The headmaster leaned over the railing, his eyes narrowing at the boy who shouldn't have survived. "Your score hasn't changed, boy. It’s still a 2.9."
The "Act" score wasn't just about speed; it was a measurement of an individual’s ability to influence the physical world. A 2.9 meant Leo was practically a ghost. He could punch a wall and barely leave a smudge; he could shout, and the sound would die inches from his lips. 2.9 / 10 Act...
The next day, the "Dullard Trials" began. It was a cruel tradition where those in the bottom percentile were forced to navigate the Kinetic Labyrinth—a shifting maze of high-velocity traps designed to force an "Act-Surge." The headmaster leaned over the railing, his eyes
Leo didn't answer. He felt the same as he always did: heavy, slow, and perpetually out of sync with the frantic rhythm of the world. While other students were practicing lightning-fast "Act-Surges"—bursts of magical or physical speed—Leo struggled to even summon the will to run for the bus. It was a cruel tradition where those in
Leo entered the maze to the sound of jeers. Almost immediately, the walls began to close in at a blurring speed. To his left, a girl with a 3.1 score panicked, her Act-Surge triggering a frantic, messy burst of energy that shattered a section of the wall, allowing her to scramble through. Leo didn't surge. He couldn't.
As a massive pendulum swung toward him, vibrating with enough force to liquefy bone, Leo did the only thing a 2.9 could do. He didn't move. He didn't fight. He accepted the stillness. And then, the world stopped.