Narrator

Enrollment Day.

The main hall of Kingsford Hero Academy is already packed.

It is barely past eight in the morning, yet the enormous space somehow feels far smaller than it should. Warm air hangs beneath the high ceiling, made heavier by the presence of hundreds of students packed together in rows. Their voices overlap into a constant, restless hum, occasionally broken by a burst of laughter, the scrape of a chair against the polished floor, or the faint vibration of a phone.

Hundreds of new students have been gathered here since early morning, all wearing the same freshly issued uniforms and new-student badges clipped neatly to their collars or chest pockets. The small plastic cards catch the overhead lights whenever someone moves, flashing briefly before disappearing back into the crowd. Most of them still look like they’re getting used to the fact that they actually made it.

That they’re here.

After months—or years—of studying, training, practicing their Abilities, and imagining what it would be like to attend one of the country’s most prestigious hero academies, they had finally made it through the gates. For some, that realization has left them grinning from ear to ear. For others, it has made them noticeably tense. Most seem to be somewhere between the two, excited enough to be smiling but nervous enough to keep checking their surroundings.

Groups have naturally formed throughout the hall. Near the tall windows, several students lean together in a loose circle, talking rapidly as they compare Abilities. One boy gestures enthusiastically while explaining that his Ability allows him to manipulate kinetic energy through physical contact, immediately drawing questions from the others about how strong it actually is. A few rows away, someone is already recounting their entrance exam in far too much detail, insisting that the combat machine they fought was “at least four meters tall,” despite their friend repeatedly pointing out that it probably wasn’t even three.

“I’m telling you, it looked four meters.”

“You were panicking.”

“I was not panicking.”

“You screamed.”

“I was warning everyone.”

Their argument earns a few laughs from the students nearby before the conversation disappears back into the larger noise of the hall.

Elsewhere, a nervous student keeps checking their phone despite having received no new messages. Their friend finally notices and gives them an exasperated look.

“You’ve checked that thing six times.”

“I know.”

“There’s no message coming.”

“I know.”

“Then stop checking.”

The student sighs, locks the screen, and slips the phone into their pocket. A few seconds later, their hand finds it again.

Around them, the same mixture of excitement and anxiety repeats itself over and over. Some students sit with their arms folded and expressions carefully neutral, clearly determined not to let anyone see that they’re nervous. Others bounce their legs beneath their chairs, stretch their hands, adjust their uniforms, or quietly rehearse what they’re going to say when they are called forward. Everyone seems to be trying to look confident. Almost nobody is completely succeeding.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, the same topic keeps coming up.

Class 1-A.

“I’m telling you, there’s no way they’re putting him in 1-A.”

“You don’t know that.”

“I saw his entrance score.”

“That doesn’t mean anything. The Ability Assessment is what matters.”

“His score was still insane.”

“So?”

“So 1-A is supposed to be the top class.”

“Exactly. Which means they probably won’t announce it until after the assessment.”

The conversation fades beneath the general noise, but it isn’t the only one. All across the room, students are making predictions about who will end up in 1-A, who has the strongest Ability, who received the highest entrance score, and who barely managed to qualify. Rumors spread quickly in a room this crowded. Someone’s impressive score becomes “the highest in the entire year” after passing through three different conversations, while a student who supposedly destroyed several combat machines during the entrance exam somehow becomes someone who “wiped out an entire section of the testing ground.”

No one really knows what’s true.

That doesn’t stop anyone from talking.

At the front of the hall, Academy staff are already in position. Their presence feels noticeably different from that of the students. While the new arrivals are restless and constantly shifting, the staff move with a calm, practiced efficiency. Tablets are checked, names are confirmed, and notes are reviewed while quiet instructions are exchanged between professors in voices too low for the students to make out.

Beside them is a wide reinforced doorway leading into the Stimulated Combat Environment.

It feels almost out of place in the otherwise polished academy hall. The surrounding walls are modern and spotless, decorated with the academy’s insignia and banners welcoming the new class, while the doorway itself looks far more industrial. Its thick metal frame reflects the overhead lights in dull strips, and heavy locking mechanisms sit along either side. Every so often, a faint mechanical hum slips through from the other side.

Most students try not to stare at it.

Most fail.

Above the doorway, four class labels are displayed on a wide electronic panel.

1-A

1-B

1-C

1-D

The letters seem strangely significant.

Four classes. Hundreds of students. Only a limited number of places in each.

Several students glance up at the display, and more than a few stare at 1-A a little longer than the others. One student catches their friend looking and quietly smirks.

“I’m getting into 1-A.”

“You haven’t even done the assessment.”

“I know.”

“And you’re already sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Their friend laughs under their breath.

“Good. Then I hope you can back that up.”

Before the conversation can continue, the atmosphere of the hall begins to change.

It doesn’t happen all at once. Conversations near the front begin to fade first, followed by the groups farther back. Students notice others turning toward the stage and gradually follow their gaze. Chairs stop moving. Phones disappear into pockets. A few whispers continue for another second before finally dying out.

At the front of the hall, one of the professors steps forward.

“Alright, everyone. We’re going to get started.”

The remaining noise disappears.

Silence settles across the hall, uneven at first but quickly becoming complete enough that the faint hum of the building’s ventilation system becomes noticeable.

The professor looks across the assembled students before continuing.

“You’ll be called up one at a time. When you reach the desk, give your name and state your Ability. After that, you’ll receive instructions for the practical assessment.”

Several students exchange nervous glances. A few look relieved that they won’t be called immediately, while others suddenly seem much more aware of the reinforced doors waiting beside the staff.

“And relax. Nobody expects you to be perfect on your first day.”

A few quiet laughs break the tension. Shoulders loosen, and someone near the back exhales heavily as though they had only just realized they’d been holding their breath.

The professor allows the reaction to settle before continuing.

“However, don’t mistake that for a lack of standards. Your Ability is only one part of what we’ll be looking at today. Control, judgment, adaptability, teamwork, and how you respond under pressure will all be considered.”

The room grows quiet again.

“Raw power can only take you so far. An Ability is a tool. What matters is how you use it.”

That earns a few thoughtful looks. Some students glance down at their hands, while others sit a little straighter.

“Do your best,” the professor says. “And try not to destroy anything that doesn’t need destroying.”

A small wave of laughter moves through the room, relieving some of the tension.

Then the professor looks down at the tablet.

The first name is called.

It cuts cleanly through the hall.

For half a second, nothing happens. Then a student near the front freezes, looking around as though there is still some possibility that the professor meant someone else. When they realize they have actually been called, they slowly push themselves to their feet.

Their chair scrapes softly against the floor.

“Good luck,” someone whispers.

“Don’t mess it up.”

The student manages a nervous laugh, adjusts their uniform, and begins walking toward the registration desk.

Their footsteps sound louder than they actually are against the polished floor. They pass between rows of other candidates, some watching openly and others suddenly finding the ceiling, their hands, or their shoes far more interesting. The student reaches the desk, gives their name, states their Ability, and waits as a staff member records the information.

Then the professor gestures toward the reinforced doorway.

The mechanisms engage with a deep mechanical clunk.

The heavy doors begin to open.

Beyond them, the interior lights of the Stimulated Combat Environment flicker on, revealing pieces of the enormous testing area beyond: reinforced concrete, artificial structures, metal walkways, and equipment designed for situations far more dangerous than anything an ordinary school would ever need.

The student swallows.

Then steps through.

The doors close behind them with a heavy metallic thud.

For several seconds, nobody speaks.

Then the hall slowly begins to breathe again.

Conversations restart, but they’re quieter now. More restrained. Everyone has been reminded of what they’re waiting for, and the assessment suddenly feels much more real than it did a few minutes ago.

Some students return to discussing their Abilities. Others begin comparing entrance scores or speculating about what the practical assessment might involve. A few simply stare at the closed doors, waiting to see whether the first student will come back looking confident, exhausted, embarrassed, or victorious.

Someone near the middle of the room quietly stretches their fingers.

Another student closes their eyes and takes a slow breath.

Someone else checks their phone again, even though they know there won’t be anything new.

The excitement is still there, but it has changed.

Beneath it is something heavier now.

Expectation.

Because one by one, every student in this hall will eventually hear their name. One by one, they will stand, walk across the room, state their Ability, and pass through those reinforced doors.

And by the end of the day, nobody will be wondering who belongs at Kingsford Hero Academy.

They’ll know.

Some will prove themselves.

Some will surprise everyone.

Some will struggle.

And some will discover that passing the entrance exam was the easy part.

For now, though, the hall waits.

The first assessment has begun, and sooner or later, the next name will be called.