Ashen's frown deepened as he tried to process what he was seeing.
Kieran had never once shown any sign of a prosthetic.
He had always worn long trousers, formal gear, and his stride—controlled, balanced—had never given away even the smallest clue.
And yet now, here he was—walking openly with metal legs that looked nothing like the crude prosthetics used for rehabilitation.
And these didn't look like they were designed for just movement, they looked like they belonged in a race.
Ashen's analytical mind ran wild.
Why reveal this now? Why hide it before?
Was this his trump card? A test? A psychological play?
Kieran didn't seem to notice—or maybe he didn't care, he simply walked up, the faint echo of steel hitting steel beneath every step, and placed a hand on Ashen's shoulder. His grip was firm, grounding, but not aggressive.
"I suppose you're ready," he said calmly.
Ashen blinked, still a little lost in the revelation. "…Yeah. I think so."
"Good."
Kieran's expression didn't shift, but his tone carried a rare trace of something that threw Ashen off even more—encouragement. "Don't get distracted overthinking things. Focus on the race."
Ashen's brows furrowed.
'Was he… rooting for him?'
He didn't know what to make of it.
He didn't know what to make of anything anymore.
He couldn't tell if this was some elaborate mind game or genuine advice. But there was something unsettlingly human about the words. As if, for a second, the man in front of him wasn't a teacher or a wall of rules.
Kieran turned and began walking toward the starting line.
Ashen exhaled slowly and followed, tightening the grip of his gloves.
He couldn't afford to let his mind spiral. Whatever was going on, this was still his domain.
He still had the advantage of familiarity.
The Sprint Track was one of the many places where he shined.
He had lived and bled on it since his first year. It was a proving ground, a sanctuary for many.
Whatever tricks Kieran had up his sleeve, the laws of motion were the same for everyone.
The two reached the starting line.
The track stretched ahead like a metallic desert filled with death traps—spinning rings, shifting walls, pulse drones, and mid-air hoops. Beyond that, the glowing arc of the finish line burned like a distant sun.
Kieran took his position on the left.
Ashen took his on the right.
Their shadows stretched long under the midday light, side by side.
As the system initialized, a digital countdown appeared above them—projected in bright crimson numbers.
10…
9…
A low hum filled the air as the gliders powered up.
Sparks of static flickered around Ashen's boots as his body synced to the track grid.
He rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck once, and tried to quiet his mind—but the image of those mechanical legs kept flashing back.
He exhaled through his nose.
'Focus... Focus.'
Meanwhile, in the stands, Renn, Lira, and Jaro sat shoulder to shoulder among the hundreds of cadets. The entire school felt like it had shown up—upper batches, lower ranks, even instructors who had abandoned their lunch to see how this madness played out.
The air buzzed with speculation and disbelief.
"These last two days are starting to feel like a fever dream," Jaro muttered, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees. "First Renn's dismissal, then Ashen stepping up, and now this? What the hell is happening?"
"Do you guys think he'll… win?" Renn asked quietly.
His voice was barely above a whisper, but Lira heard it instantly.
He was trying to sound composed, but the tremor in his tone gave him away.
He was pining everything—everything—on Ashen right now.
If Ashen lost… that was it. His future, his dream, everything would vanish.
Lira turned to him, her eyes steady, then reached out and clasped his hand.
Her touch was firm, grounding—exactly what Renn didn't know he needed until then.
"Are you forgetting who Instructor Kieran is going up against?" she said softly, but with conviction. "It's Ashen we're talking about—the guy who finished the Night Loop Course blindfolded. The same guy who ran the entire East Ridge Sprint in under a minute with a broken wing module. The same guy who outran a scout drone on foot. He's a walking war machine"
Her voice carried enough confidence to draw a few glances from nearby cadets.
"Trust me, Renn. If anyone can do this—it's him."
Jaro nodded sharply, flashing a grin. "Yeah, man. Lira's right. If I were in your shoes, I wouldn't want anyone else running for me. Ashen's the best of the best."
Renn's lips trembled for a second before turning upward into a faint smile.
He knew they were trying to reassure him, to mask their own nerves, but somehow… it worked. A small piece of the dread loosened inside him.
He nodded once. "Yeah… Yeah, you're right."
They turned their eyes back to the track.
8…
7…
6…
The crowd fell silent, every breath synchronized with the countdown.
The sound of the glider turbines mixed with the faint hiss of Kieran's prosthetics shifting into sprint mode—metal plates adjusting with fluid precision. The lights on his legs turned red.
Ashen crouched low, palms hovering over the start sensors.
His eyes locked forward, his heartbeat slowed.
Whatever Kieran's story was—whatever his reason for doing this—Ashen wasn't going to let it shake him, Renn was counting on him. The others were watching so he had to win.
5…
4…
Kieran's expression was unreadable as always, but his stance was perfect—coiled, balanced, unnervingly calm.
3…
Lira squeezed Renn's hand once.
"Watch closely," she whispered. "You're about to see why we call him the Phantom."
"No one class him that."
2…
The air thickened as every sound faded for the two.
The gliders vibrated softly under Ashen's boots.
1…
A final breath.
0—
The field exploded with light.