The walk through the Triangle felt longer than it should have.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Dhara, Riven, and I followed Instructor Oscar down a wide corridor lined with reinforced glass panels. Behind each panel: motion.
Sparring rings. Simulated urban ruins. Magic volleys slamming against barrier shields. Students bleeding. Students healing. Students trying very hard not to look afraid.
"You three are the last batch of the year," Oscar said cheerfully, like he wasn't escorting us into a social war zone. "Bit behind, so pay attention."
Behind.
Not academically.
Socially.
Behind meant you were entering a race mid-lap. It meant alliances were already formed. Rivalries already seeded. Peers already ranked.
The Triangle wasn't a school.
It was a constantly recalculating ecosystem.
And we were late variables.
Oscar gestured lightly as we moved.
"Training arena on the left. Combat simulations to the right. Library down that hall. Dormitories north wing. Recuperation chambers east wing. Don't wander into restricted zones. You won't enjoy what happens."
That last part didn't sound joking.
Dhara walked without reacting. Composed. Focused.
Riven nodded along as if memorizing everything.
I studied everything obsessively.
Layout.
Traffic flow.
Blind corners.
The Triangle rewarded preparation and punished complacency. I'd been here in my head a thousand times while writing Dreyden's sheet.
But imagination didn't capture pressure.
Eventually, Oscar stopped in front of a white door with gold lettering.
1A.
My classroom.
Oscar smiled warmly. "Your homeroom teacher knows you're coming. Try not to cause trouble."
That was funny.
Because trouble here didn't need intention.
It needed proximity.
He left.
Dhara opened the door without hesitation and stepped inside.
Riven followed casually.
I paused for a single breath.
Then entered.
The shift was immediate.
Dozens of heads turned.
Not welcoming.
Not hostile.
Assessing.
My badge did the talking before I could.
Dreyden — 165,983 pts
The number scrolled calmly across the digital panel on my chest.
High enough to disrupt things.
Low enough to still be challenged.
It wasn't awe in their eyes.
It was recalibration.
My pulse tightened.
Every person in this room was either future competition or future disaster.
Then I saw him.
Lucas Væresberg.
Black hair. Red right eye. Resting posture that looked relaxed but wasn't.
His badge read:
228,943 pts.
That number felt less like a score and more like a warning.
Strongest in A1.
Ahead by a margin.
A few seats forward—
Raisel Silvius.
White hair falling perfectly. Purple eyes steady and unreadable.
202,223 pts.
Controlled strength. Inherited power. Ten-level Wind Manipulation.
She didn't look impressed.
She looked calculating.
And in the back—
Jayden Black.
Perfect posture. Perfect expression.
Watching.
He didn't avert his eyes when I glanced his way.
That was worse.
Seeing them together like this hit differently than reading about them.
In the novel, they were narrative devices.
Here, they were predators.
Mr. Lean set his tablet on the desk.
Sharp features. Controlled voice.
He scanned the room once.
Then pointed.
"You. You. You."
Three students stood awkwardly near the center rows.
Lean didn't raise his voice.
"First, I apologize. But you are expelled from Class 1A."
The reaction was instant.
"W-what?"
"Sir— please—"
"That's not fair!"
Lean sighed softly.
"Fair?" he repeated. "You want to discuss fair?"
Silence spread like a stain.
He pointed to their badges.
145,617 pts
149,023 pts
152,433 pts
Then he gestured slightly in our direction.
Dhara.
Riven.
Me.
"All over 160k," he said calmly. "One over 220k."
No one missed who that was.
"You had thirty days of resources. Thirty days of structured growth. You were warned recruitment season was not over. And yet… you remain replaceable."
Replaceable.
The word hurt more than expelled.
One student's hands shook. Another bit the inside of his cheek. The third simply stared at the floor.
"Go," Lean said. "Before I decide Class B suits you better."
They left.
No one spoke.
No one protested.
Not because we agreed.
Because we understood.
Security here meant constant output.
Class A1 was not permanent.
It was rented.
Lean adjusted his glasses and resumed lecture as if three lives hadn't just been rerouted.
That was the true lesson.
We weren't students.
We were assets on probation.
After class, clusters formed immediately.
Private conversations.
Fast whispers.
Glances toward us.
But I didn't linger.
My goal wasn't fitting in.
It was acceleration.
In the original novel, Lucas found a discarded manual behind the academy.
A cheap-looking Magic Control text that most students would overlook.
He threw it away after learning the fundamentals.
But one detail mattered:
It increased five magic points per full circulation cycle.
Five.
That was absurd scaling at this stage.
I needed that.
Four hours later, after circling behind training complexes and following memory more than logic, I found the location.
An unused maintenance passage beyond the main combat wing.
And someone was already there.
A boy in a gold-striped A1 uniform stood with the manual open, flipping pages carefully.
Reader-submitted.
I recognized the archetype instantly.
Not core cast.
Not rejected.
Supplemental.
He shouldn't exist here this early.
"…Of course."
If he memorized even half that book first, my edge shrank.
That wasn't acceptable.
I stepped forward.
"That's mine."
He blinked. "What?"
I didn't argue.
Fire Fists ignited around my hand—not flared wildly like before, but compressed.
Controlled.
I struck.
BAM.
He flew backward and dropped the book.
"What the hell!?" he shouted.
I grabbed the manual instantly.
He staggered up—and then something shifted.
He mirrored me.
Same stance.
Same foot angle.
Same shoulder tilt.
Magic ignited around his hand.
Fire.
But not mine.
Not Fire Fists.
He launched forward.
Our flames collided hard enough to send sparks scattering across concrete.
"You copying me?" I demanded.
"You copied Octave earlier!" he shot back. "I copy attacks! That's my skill!"
Copy attacks?
No.
I watched carefully.
His flow didn't duplicate ability signatures.
It duplicated motion feedback.
He wasn't copying the skill.
He was copying input-output sequence.
Action and reaction.
Exactly like the draft ability I vaguely remembered from a rejected submission thread.
I canceled my flame mid-swing, stepped inside his guard, and grabbed a fistful of his hair.
He yelped.
"Tell me exactly what your skill does," I said quietly.
"You already know!"
"I know what you think it does," I corrected. "That's not the same thing."
He froze.
Not from fear.
From realization.
He didn't fully understand his own mechanics yet.
His flames fizzled.
"Whatever," he muttered. "Keep the stupid book."
I released him.
He backed off, furious but wary.
He didn't react when I referenced the Webnovel title earlier.
No confusion.
No recognition.
He wasn't from Earth.
He was native to this world.
That meant something critical:
The system wasn't just adapting.
It was generating.
When he finally stormed away, my interface flickered.
[Congratulations! You acquired the skill book: Action and Reaction {0}]
Two copied skills.
Back-to-back.
Both unplanned.
Both disruptive.
And definitely not subtle.
I picked up the manual again.
Magic Control.
Five points per proper cycle.
Scalable.
Quiet.
Safe.
"That's more important," I murmured.
Because flashy skills drew attention.
Control built foundations.
And right now, I needed foundation more than spectacle.
The Triangle believed it controlled growth.
It rationed power.
Assigned ceilings.
Rewarded predictability.
But I had just stepped outside its script.
And if the world was evolving—
Then so was I.
I turned the first page.
And started reading.