The letter came at dawn. Malik turned the envelope over in his hands, its sleek surface catching the morning light like a blade. No return address. Just his name, etched in precise silver.
Inside, a single matte-black card gleamed with foil lettering:
Congratulations. You've been selected to join Nayak Academy for the Interplanetary Mutation Tournament Training.
That was it.
Malik blinked. "That's it?" he muttered, squinting at the words like they'd personally insulted him. "No welcome kit? No checklist? Not even a packing suggestion?"
He half-expected a hologram to flicker to life, or maybe a robot to roll in from behind the couch, trumpet blaring, uniform folded with military precision.
But—no. Just silence. Just him. Just the quiet hum of dawn.
"Malik, get the door!" his mother called from another room.
Still clutching the card, Malik padded over and opened it.
Two figures stood on the porch—one, a man in a sharp navy suit, the other a boy about Malik's age, shoulders square, chin tilted like he owned the sky. Malik recognized him immediately.
"Is Lucy home?" the man asked.
Malik turned his head. "Mom, you've got visitors."
Lucy appeared a moment later, warm smile locked in place, polite as ever.
"Welcome," she said. "Can I offer you anything? Tea, coffee, juice?"
Malik blinked. Really, Mom? You're supposed to get rid of them, not host a brunch.
"Water will do," the man replied.
Malik, still annoyed, offered to get it—anything to escape the awkwardness.
Lucy cut to the chase. "So, how can I help you?"
"We're here to propose a favor. A bargain," the man said smoothly, gesturing to the boy beside him. "This is my son, Steve. He's gifted—fire ability. He's trained for the Elite Academy since age twelve. Ranked sixth. Just missed the cutoff."
Malik felt it immediately—the shift in the room.
"We've had offers from major corporations," the man continued. "Lucrative ones. But Steve dreams of Nayak."
Lucy's smile faded. "You want my son to give up his spot... so yours can have it?"
"Yes," the man said plainly. "Malik would be given his pick of company contracts. Guaranteed income. A comfortable life."
"No," Lucy said, her tone flat as stone.
The man pressed on. "Your son has no active ability. He'll be eaten alive there. This is the smart choice—for everyone."
From the kitchen, Malik heard every word. Unworthy. Useless.
The words crawled over his skin like oil. He clenched the glass harder than necessary and stepped into the room.
"We're not interested," he said. "You can leave now."
Steve stood, nostrils flaring. "You don't even want this. Why risk shaming Earth?"
His father added, "We're offering luxury. Safety. Everything most people dream of."
For a moment, Malik hesitated. The comfort, the ease—it tugged at him. Then he looked at Lucy. Calm. Confident. Almost proud.
"Sorry," he said. "But no."
"You're being stubborn," Steve snapped. "You don't even know your power! How can we trust someone like you to protect our planet?"
Malik didn't flinch. "You don't have to trust me. I'll earn it."
The man's jaw tightened. But Lucy stepped forward and opened the door for them, her smile gone.
"Goodbye."
---
A thousand years ago, the universe nearly tore itself apart.
The planets turned on one another. Power consumed diplomacy. Empires fell overnight.
To halt the chaos, an intergalactic treaty was forged—the Martian Rule.
Every five years, each planet would send five champions to compete in a brutal tournament. The winning world would gain control over interplanetary law, trade, and resources. Until the next cycle.
The games were judged by a being known only as The Judge. An ancient entity. A cosmic enforcer feared by all. Cheating meant destruction. Appeals didn't exist.
It wasn't a game.
Since the first tournament, Earth had never won.
Not once.
And now—somehow—Malik Barn was meant to represent it.
---
In the days that followed, more visitors came. All dressed in nice suits, all offering wealth, security, peace.
Each one trying to take his place at Nayak.
Malik turned them all down.
He'd rather rot at home than serve under the goblin-run corporations—their condescension thinly veiled, their laws imposed like chains.
He wanted a world where Earth didn't have to bow anymore. Where humans weren't pitied or traded or ruled.
---
The morning of his departure arrived too quickly.
He stood by the door, duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
"I'll be leaving now," he said softly. "My ride's here."
Lucy wrapped him in a fierce hug. "Take care of yourself. And remember—you are enough."
Malik nodded, throat tight. "I love you."
"I love you too, son."
---
The shuttle was already waiting outside. Inside, four others sat, each wearing the same uncertain expression.
Malik slid into a seat.
"Hey, I'm Malik. Kwane Public School. Nari."
A girl nodded. "Margaret. Louk School. Nari."
"Peter," said a cocky-looking boy. "Night Private. City."
"Frank," another said, offering a small wave. "Louk School."
And then—
"Xander. Kwale Private."
Malik froze. Xander Rous? Everyone knew that name. Son of the county head. Most gifted teen in the country.
But Xander just smiled and extended a hand.
Malik shook it, surprised at the warmth in the gesture.
By the time the shuttle reached Nayak, Malik felt something stir in him. Not confidence, exactly. But something close.
---
The academy rose like a titan carved from mountain and myth.
Suspended on a floating plateau, it shimmered with ancient energy. Columns etched with glowing runes spiraled into the clouds. Students arrived in waves—on hovercrafts, through portal stones, flanked by banners of lineage and power.
Malik stepped out in worn boots, gripping his cracked duffel tighter.
I'm definitely going to get lost, he thought, staring up at the massive gates.
"Malik Barn!" someone called.
He turned. Frank was waving from the stairs.
"You made it! Honestly thought you'd chicken out."
Malik grinned. "Not my style."
Frank pulled him into a one-armed hug, then led the way inside. The entrance hall shimmered beneath their feet, golden tiles lighting up with every step. Statues of past champions towered overhead—each one looked like they could crush a tank with a flick of their fingers.
"Room 499," Frank said, not even checking the assignments board.
Malik narrowed his eyes. "How do you know that?"
Frank just winked. "Connections. You'll learn."
But before Malik could reply, Frank was already absorbed into a laughing group of elites—high-fives, backslaps, names Malik didn't recognize.
Just like that, he was alone again.
---
Room 499 was sterile. Cold. Windowless.
Just a bed, a blank wall, and a ceiling that buzzed faintly with artificial light.
Malik dropped his bag and collapsed onto the mattress.
"I need to shut down," he whispered. His thoughts felt scrambled—jagged, overheated, running on static.
---
The next morning, a bucket of ice water jolted him awake.
He gasped, bolting upright.
A tall student with glowing blue veins stood over him, arms crossed.
"No sleeping in," the boy said flatly. "This is the big leagues."
Malik spat out water. "Water ability? Cute. Real mature."
He dressed fast, teeth chattering, and followed the holographic map to his first class.
---
Class 1E. The bottom of the barrel.
He pushed the door open.
Twenty pairs of eyes turned.
The silence was razor-sharp.
"Introduce yourself," the instructor said, not bothering to look up from his tablet.
Malik stepped forward, chin raised. "Malik Barn. Kwane Public School."
A ripple of murmurs followed.
But Malik didn't flinch.
He wasn't here to be liked.
He was here to matter.