A rank

A tense silence stretched across the training hall as Jordan kept Ronan pinned against the wall, his fists clenched around Ronan's collar. The rest of the squad stood frozen, shifting uncomfortably. They had seen Jordan angry before—but never like this.

They were too far away to hear what was being said, but the sheer intensity of Jordan's gaze made it clear that whatever was happening wasn't just about a simple sparring match.

Ronan remained silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, with a deep sigh, he muttered, "I don't have anything to tell you."

Jordan's jaw tightened. His grip lingered for just a second longer before he finally let go. His voice was low, controlled—but laced with something darker. "Then I don't have anything to teach you."

With that, he turned and walked away, fists clenched, shoulders rigid.

Diana's voice cut through the thick air. "Jordan!"

He ignored her, continuing his way toward the exit. That only pissed her off more. With swift precision, she lunged forward, sweeping his feet out from under him. Jordan hit the ground hard, and before he could react, Diana pinned him down, her forearm pressing against his chest.

"See how easily I just floored you?" she snapped. "That's what happens when you let anger cloud your senses."

Jordan scowled, brushing her off and attempting to get up. But Diana only tightened her grip, holding him down more firmly.

"I saw what happened," she said, eyes locked onto his. "So, what does Ronan have to say?"

Jordan exhaled sharply. "Nothing. And I'm done wasting time on him." His tone was clipped, but the frustration in his eyes was unmistakable. "I'll ask Nathaniel to transfer him to Squad 4. He's surpassed this level… but before that, we need to measure his mana. We need to know exactly where he stands. He might be a high-level Harbinger."

Diana studied him for a moment before finally releasing him. "Now that's what I call thinking logically," she muttered, pushing herself up. "Alright, let's get this done."

They left the training hall and headed straight to Nathaniel's office. When they arrived, Nathaniel was in the middle of a call, his expression unreadable as he listened intently. The moment he hung up, he turned to them with a questioning glance.

Jordan didn't waste time. "We need to measure Ronan's mana. Now."

Nathaniel arched a brow. "That's unusually early for someone at his level."

"Exactly," Diana said. "But after what we just witnessed, it's necessary."

Nathaniel leaned back in his chair, considering for a moment before nodding. "Alright. Use the mana meter."

---

Meanwhile, back in the training hall, Ronan found himself surrounded. His squad members had gathered around him like he was some kind of celebrity, their voices overlapping in excitement.

"How the hell did you even land a hit on Jordan?"

"Dude, you forced him to use his system!"

"And you came out of that fight without a scratch? Are you even human?"

Ronan shifted uncomfortably. He had expected some attention after that fight, but this was… a bit much.

The only person who wasn't speaking to him was Theo. The guy still seemed bitter about losing their previous fight. Ronan couldn't blame him, but at the same time, it made the whole situation feel even more awkward.

Before he could think of a way to escape, a voice called his name.

"Ronan."

Everyone turned. Diana stood near the entrance, arms crossed, her gaze sharp. "Come with us. We need to measure your mana."

Silence. Then murmurs spread through the room like wildfire.

"Already?"

"Isn't it too soon?"

"What the hell is going on?"

Curiosity piqued, the squad members exchanged glances before wordlessly deciding to follow. No way they were missing this.

---

The mana meter wasn't just a device—it was an entire room. A large, transparent chamber reinforced with thick, sturdy glass. Inside, the air always carried a faint hum of energy, waiting to be activated.

Harbingers were classified based on their mana levels, ranked from D to S.

D-rank: 1 - 299. C-rank: 300 - 599. B-rank: 600 - 899. A-rank: 900 - 999. S-rank: 1000 and above.

If Ronan's mana exceeded 1000, he would be an S-rank—a title given to only the most elite warriors.

Ronan stepped into the chamber, every pair of eyes locked onto him. The glass door sealed behind him with a soft hiss.

Nathaniel's voice came through the speakers. "Alright, Ronan. Release your energy. Activate your system."

Ronan exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders. Then, he let it loose.

A pulse of raw power surged through the room. The mana meter reacted instantly, beeping loudly as the numbers on the display began to rise.

200.

201.

202.

The beeping intensified, the numbers climbing higher.

850.

851.

852.

Everyone held their breath.

Then—

900.

The meter let out a final beep and stopped. The screen flashed: A-RANK.

The number glowed bright on the mana meter, refusing to disappear as if mocking everyone in the room. Ronan stood there, staring at it, feeling an odd mixture of accomplishment and dread twist inside him. He had expected a high rank, sure—but A-rank? That was pushing it.

For a moment, no one spoke. The room was silent. Not the kind of silence that brought peace, but the kind that suffocated, heavy with disbelief.

Then the whispers started.

"Holy shit…" The words came from one of his squadmates, barely above a whisper, but it broke the dam. Murmurs spread through the crowd like wildfire.

"900? That's insane."

"I knew he was strong, but this—this is next level."

"He fought Jordan and came out unscathed, and now this? What the hell is he?"

Ronan sighed internally. Great. Just great. He could feel their stares drilling into him, each person analyzing, questioning, trying to piece together how some nobody had just ranked as an A-class Harbinger.

Even Jordan, who had been watching silently, had to clench his fists. A part of him had expected this, but seeing it confirmed made it sting even more. The same guy he had deemed unworthy was now standing just a step away from S-rank.

Diana folded her arms, eyeing the results with interest. Jordan, standing beside her, was stone-faced, unreadable—but Ronan knew that behind those blank eyes, there was frustration. Not anger. Not envy. Just raw, bruised ego.

"Well, there's your answer," Diana said, tilting her head toward Jordan. "He's above this level. Squad Four's the only place left for him."

Jordan didn't respond at first. Then, with a slow nod, he turned to Ronan. "Get your things together. You're transferring."

The words should have excited Ronan—Squad Four was a whole different league, filled with the best of the best. But instead, all he felt was… awkward. Like he'd just been shoved onto a stage without knowing his lines.

"Uh… okay?" he said, scratching the back of his neck.

Jordan's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he turned away, saying nothing more. Diana, however, wasn't done.

"You're acting weird," she noted, watching him carefully. "I mean, you're an A-rank now. You should be celebrating, but you look like someone just told you your cat died."

Ronan exhaled, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "I dunno. I just… wasn't expecting all this attention."

"Well, too bad. Because now you're under a microscope." Diana grinned, patting his shoulder. "Welcome to the big leagues."

Ronan forced a chuckle, but inside, he knew—this was just the beginning of his problems.