"That… Went well…"
John stood rooted to the spot, his chest heaving as he finally allowed himself to catch his breath. It took several long minutes for the adrenaline to recede enough for him to notice the physical state he was in. His skin felt clammy, and he realised with a shiver that his clothes were utterly soaked in a cold, nervous sweat.
As he wiped his forehead, he paused, looking down at his sleeves. He wasn't wearing the drab, rough-textured orange jumpsuit he had lived in for the past few months of his imprisonment.
Instead, he was clad in a dark, durable jacket and a pair of sturdy jeans, with a soft shirt underneath and heavy-duty, thick-soled shoes on his feet. The outfit felt high-quality, utilitarian, and completely alien.
"Another ten-minute countdown," John muttered, his eyes darting to the top-left corner of his vision. "What is it with this future and ten-minute windows?"
The flickering red timer he had hacked earlier had been replaced by a new one. It had started at ten minutes, and as he watched, the digits bled down past eight and a half.
He would have dismissed everything—the interrogation, Mark, the digital void—as a particularly vivid fever dream if it weren't for that persistent, glowing counter burned into his sight.
"First things first," John whispered. He took a quick, frantic look of his own body, reaching down to check his "little John." He let out a long, heavy sigh of relief to find everything exactly where it was supposed to be. "Okay. At least these future programs knew where not to mess around. I'm still a man."
He turned toward the far wall, where a massive mirror dominated the space. He approached his reflection cautiously. He looked like himself—the same jet-black hair, the same piercing blue eyes—but there was a clarity to his skin and a sharpness to his features that hadn't been there before.
He looked… In the best shape he ever had. The clothes offered no clues; there were no labels, no nametags, no insignia. He looked like a blank slate.
He spent a moment testing his body. He sprinted a few paces, ducked low, and performed a standing jump. He felt light, responsive, and incredibly fast.
He turned his attention back to the room. He marched to the door and shoved against it, but it remained as stubborn as a mountain. He was still locked in. "Don't tell me the prison just got an upgrade," he grumbled, turning back toward the centre of the hall.
In the middle of the room stood a specific training doll. There were others scattered around the perimeter, but this one was the clear focus.
It was a featureless mannequin, with soft skin, devoid of a face, standing on a weighted base. Its most glaring feature was a set of shining, silver-coloured armour plates bolted firmly over its chest and abdomen.
"First time I've ever met a student who ignored the testing doll to dance around like a complete idiot!"
The sudden, gravelly voice echoed through the hall, startling John so badly he nearly jumped out of his skin. He spun around, his heart leaping into his throat, and instinctively retreated to the opposite side of the room. He raised his fists in a messy, untrained guard, his eyes wide with alarm.
"Easy there, kid. I'm not your opponent," the voice continued.
A man stepped out from the shadows near the far wall. He was middle-aged and built like a brick fortress, his muscles bulging beneath a sleeveless tunic. A long, jagged scar ran down one of his thick forearms, and his features were set in a permanent scowl of fierce irritation.
"You had over ten minutes to kick and punch this little thing," the man said, gesturing dismissively toward the armoured doll.
"Ten minutes to score points for your initial academy assessment entry test. And yet, you chose to spend that time moving around like a clown in a circus. Dammit, kid! What the hell is wrong with your head?"
The man tapped his temple aggressively, his tone dripping with an enraged disappointment that suggested he had been watching John's every move. John froze, his mind racing.
Hadn't this man seen the glowing text? Hadn't he seen the black void of the Shell or the cascading lines of code? To this observer, John had just been talking to thin air and jumping around for no reason.
John's brain struggled to pivot. Academy? Entry test?
"It's too late now," the man barked, noticing the way John was eyeing the doll. "You had your chance, fair and square, just like everyone else. But you didn't land a single strike. Not one punch, not one kick. You didn't give the sensors a single point to record!"
The man stomped closer, stopping just a foot away from John. He raised his hand, curling his thumb and forefinger into a mocking circle—a big, fat zero. "A zero! I swear, in all my years at the Azure Academy, I have never seen anyone score a zero. Like… ever! Even the most talentless high-born brat manages to fall against the thing and get a pity point."
The man leaned in, his face inches from John's, as if trying to see what kind of defect resided behind the boy's blue eyes. Then, just as suddenly, he snapped upright and turned on his heel. He walked toward the door, which hissed open automatically as he approached.
"Come on. Move it," the man sighed, his shoulders slouching with the weight of a heavy burden. "Regardless of your pathetic entry score, you have a full year ahead of you to try and learn something useful from us. Though I'll tell you now, I'm your teacher, not your babysitter."
The man began to walk down a long, empty corridor, his voice trailing back as he continued to grumble to himself. "I can't believe the trash those bastards in the Admission Department are sending us these days. It's a joke! How the hell am I supposed to teach someone who doesn't even know how to throw a punch? Dammit!"
John stood in the doorway for a second, watching the man's retreating back. He had no idea where he was, what the "Azure Academy" was, or how he had ended up in an enrollment program for what sounded like a combat school. But the door was open, and the alternative was staying in a room that was more like the prison he came from.
He stepped out into the corridor, noticing dozens of similar doors lining the hallway. Several had opened as well, looking as other "test" rooms.
John kept his gaze moving, scanning the environment with curiosity. Aside from the impossible, flickering countdown hanging like a ghost in the top-left corner of his vision, everything else looked and felt realistically normal.
The masonry of the walls had slight imperfections; the footsteps of the examiner teacher echoed with a heavy, physical presence. It was a masterpiece of simulation, or a reality so advanced it was indistinguishable from one.
The man leading him—the examiner—continued his low-volume monologue, occasionally shaking his head as if trying to clear away the sheer frustration John's "zero score" had caused him.
Suddenly, he came to a halt before a massive set of double doors. He turned to face John, his expression softening into something unexpectedly kind.
"Listen, kid," the man sighed, his voice dropping. He seemed to be struggling with some internal conflict, caught between the urge to scream at John's incompetence and a sense of genuine pity for the boy's future.
"No matter what happens, don't let what you're about to experience shake you. The world is a big place. Anyone can shine given the right circumstances. Perhaps you're just a gem covered in a particularly thick layer of mud.
Don't worry; we'll do everything in our power to scrub you clean and push your potential until you sparkle. But... if we can't, don't lose hope in yourself."
John didn't fully grasp the weight of the man's words—he still wasn't even sure if he was in a game, the future, or a hallucination—but he felt a sudden, surprising warmth toward the scarred examiner. This man was kind, or at least capable of empathy, which made him a stark contrast to the cold, mechanical cruelty of Mark.
"Let's go," the man said, pushing the doors open.
They stepped into a wide hall that was easily the size of a professional basketball stadium. John's eyes immediately landed on the crowd. There were dozens of youths, all looking roughly seventeen or eighteen, standing in various groups across the polished floor.
Some radiated an almost blinding confidence, their postures straight and their voices loud as they chatted. Others stood in silent, watchful circles. Around the periphery of the room stood several adults, all bearing the same rugged, military bearing as the man who had led John here.
"Wait for my return!" the man shouted, his voice booming across the hall. He wasn't just talking to John now; he was addressing a specific section of the room, pointing toward a designated waiting area. "Wait there for the final test results to be announced. No wandering around!"
John obeyed, moving toward the indicated area and merging with one of the larger groups. The reaction was immediate but silent. As he walked past, conversations died down.
Every eye in the vicinity attached itself to his silhouette, tracking him with a mixture of curiosity and predatory gazes. Sensing this, John found a secluded corner away from their piercing eyes and sat down on the floor, pulling his knees to his chest.
Once he was out of the direct line of sight, the other students seemed to lose interest, returning to their cliques and their whispered gossiping. John used the opportunity to do what he did best: gather information. He sat perfectly still, eavesdropping on the fragments of conversation drifting through the hall.
Within a few minutes, he had pieced together the basics. This was the entrance exam and orientation arena for the Azure Academy, one of the most prestigious and ancient institutions in the world.
Every youth in the room had already been admitted, but they were divided into different departments. John realised he was currently grouped with the Military Department, which explained the examiner's obsession with his ability to punch and the focus on the armoured training doll.
More importantly, he learned that the test he had just "failed" wasn't about acceptance or rejection; it was about establishing a hierarchy. The scores would determine their rank and their standing within the freshman year.
A system designed to codify bullying, John thought bitterly. The worst kind of teaching system imaginable. High scores get the gold; low scores get the dirt.
A door on the far side of the hall hissed open. Another stern-looking adult appeared, seemingly another examiner like the one who brought John here. He shouted for his specific group to gather around, and they vanished through another doorway for the next phase of the induction.
As John watched them leave, the countdown in his vision finally hit zero. A sharp, melodic chime rang directly in his ear, vibrating through his skull.
[Ding! Congratulations! Your Hacker System is now live!]
[Ding! You may now issue verbal orders or simply think of a command, and the interface will execute it for you!]
[Ding! You can begin by viewing the general interface of your system!]
'Open interface,' John thought with a surge of genuine excitement.
A golden window materialised in the air before him, visible only to his eyes. It was a sophisticated interface screen, filled with icons and menu bars.
There was a section for Quests, another for a Map (which was currently blank), and a Profile icon. However, most of the other features were dimmed, greyed out, and stamped with a jarring red label: [REDACTED].
'Profile,' he commanded mentally.
The golden screen flickered with a satisfying ding, expanding and unfolding like a digital lotus flower to reveal his statistics and data.
___________________
[The Hacker System: V.0.1
User: John Mirage (ID: Unit-774)
Type: Half human – Half machine - Anomaly
Age: 17 Years
Status: UNAUTHORIZED (Hidden via Spoofing)
Connection: Local Neural Link (Air-Gapped from Mainnet)
Security Status: Unstable
Detection Risk: Low (25%)
___________________
Primary stats:
INT:15
HP:10
Strength: 7
Defense: 8
Speed: 5
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
___________________
Resource Monitor:
Mental Point (MP): 10
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
___________________
Abilities:
Passive:
Hacker Mind Spoofing Ability
Active:
Shell ability Frame Recognition ability
___________________
Synchronization:
System synchronisation: 1%
[Redacted]
[Redacted]
Security Deadlines:
Athanasia System Checkup Deadline: 20 days to come!
[Redacted]
[Redacted]