacques demanded, frustration evident as his punch missed completely.

He swung again—same technique, same telegraphed approach, apparently expecting repetition to succeed where the initial attempt had failed.

Bright dodged again, this time adding a slight footwork adjustment that positioned him at Jacques's flank.

His awareness is terrible, Bright observed clinically. He's not tracking my position effectively. Not adapting to my movement. Just throwing power around hoping something connects.

"Fight back, coward!" Jacques shouted, his arrogance transforming into anger.

Interesting psychology, Bright thought. He wasn't used to opponents who could actually evade his strikes. Perhaps it was because the only ones he'd ever sparred with were servants—people too afraid to dodge their lord's attacks, mistaking obedience for survival.

Jacques tried combination after combination —enlarged left fist followed by enlarged right, attempting to cover more space, to force Bright into a defensive position.

Bright's spatial foresight mapped both trajectories simultaneously, identified the gap between attacks, moved through it with precision that made the combination look like a slow-motion exercise.

If this is what I'm up against at Sparkshire, Bright thought with growing confidence, this is going to be easier than expected.

He drew his katana finally—not because he needed it, but because demonstrating a weapon skill was part of the assessment criteria.

The fused blade extended smoothly, its reach capability activating, transforming from a close-combat weapon into a four-meter striking tool.

Jacques's eyes widened—clearly surprise that the outpost recruit possessed a customized weapon, that his equipment was actually sophisticated rather than cheap survival gear.

Bright struck—not a killing blow, but just a precision demonstration.

The katana's tip touched Jacques's enlarged fist with surgical accuracy, the blade's edge creating shallow cut that wouldn't cause a lasting damage but demonstrated absolute control.

"Your guard is open," Bright observed calmly. "Your technique is predictable. Your awareness is inadequate. You're relying on a single tactic—enlarge fists. That works against untrained fighters. Not against anyone with actual combat experience."

Jacques stumbled back, his confidence shattering like glass under pressure.

"You—you're just—"

trash?" Bright finished. "Yes. Outpost trash who's been fighting for survival since before you learned to use your cores "

He advanced with controlled aggression, his katana tracking Jacques's movements, his spatial foresight predicting every desperate counter-attempt.

Another strike—this time to Jacques's shoulder, another demonstration of precision rather than power.

"You're not even making me work," Bright continued, his tone remaining analytical rather than cruel. "My danger sense isn't activating. You're not actually threatening me. You're just—" He paused, searching for accurate description. "—you're just flailing with expensive cores and no mastery on them."

Jacques tried one final desperate attack—both fists enlarged simultaneously, attempting a overwhelming power approach.

Bright simply stepped inside the guard, his smaller frame allowing movement that Jacques's enlarged limbs couldn't match, his katana finding the throat with blade-flat touch that could have been a killing strike if this were an actual combat.

"Yield," Bright said quietly.

Jacques stood frozen, feeling cold steel against his jugular, recognizing that he'd been completely outclassed, that his arrogance had been surgical dismantled by an opponent he'd dismissed as inferior.

"I—" Jacques's voice cracked. "I yield."

The match proctor intervened immediately, her barrier matrices separating the combatants, her expression showing satisfaction that suggested Bright's performance had met the evaluation criteria.

"Winner: Bright Morgan."

Bright sheathed his katana, his mind already moving past the encounter.

That was… disappointing, he admitted to himself. It hadn't been a challenge at all. After the high of trading blows with fighters like Galan and the other cultists, this felt hollow by comparison—an inevitable letdown rather than a victory.

He left the ring, ignoring Jacques's humiliated expression, already wondering what his squadmates were facing in their own matches.

-----

Across the training hall, another combat ring activated.

BESSIA Erden vs. MARCUS THORNE

Bessia stepped onto the platform with calm confidence, her plant manipulation core ready, her healing specialization providing a strategic advantages that straightforward combatants often underestimated.

Her opponent was a military transfer—a soldier from a preliminary training facility, his build focused on fire manipulation and an aggressive offense.

This will be interesting, Bessia thought. Fire versus plants. Classic elemental opposition. Question is—who understands the application better?

Marcus attacked immediately—gouts of flame that should have consumed plant matter instantly, that represented an obvious counter to her nature-based abilities.

But Bessia had trained in Vester. Had survived Clear Light's Eve. Had learned that survival required more than obvious tactics.

Her plant manipulation activated, but not in an expected way.

Instead of growing vulnerable vegetation, she manipulated existing plants throughout the arena—the decorative elements that Sparkshire had installed for aesthetic purposes, the supposedly ornamental flora that no one had considered resources.

Vines erupted from planters, their growth accelerated by her core, their movements directed by her intelligence rather than natural patterns.

They didn't attack Marcus directly—that would be futile against a fire specialist.

Instead, they controlled space. Created barriers. Limited his movement options. Forced him into positions where his fire manipulation had reduced effectiveness.

"Clever," the match proctor observed, making notes. "Using environmental resources."

Marcus burned through some vines, but more grew to replace them. Bessia wasn't trying to overwhelm him—she was trying to exhaust him, to force continuous core activation that would drain his reserves faster than her more efficient manipulation plus her soul talent allowed her to heal herself, so she was in tip too shape.

She drew her weapon, loosed, and let the arrows fly. The boy, Marcus twisted and weaved through most of them—but luck, like breath, always runs out.

The match extended—five minutes, then ten, then fifteen.

Marcus's attacks grew less intense. His fire manipulation losing precision. His reserves depleting under the sustained pressure.

Bessia maintained her vine network, barely sweating, her efficient core usage providing an advantage that raw power couldn't overcome.

Finally, Marcus stumbled—exhaustion catching up, his legs failing, his fire flickering out.

Bessia's vines moved in, wrapping around his limbs with a gentle but inescapable grip.

"I yield," Marcus gasped.

"Winner: Bessia Erden."

Bessia released her vines, offering a hand to help Marcus up—a gesture of respect.

"Good match," she said genuinely. "Your fire manipulation is impressive."

Marcus nodded, accepting the lesson despite his defeat.

Around the training hall, dozens of similar matches played out—each one sorting candidates into specializations, identifying strengths and weaknesses, determining who belonged in frontline combat versus support roles versus tactical coordination.

And so far, the Vester recruits were proving that outpost survival produced a different kind of excellence.

Not better necessarily.

Just different.

More practical. More adaptable.

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