A surge of irritation flared, my resolve hardening. James fucking Walker had trained me, and if this sixteen-year-old thought he could intimidate me, he had another thing coming. I was ready to show him whatrealskills looked like.
Frodo counted down from three, and I focused on my energy. As soon as he reached one, I launched into action. In less than two seconds, my energy shot out, neutralizing whatever Brian had attempted to throw at me.
His confusion was evident, but I didn’t give him a moment to recover. I sprinted directly toward him, faking left at the last second before sidestepping and driving my shoulder into his back, sending him crashing to the ground. Before he could react, I pinned his arm behind him, pressed my knee into his lower back, and kept him down.
He struggled beneath me, but I shifted, trapping his arm as I swung my legs around his chest, locking him into an armbar. "Submit," I warned, tightening my grip, detecting the tension in his arm as he fought to resist. His muscles twitched, and I pushed harder, ready to dislocate his shoulder if needed. Finally, he tapped out, and I released him, then stood over him with a steady breath.
The room was silent, save for the sound of Brian’s surprised gasps and the murmur of my classmates, who were now watching in stunned amazement.
Frodo cleared his throat, his tone somewhat begrudging. “That, uh, was unexpected. Quite hasty on the haze. What’s your name, new one?”
“Emma Thompson, sir,” I replied, while I tried to keep my voice steady despite the lingering adrenaline.
He nodded thoughtfully. “Emma, any idea how fast your interface is?”
I shook my head, growing a bit self-conscious. “I haven’t been timing myself.”
His eyebrows pinched together. “You haven’t? Then who’s been training you?”
“James Walker,” I answered, a bit more confidently now.
His posture straightened abruptly. “Walker? As in our First Offensive? Leader-to-be, James Walker?”
I nodded, pride and relief stirring at the acknowledgment of my connection with James.
“Okay, well it certainly explains what just happened here,” Frodo said, his tone softening slightly. He seemed lost in thought for a moment. “I wonder…” His voice trailed off, and then he shook off his jacket with a decisive movement. “Let’s see how you do against someone closer to your own age.”
Excuse me?How old did he think I was? I was obviouslynotcloser to forty than sixteen.
But instead of convincing him of my youthful looks, I took my position, ready for whatever challenge he had in mind.
Frodo shifted into a fighting stance, one I instantly recognized from James’s repertoire—feet evenly spaced, weight balanced, and hands up, ready to deflect or strike. His eyes were locked on mine, his former demeanor replaced by severe focus. “Ready?”
I nodded, taking a deep breath, then centered myself. “Ready, sir.”
He moved first—measured, controlled steps, each shift of his weight deliberate. I anticipated his strikes, my muscles responding instinctively, matching his pace. As he threw a quick jab, I pivoted to the side, deflecting it with my forearm. He followed up with a sharp kick aimed at my ribs, but I blocked it, countering with a swift backfist to his shoulder. Every move was clean, precise—and familiar, as if I’d run this fight with James a hundred times already.
Frodo advanced again and his attacks came faster. I focused, channeling my energy, letting it flow through me as I ducked under a wide hook, then sprang forward, delivering two rapid strikes to his chest and a palm to his shoulder. He staggered back, momentarily unbalanced.
I pressed the advantage, feinting a kick before stepping in close, grabbing his wrist, and twisting his arm enough to throw him off his rhythm. With a quick sweep of my leg, he was down. In one fluid motion, I was on top of him, pinning him with my knee against his chest and his arm twisted behind his back. He froze for a split second as the realization hit him—I caught him. His body tensed for a moment, struggling to break free, but the pressure of my hold kept him still.
“All right, that’s enough,” he finally called, his demeanor a mixture of respect and reluctant surrender.
I let him go, and he rose to his feet, giving me a once-over with a newfound understanding. His expression had shifted, as if he were seeing me for the first time. “You’re clearly overqualified for an entry-level program,” he admitted. “If you’re the strongest person in the room, you’re in the wrong room.”
I stood there, slightly out of breath and confused. “What does it mean for me, sir?”
Frodo rubbed the back of his neck, still watching me carefully, as if he hadn't quite figured me out. “I’ll contact the Moderates and speak with their trainer. You need to be in a class suited for your skill level.”
My heart lurched. This was good news, right?
“You can audit the training for today if you want,” he continued, “but if I were you, I’d ask that trainer of yours to time your interface. As far as I can tell, you might even be overqualified for the Moderates.”
Holy shit.I wanted to do a happy dance right then and there. Overqualified? For the Moderates? This was almost unreal.
“Thank you, sir. I’ll do so right away,” I said, as I tried to keep the excitement from spilling into my voice. Frodo nodded once, then gave me a subtle head tilt, nudging me toward the door.
Exiting the room, I immediately tried to contact James through the Nexus. He didn’t take my request, so I sent him a quick text instead, and asked him to meet me back at the Scola, where my haze would still be visible.
