The halls felt narrower tonight. Not physically. But in the way eyes narrowed from corners. In the way voices dropped mid-sentence when he passed.
He was being hunted.
The duel had done more than draw attention. It had drawn blood.
And blood always draws predators.
Two second-years leaned against the wall near the stairwell. They weren't laughing. Just watching. Their uniforms bore deployment marks. Dried dirt still clung to their boots.
They didn't speak to him. Didn't move. But one of them gave a slow nod.
Approval? Recognition? Invitation?
Kaelen didn't slow down. He didn't need their language. He already understood what they were saying.
He doesn't break. He walks through fire. He could be useful.
At the next corner, a trio of third-years lingered near the vending unit. One of them spoke as he passed.
"Solo types don't last long."
Kaelen kept walking.
By the time he reached the dorm wing, there were no voices left. Just tension. Just weight. And the quiet realization that the game had changed.
They weren't mocking him anymore. They were watching. Measuring. Not to break him. To bring him in. Not out of friendship. Out of necessity.
He closed the door to Room 019. Stood in the stillness. His reflection in the black glass stared back – burn marks still healing across his ribs, a dull throb in his jaw.
They think I'm an asset. They're wrong. I'm a variable. Something they haven't prepared for.
Let them wonder. Let them circle. The wolves are here.
But I'm not the prey. Not anymore.
From high above – balcony shadows and reinforced glass – Professor Caldera stood alone. She watched him vanish down the corridor. Didn't speak. Didn't smile. But her eyes narrowed.
Let them all chase him. Let them all try to claim him.
He won't be caught. Because he isn't climbing the ladder. He's walking through it.
And one day – they'll realize:
He wasn't a first-year. He was the warning.