Chapter 138
A spar
IAM quickly ducked under the swinging leg that cut through the air like a rocket, the heel whistling inches from his head. The movement created a gust of wind that lifted strands of his hair, making them flutter back in a messy wave. For a split second, the faint smell of the other student's sweat and fabric from his tracksuit filled IAM's nose.
He twisted his body to the side, boots squeaking lightly against the polished arena floor, and widened the distance between himself and the towering six-foot-seven classmate who was relentlessly pursuing him. The man's long strides ate up the gap effortlessly, his shadow stretching over IAM like a predator's. The grin on his was smug—it was the kind of grin that said he enjoyed the chase.
IAM couldn't help the small chuckle that escaped him. It wasn't amusement so much as the absurdity of the situation—a laugh you let out when you knew you were hopelessly outmatched but still stubborn enough to try. Without waiting to see what his opponent would do next, he spun on his heel and broke into a run.
The bright morning sun filtered through the high glass panels of the academy's physical training hall, throwing pale light across the spacious arena. Echoes of shouts, impacts, and the occasional cheer bounced off the metallic rafters above. It was the next day, and the first lesson on the schedule was a physical training session with Kevin—the very same instructor who had given the class their tour after the orientation.
At first glance, Kevin didn't look like the kind of person who would be teaching combat or conditioning. His thin, almost wiry build and clean-cut features made him seem more suited for a desk job or lecturing in a quiet classroom. Yet the moment he stepped into the arena earlier that morning, his posture was relaxed, it was the kind of stance that hinted he could dismantle anyone in the room if he wished.
Kevin's first order of the day had been unexpected—he randomly paired students together for sparring matches while he observed from a raised instructor's platform that overlooked the entire training space. He explained in his even, unhurried voice that his aim was to "study what each individual needed to improve," after which he would assign unique training regimens tailored to each person's strengths and weaknesses.
IAM, through what felt like cruel luck, had been partnered with the towering, slightly heavyset beast of a classmate currently barreling after him. The guy's wide shoulders and thick legs didn't seem to slow him down; if anything, they added to his intimidating presence.
IAM had secretly hoped the spar would be light—an exchange of a few harmless blows before stepping back and bowing to each other. But his opponent seemed determined to prove himself in front of Kevin, charging forward with enough aggression to make it feel like a street fight rather than a school exercise.
"Be a man! Come and face me! Stop running!" the guy called out, voice booming, a grin plastered across his face as he pursued IAM like a hunter closing in on prey.
IAM didn't answer. His breath was steady, but his mind was moving faster than his feet, constantly mapping routes through the chaos of the arena. All around them, other students were engaged in their own matches, shouts of exertion and the thud of bodies hitting the ground punctuating the air. IAM wove between them, narrowly sidestepping a pair of students who were locked in a grapple, earning a startled curse from one of them.
The academy-issued tracksuit he wore clung comfortably to his frame—black with red and white accents, the fabric lightweight but durable. The Hope Academy emblem was stitched neatly on the left side of his chest, just above the heart. Beneath it, smaller text read "Hope × Mine," the branding subtle due to the restrictions on the clothing.
Behind him, his opponent saw IAM slow down, shoulders dropping as though fatigue had begun to creep in. Sensing an opening, the big man lunged forward, arms spreading wide like he was about to wrap IAM in a crushing bear hug.
Just as his hands were about to close around him, IAM abruptly stopped and snapped a backward elbow straight into the man's midsection. The strike landed in the center of his abdomen with a solid thump. Momentum betrayed the larger student—his own forward charge slammed him harder into the blow. His mouth opened in a silent gasp, the air leaving his lungs in an audible rush.
Before the man could recover, IAM's right foot planted itself firmly on one of his bent knees, and with a quick shift of weight, IAM sprang upward. His hand clamped onto the back of his opponent's head, pulling it down sharply as he thrust his knee upward for a clean strike to the face.
It would have been decisive blow...
If it had landed.
Mid-motion, IAM felt resistance—his knee had stopped just inches from its mark. The big man's left hand had come up at the last second, palm catching and holding IAM's leg in place with unyielding strength. The grip was vice-like, IAM immediately realized struggling would be pointless.
"I got you now," the man said between shallow breaths, eyes gleaming with satisfaction. "You took me by surprise, but you're too slow… and you're pretty weak, too."
IAM laughed despite himself, though it came out more like an exhale than a proper chuckle. He had thrown everything into that attack—speed, power, precision—and still it wasn't enough to close the gap. Even with the element of surprise, the size, speed, and combat awareness of his opponent completely dwarfed his own.
"...We can talk about this," IAM tried.
"Of course," the man replied, still smiling, "but I prefer to do my talking with my fists."
Minutes later, IAM lay flat on his back, arms and legs spread like a starfish across the mat. His chest rose and fell heavily, each inhale carrying the faint metallic tang of blood from a cut inside his mouth. A dull ache throbbed along his cheekbone where a particularly sharp punch had landed.
Above him, the steel framework of the training hall's ceiling stretched high into the air, crisscrossed with beams. Through the skylights, soft clouds drifted lazily across the pale blue morning sky. For a moment, IAM let himself get lost in their slow, unhurried movement.
Three faces appeared in his vision—Reuel, Henry, and Yohan—all with far fewer injuries than him. Reuel's mouth curved into a cheeky smirk, his amusement carved on his face. Yohan, on the other hand, bent down slightly and extended a hand, the faintest trace of concern in his eyes.
"Hey," Reuel said, his voice carrying a joking mockery. "I think this look actually suits you better."
IAM didn't respond, simply taking Yohan's hand and letting himself be hauled upright.
Kevin finally stepped down from his platform, his voice calm but carrying easily over the ambient noise. "Well done. You all fought well, and I now have a general understanding of this group."
Some students still rubbing sore limbs began gathering around him. One of them muttered just loudly enough to be heard, "Might've been better if someone wasn't running laps around the arena."
Kevin's lips twitched in a faint smile, but before he could respond, IAM spoke up. "Regardless of whether it was a spar or not, no one said anything about not using the surroundings. In a real fight, situations like that happen all the time. It's just about adapting."
The student who'd complained frowned but kept quiet.
By the time the lessons ended hours later, the soreness in IAM's muscles had fully settled in. After a quick change back into his academy uniform, he made his way toward the cafeteria, the murmur of voices growing louder the closer he got. His plan for the evening was simple: eat, then head to the library again.
When he sat down next to Yohan, Reuel—sitting across from them—spoke first. "Looks like people are starting to talk about The Hold now that the government's finally released information."
IAM glanced around. Sure enough, the word was spreading fast. In classrooms and hallways, before each lesson began, students had been told to stand for a minute of silence in honor of the fallen soldiers. Now, in the cafeteria, the chatter was almost entirely centered around the incident. Snippets of speculation and half-formed theories drifted between tables like background noise.
A tray clattered softly onto the table beside Yohan's. Henry had arrived, his meal had been carefully chosen, but his gaze was locked on IAM for a fraction longer than necessary.
It didn't take much mental gymnastics to connect the dots—Yohan had mentioned The Hold before, and with the government now confirming there was a single survivor, Henry's mind had likely leapt to the obvious conclusion.
For someone as laid-back as Henry usually was, the realization seemed to shake him slightly. He didn't press the subject though, in fear of asking sensitive questions.
But IAM wasn't paying attention to the rumors, nor to the sideways glances from his classmate. His thoughts were elsewhere entirely—on the fact that tomorrow was his appointment with his therapist.