Mr. Stan didn't sit. He stood before the blank wall of the classroom, his back to us, the glass of water in his hand perfectly still. When he spoke, his voice wasn't loud. It filled the silence like water fills a cup.

  “You are all aware that the first Breaches appeared eighty years ago.”

  He turned, his gaze sweeping the room. It was a statement, not a question. The history was foundational, the bedtime horror story of our generation.

  “It was chaos. Global. We had no framework, no weapons that worked consistently. Nations considered… extreme measures to contain the spread.” His voice grew flatter. “We even considered nuking our own cities to burn out the incursions.”

  The image was grim, familiar. The desperate, ugly calculus of a world on the brink.

  “Then,” he said, and for the first time, his voice held a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. Not of fear. Of awe. “They appeared. The Giants. And in just five minutes, every single recorded monster on Earth was slaughtered. The Breaches they had emerged from… sealed. Vanished. That was the first time humanity witnessed people doing the impossible.”

  From the middle of the room, Vance Kruger let out an exasperated groan. “Ugh. Everyone knows this story! Can we get to the good stuff?”

  There was no dramatic flourish. No warning. A thin, high-pressure whip of water snapped out from the surface of Stan’s glass—too fast to see until it was already recoiling. It caught Vance across the side of his face with a sharp, wet crack.

  Vance yelped, more in surprise than pain, a hand flying to his reddening cheek.

  Mr. Stan took a slow sip. “I am speaking.” His eyes held Vance’s until the boy looked away, fuming. “Yes. You all know this story. But none of you know what Breaches are. That is what you will learn in this class. You will also learn about the taxonomy of the entities that emerge from them, and the environmental conditions of the terrain on the other side.”

  Lily Cinclare raised a hand, a precise, economical motion. Stan gave a slight nod. “Yes, Lily?”

  Her voice was clear and devoid of inflection. “You said ‘the other side.’ What do you mean?”

  A faint, cold smile touched Stan’s lips. It wasn’t warm. “Those monsters do not simply pop into existence. They come from somewhere. They have a point of origin. A world.”

  A stunned silence deepened. We knew the monsters came from the Breaches, but the idea of a whole, functioning world on the other side was a classified, terrifying concept.

  “Our understanding is embryonic,” Stan continued, gesturing. A complex, rotating holographic model of a swirling Breach portal appeared behind him. “We are still investigating. What we do know is that the baseline physical laws are… altered. Gravity, for instance, is universally higher than Earth’s, but not constant. It varies from Breach to Breach. Some are crushingly heavy. Others are merely oppressive. All are stronger than here.”

  He zoomed the hologram in on the swirling vortex, which now pulsed with different colored bands. “We classify Breaches by threat level and stability. The safest known classification is a Green Breach—stable, predictable gravity, minimal hostile fauna. Then Yellow. Then Orange. Then Blue.” His pointer hovered over a band of searing, violent crimson. “No one,” he said, his voice dropping, “has ever entered a Red Breach and come back alive to file a report. Well...untill Stupendous showed up. After that, more powerful responders started to appear.”

  He paused, letting the finality sink in.

  Edgar Rodigar broke the silence, a smirk of pride on his face. “That’s why he's the greates Responder.”

  A murmur rippled through the class. Chloe Spencer leaned forward. “I heard about that! The Red breach massacre. They said… they said all the first-wave Responders were gone in seconds.”

  Ollie Finn, from the back, whispered loudly, “And then Stupendous showed up alone. And he ended it.”

  Mr. Stan’s glass frosted over entirely. “I,” he said, the temperature in the room seeming to drop a few degrees, “am speaking.”

  Ollie shrank back. “Oh. Sorry, Mr. Stan.”

  ---

  The period ended with a soft chime. As we gathered our tablets, Mr. Stan’s final instruction cut through the chatter.

  “Change into your Physical Conditioning uniforms and assemble on the central field in fifteen minutes. Don't be late.”

  The class emptied into the bustling hallway. The mood had shifted from first-day jitters to a sober, heavy awareness. A world on the other side. Red Breaches. The weight of history felt physical.

  On the sprawling green of the central field, under the watchful shadow of the Spire, we milled about in matching grey athletic gear. Theo was doing a series of controlled stretches, monitoring the steady 30% strain on his watch, when a shadow fell over him.

  Edgar Rodigar stood there, arms crossed, his expression one of pure, analytical disdain. He looked Theo up and down as if examining a faulty component.

  “How,” Edgar said, his voice low and sharp, “did you pass the entrance exam? It makes no logical sense. You were a documented Baseline. It’s statistically impossible.”

  Theo finished his stretch, keeping his breathing even. “The system registered my Signature. That’s all that matters.”

  He moved to walk away, to join a group forming near the track.

  Edgar’s hand didn’t touch him, but a subtle, repulsive pressure pushed against Theo’s chest, a warning nudge from the air itself. “Don’t walk away from me,” Edgar said, his eyes narrowing.

  Theo stopped. He met Edgar’s gaze, the hum in his chest a quiet, steady drumbeat. He thought of the golden lines, the controlled power, the secret he carried.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” Theo said, his voice calm, leaving the threat and promise hanging in the air between them before turning and walking toward the starting line, feeling Edgar’s cold stare burning into his back.

  Mr. Stan walked to the center of the field, the class falling into a ragged line before him. The air was crisp, charged with anticipation.

  “For today’s Physical Conditioning assessment,” he announced, his voice carrying easily, “we will be testing your physical fitness. Unlike your previous schooling, you are permitted—and encouraged—to use your Signatures. Consider this your baseline measurement. We are not interested in what a normal human can do. We are interested in what you can do.”

  He gestured to the sprawling field, which had been transformed. Various stations were set up, each marked by holographic markers.

  “You will rotate through four stations. Your results will be measured, recorded, and ranked. Your performance today will determine your training groups for the next month. Begin at your assigned station.”

  A list appeared on everyone’s wrist displays. Theo looked at his: STATION 1: HIGH JUMP.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  ---

  STATION 1: HIGH JUMP

  A standard high jump pit, but the bar was already set at a ridiculous 2.45 meters world record height.

  Instructor Stan stood beside it, arms crossed, face impassive.

  “First,” Stan said, his voice carrying without effort across the silent field, “you’ll be measured without using your Signatures. Then you will use your Signature the second time. Every single one of you is a Signate, which means you are several times stronger than a baseline human. Today, you will show me just how much.”

  A hand went up—Chloe, her expression earnest.

  “Yes, Chloe.”

  “You said we were Signates. What does that mean?”

  Stan sighed, a short, tired sound. “Guess you haven’t had your Signature Theory class yet. To keep it simple: Signates are the most powerful category of Signature users. You have the body of a Booster and a unique Signature. You’ll get the full lecture later. Vance—you’re up.”

  Vance Kruger smirked and strode toward the bar without hesitation.

  Ollie Finn blinked, staring at the empty space beyond the landing zone. “But… there’s nowhere for us to land.”

  Stan didn’t look at him. “You want a bed to land on? You’re a Signate.”

  Vance reached the takeoff point, coiled, and jumped.

  It wasn’t a leap—it was a launch. His form was brute-force, all raw upward explosion. He cleared the bar reaching nine-meters, spun slightly in the air, and landed thirty feet beyond with a heavy whump that vibrated through the ground. He straightened, dusted off his hands, and grinned back at the group.

  “Try to beat that, you losers.”

  Emily Jones rolled her eyes. “He’s so cocky.”

  Beside her, Elizabeth Kallon—brown skin gleaming in the sun, posture soldier-straight—narrowed her eyes. “I know, right? I’ll go next. Teach him a lesson.”

  Elizabeth approached, focused, then sprang. Her jump was cleaner, more controlled, she topped out at seven meters.

  Vance laughed, loud and derisive.

  One by one, the others went.

  Silas, quiet and lean, hit 5.4 meters. Edgar, broad-shouldered, managed 6.7. With each jump, Theo’s stomach tightened. They were this strong without even using their powers. A Bout—twice peak human—could maybe clear three and a half meters on its best day. These kids were operating on a different scale.

  How am I going to do this? he thought, fingers curling at his sides. If I don’t use my Signature, I’m just… normal.

  Lily Cinclare went, her movement effortless and precise. 7.4 meters. She landed silently, as if she’d merely stepped down from a curb.

  Then came Leo.

  The boy with the head of a lion needed no introduction; his mutation was always present. He paced forward, muscles rippling under tawny fur, and jumped.

  It was less a jump and more a sudden ascent. He shot upward, clearing the bar by an absurd margin—twenty-five meters—before arcing down to land with a ground-shaking impact.

  Vance shouted immediately. “The hell is up with you?! He said no Signatures! Are you deaf?”

  Leo turned, his voice a low rumble. “I’m not like you guys. I can’t turn my Signature off. I was born like this.”

  “Mr. Stan, that’s cheating!”

  Stan’s expression didn’t change. “Leo has a Type 2 Alteration Signature—permanent physiological integration. It’s allowed.”

  Theo’s mind raced. Twenty-five meters. How many Bouts would I need to stack to reach that?

  Then his name was called.

  All eyes turned to him. He walked to the mark, feeling the weight of their stares—Vance’s smirk, Elizabeth’s analytical gaze, Lily’s cool observation.

  Theo focused on the bar, 2.5 meters up. He thought of the Bout he’d beaten. He thought of his own body, unenhanced, unactivated. He bent his knees, pushed with everything he had—

  —and rose.

  The air rushed past. He peaked, strained, and began to fall.

  He’d reached 2.52 meters.

  He landed, knees bending to absorb the impact, heart pounding not from effort but from dread.

  A beat of silence.

  Then Vance’s voice cut through, loud and dripping with contempt.

  “That’s it? That was pathetic.”

  Theo didn’t look at him. He stared at his own hands, the tracery beneath his skin dormant and dark.

  Across the field, Instructor Stan’s eyes were on him—not with disappointment, but with something colder.

  Assessment.

  Instructor Stan did not react outwardly. His face remained a slab of granite, his posture unchanged. But behind his eyes, calculations ran cold and swift.

  The other students stared at Theo, their expressions a mix of confusion, pity, and contempt. Theo had passed the bar but barely. Theo’s 2.52 meters was a failure to Mr Stan. It was an impossibility. It was baseline human.

  Impossible, this school only accepts signates. Stan’s mind echoed.

  The data from the intake scan flashed in his memory—the energy signature, the modified cellular structure, the unmistakable Threacho resonance. All signs had pointed to a Signate.

  Yet the boy had just performed well below his expectations. Stan had seen new Signates disoriented, untrained, psychologically blocked. He had seen them fail to access their power, fail to control their strength, fail to land. He had never seen one fail to jump.

  Is he not a Signate?

  The thought was a breach in his own understanding of the system. A misdiagnosis at the Gate was statistically zero. The scanners did not make mistakes. The virus did not make mistakes. Either the boy was a Signate, or the world’s fundamental categorization of power was wrong.

  And Stan did not believe in fundamental errors.

  This performance is too appalling. It’s not a lack of skill. It’s a lack of capability.

  His gaze sharpened, moving from Theo’s shame-stiff posture to the faint, almost imperceptible shimmer in the air around him. A distortion he had initially attributed to heat haze. Now he wasn’t sure.

  Vance’s mocking laughter finally broke the silence. “Did you forget how to jump, Stray?”

  Theo didn’t respond. He just stared at the ground where he’d landed, as if the composite material held an answer.

  Stan spoke, his voice cutting off any further commentary. “Theo. Step aside. Blessing, you’re next.”

  He kept his tone flat, disinterested. But inwardly, the incident was already filed, flagged, and cross-referenced. A Signate who performed like a baseline was not a weak link.

  It was a anomaly.

  And in Stan’s experience, anomalies were either catastrophic failures… or seismic opportunities. He needed to see the boy’s second jump. The one with the Signature.

  He needed to see what was being hidden.

  ---

  To Be Continued...