Several years flashed by in the blink of an eye. Time, the master sculptor, had carved me from a whiny kid into a first year student at Gajahmada High School. This wasn't an ivory tower for elites; just an ordinary institution in the heart of Bandung where hundreds of students lived out their clichéd teenage dramas. And I— Zidane Agato—was doing everything I could to be one of them, to dissolve into the crowd while hiding the grand secret etched into my blood: the gift—or perhaps the curse—of being a Divergent.
Today was the peak of the festivities: the Gajahmada Sports Festival, an annual event that brought together schools from across the city in a coliseum of friendly rivalry. The cool morning air was thick with the smell of sizzling takoyaki, cheers from the main field, and music thundering from the loudspeakers. Yet amid the mass euphoria, I felt like prey lost on a hunting ground.
From the moment I stepped through the school gate, a pair of eyes—no, dozens of pairs—seemed to stab into my back. A group of senior girls would stop chatting each time I passed, then continue with stifled giggles and whispering.
"Look, that's him… the new kid they say is handsome." "His aura is different, right?
So cool. What class is he?"
I quickened my pace, trying to ignore them, but cold sweat was already gathering at my temples. My thoughts raced. 'Crap,' I cursed inwardly. 'Do they know? Did someone see me use my power during the incident with Rangga back then? No, that was years ago… Or is this because I still owe Bu Ida's canteen two cups of Aqua from yesterday?
Great—my reputation ruined by dehydration.'
Paranoia was an old friend. Being a Divergent meant living in constant vigilance. Every glance felt like an interrogation, every whisper like an accusation. I cut sharply down a corridor, feeling like a fugitive pursued by a feminine intelligence unit. That's when I saw it: an empty locker with the door slightly open. Without thinking, I slipped inside, shut it tight, and held my breath in the cramped darkness that smelled of old iron.
After a few minutes that felt like forever, I dared to peek out. Clear. I hurried off to the quietest place I could think of: the row of abandoned benches behind the forgotten gym building.
"Hey, Dan! You still running the race?" A familiar voice cut through my camouflage plan. My classmate, Bima, jogged over.
"Huh? Oh, I don't know. Probably not," I replied lazily. "How many participants are there?"
"About twenty five, combined from all the schools," Bima said. "But I heard
Bimasakti High is fielding their star runner."
"Ugh, makes me even lazier. I was planning to skip like—"
"The prize is decent, you know," Bima cut in. "Cash."
My sleepy eyes snapped wide open. "What time is the race? Where do we gather?" I fired back at lightning speed.
Money is a universal motivator. Though my family could more than afford it, asking Mom for pocket money to rent a computer at the internet café for eight hours felt like a crime. Money I earned myself—even from a footrace—was my ticket to digital freedom.
"Last session, around two o'clock," Bima said, trotting off to get ready for the high jump.
There were still a few hours to kill. I decided to wander—not only to hunt for a burger stand, but also to scout. This festival was the perfect hunting ground.
In the crowd I ran into Seno, another friend, miserably tending his class café stand.
"Zid! Since when do you play waiter?" I teased.
"Forced," he groaned. "All the guys are in events. Lucky me."
My eyes locked onto a slice of chocolate cake in the display. "Well then, good luck!" I said, snatching the cake and biting in. "Consider this payment for what you owed me yesterday!"
"HEY—YOU CAN'T JUST—!"
I left him grumbling and continued my mission. Unluckily, I crossed paths again with that pack of seniors. This time there were more of them—around six—and their gaze was even more intense. When I realized they'd started following me, adrenaline hit. I walked faster; they sped up. I turned; they turned. A real life chase.
'I'm done for!' Panic spiked. I ran; they chased. I finally made it back to my original hideout: the lockers. I dove into the same one, heart hammering. I heard their footsteps stop nearby, then scatter.
When all was quiet, I slipped out and headed for my last redoubt behind the gym. I sat on a bench, trying to steady my breathing and heart rate.
"What are you doing out here alone, Brother?"
That gentle voice again. Yuriko—my sister who somehow always appeared at the most unexpected moments—stood smiling in front of me. After a mini drama of haggling over drinks that ended with my wallet thinner than before, Yuriko left to get ready for the sack race, and I was alone with my thoughts again.
This footrace wouldn't be just a test of physical speed. I knew that. The festival's ambiguous rules about using Potentials were an open invitation to cheat—elegantly. If I wanted to win and secure my internet café funds, I needed an edge. I needed the right Potential.
My mind spun up, drafting a strategy. My ability could only copy, not identify. I had to choose a target through careful observation—a high stakes bet. I could hunt for someone with a Combat type speed boost, but that would be too flashy and Mana hungry. I needed something subtler, more efficient.
I headed to the track where several events were already underway. My eyes swept over the athletes, searching for anomalies, for that spark of energy that revealed a Potential in use. And there—there it was.
At the high jump area, an athlete from Bimasakti High, our long time rival, was the center of attention. He had textbook form, but that wasn't what drew me. Each time he sprinted and leapt, I could sense—thanks to my Divergent instincts—a thin shift in the air around him. As he cleared the bar, he seemed to hang a fraction of a second longer than physics should allow. That wasn't pure athleticism. It was a low tier Spell type Potential, most likely manipulating air pressure or reducing drag. Perfect. Enough to give me an edge in a distance run without draining Mana like crazy.
He was my target.
Next problem: how to touch him? He was always surrounded by teammates. "Accidentally" bumping into him would look suspicious.
That's when I spotted a booth selling festival trinkets. Among the sea of keychains and fans hung a kitsune mask—a white fox face painted with elegant red accents. A crazy brilliant idea began to take shape.
With that mask, I wouldn't be Zidane Agato, the first year from Gajahmada being hunted by seniors. I could be anyone. An anonymous spectator. An enthusiastic fan. Someone who could blend in, move close, and make a quick "touch" without anyone noticing.
I grinned beneath my bangs. The real hunt was about to begin.
[TO BE CONTINUED]