THE F-RANK THAT BUILDS ABILITIES

The sun crept lazily across the cracked windows of Ridgewood Academy's east wing, casting long stripes of light across the waxed floors. Donnie walked those halls like a shadow. Not invisible—but deliberately overlooked. He passed rows of lockers, faded class schedules taped to the walls, and motivational posters that had lost their meaning years ago.

"Grow Your Trace. Build Your Future."

Empty words. At least to people like him.

His fingers clutched a sketchpad filled with thin, mechanical pencil lines—arrows showing movement arcs, step sequences, attack flows. To others, it was meaningless scribble. To Donnie, it was the difference between survival and embarrassment.

He was headed to the gymnasium, where the simulated gate was already being prepped.

Today was trial day.

He exhaled slowly, not because he was nervous, but because he needed to clear his head. F-Rank students weren't given many chances. This might be his only one.

---

Inside the training hall, a large crowd had already gathered. The walls pulsed with soft light from the Trace Panels embedded in the room. These weren't for aesthetics—they projected simulations from real-world gate footage, training exercises, or in this case, a temporary rift trial. The illusion was crafted to give each student a taste of combat without risking their lives.

The gate stood at the center: an arch of glowing symbols and artificial mana, flickering with translucent blue fire. It wasn't real, but it was close enough to hurt your pride—or your limbs—if you weren't ready.

"Form lines by class and rank!" barked Instructor Crane, a lean man with graying stubble and the energy of a war vet who'd seen too many rookies fail. "You already know the rules. One simulated gate. One enemy. One result. No complaints."

The students sorted themselves. C-Ranks up front. D and E-Ranks next. F-Class? They stayed in the back. Not that anyone forced them to. Years of being ignored had already trained them where to stand.

Donnie found a quiet spot beside the exit door. He didn't speak to anyone. He opened his sketchpad instead and reviewed a sequence he'd studied the night before: Lucen's flame-wheel kick and backward stance. It was explosive, precise, and unlike anything Donnie could generate on his own—unless he memorized every step.

"Lucen Kai," Crane called out.

Cheers erupted from Lucen's small fanclub.

The boy stepped forward, all confidence and fire. His Trace Band was already alight with orange-red pulses, and the flame insignia on his collar was polished to gleam. He entered the gate with no hesitation.

The simulation swallowed him instantly.

The room's main panel displayed his projection: a ruined temple. Broken statues lined the walls. Firelight flickered from unseen sources. The beast appeared—part lion, part lizard, made of segmented plates and ash-coated claws.

Lucen didn't flinch.

He struck first, launching a twisting wheel of fire straight into the creature's chest. Then he flipped backward, launching a pair of flame jabs mid-air. The monster screamed and lunged. Lucen ducked under it, rolled, and blasted another arc directly into its gut.

The beast shattered in glowing pixels.

Lucen reappeared in the real room, brushing imaginary soot off his shoulder.

"Three confirmed kills," Crane said. "No injuries. Trace power efficiency: 92%. C-Rank status—maintained."

Lucen grinned and pointed casually at Donnie. "Don't blink when you go in, Copyboy. You might actually learn something."

Donnie said nothing.

---

Crane flipped the list again. "Donnie Reeve."

Everything went quiet. Students turned their heads.

Lucen coughed into his hand, mimicking a funeral bell.

Donnie stepped forward.

"You sure?" Crane asked, voice lower. "You're still unranked. One mistake, and you'll stay that way."

"I'm sure."

Crane nodded slowly and gestured to the gate.

Donnie walked through it.

---

The world changed.

He stood in a narrow underground corridor. Walls of stone stretched into darkness. Cold torches burned blue along the walls, casting shadows that danced unnaturally. The air wasn't humid or dry—it was neutral, dead, manufactured.

Something skittered deeper in the dark.

He didn't move.

> [TRACE LOADED – Combustion Arc: 28%]

Duration: 7 seconds

Seven seconds. He reminded himself of that every single day.

He drew a breath. Not to center himself. Just to start the timer.

The monster burst into view with a bone-rattling growl—like metal scraping through its throat. A Ragehound. Digital model, but feral enough to scare real rookies. Shaggy, oversized, four-eyed, and fast.

Donnie moved.

He stepped left—not away from it, but with it, syncing his motion to its angle of attack. He mirrored Lucen's posture—right elbow tucked, flame channeled to the palm, twist the hips, and release.

A fire arc erupted from his fingers, curling into the monster's ribs.

The beast yelped, slowed, then barreled forward even harder.

Donnie dove sideways and sent out a second, smaller burst. His aim was off. The fire fizzled on the stone.

Four seconds.

The Ragehound pounced. Donnie rolled beneath its claws, kicked off the wall, and spun—wrist twisted in the exact motion Lucen had used earlier.

A third arc. Right into its snout.

Seven seconds.

The trace vanished. The flame was gone.

The Ragehound didn't care.

Donnie scrambled backward and yanked a torch from the wall. It sputtered. Real flame. Just enough to scare pixels.

The creature lunged again.

Donnie ducked, stepped into its charge, and slammed the torch into its neck. The beast howled, its model fragmenting into glitchy sparks before exploding in a flash of simulated light.

Trial complete.

> [TRACE UPGRADE – Combustion Arc: 39%]

Stability: Improving

Cooldown Applied: 5 Minutes

Donnie stood there for a moment, panting, sweat dripping from his chin.

But he was alive.

---

The simulation blinked. The gym returned.

Donnie stepped back into the real world, eyes half-lidded, body sore but intact.

Crane raised a brow. "One kill. Improvised torch finish. No injury. Still unranked."

A few chuckles from the C-Ranks.

Lucen clapped mockingly. "Wow. You almost died stylishly."

Crane narrowed his eyes, though. He didn't laugh. He didn't dismiss Donnie either.

"You'll go again," he said simply. "Next rotation."

That wasn't standard. Not for an unranked.

Donnie nodded. "Thank you."

He picked up his sketchpad and walked off, ignoring the whispers.

---

Outside the training hall, he found a quiet bench and sat, the heat of the moment slowly wearing off.

> "Not bad."

Donnie turned. Veera Myles, a D-Rank with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, leaned against a nearby column, arms crossed.

"Your flame lasted longer," she added.

He blinked. "You noticed that?"

"I time everything. Yours went a full second over. Which shouldn't be possible unless—"

"—unless the Trace is adapting," Donnie finished.

She smirked. "You're not just copying anymore. You're tuning."

He closed the sketchpad. "That's the idea."

Veera pushed off the wall. "You should study Lucen's air-spike combo. He hates using it in class, but he pulls it out when he's nervous. You could catch something new."

"Why help me?"

"Because," she said, stepping away, "you're the first unranked I've seen make a Ragehound flinch."

---

That night, Donnie lay on his dorm bed, one arm behind his head, sketchpad open beside him. The lights were out, except for the Trace Band on his wrist, which blinked softly.

He opened a new page.

Instead of copying Lucen's fire stances again, he began sketching a mix: flame arcs laced with footwork from a different style, spacing drawn from Veera's ice-control movement, and recovery stances that didn't exist in any handbook.

> [New Trace Pattern Detected – Hybrid Arc Initiated: 3%]

Status: Unstable

Stability: Low

A warning blinked.

Donnie smiled.

"I don't need stable," he whispered. "I need new."

The glow from his Trace Band pulsed once, slightly brighter than usual.

Outside, Ridgewood Academy remained quiet.

But inside his dorm, Donnie's ability was no longer just something borrowed.

It was becoming his own.

© Anthony Osifo 2025 – All rights reserved.