Brando nodded slowly. He was beginning to understand something by watching Ripa, something related to how Giordano had almost materialized vapor when he wasn't actively thinking about it.

  But before he could complete the thought, a muffled exclamation drew everyone's attention to the back of the classroom, where Ripa hadn't moved a millimeter in the last hour.

  It was as if the classroom temperature had suddenly plummeted.

  Around Ripa's fingers, the vapor hadn't just manifested. It had taken on an almost palpable consistency, dense and dark, more like an icy vise than a simple mist. It thickened and rotated around him slowly, following a mysterious and hypnotic rhythm. Then the violet ice condensed in his hands, first as raw fragments, then as pieces floating in the air, surrounding him with a strange purplish aura.

  "Impossible..." someone whispered.

  Giordano stared in disbelief. "It can't be true. No Omega has ever succeeded in less than an hour. Never."

  Ripa's KryoWatch emitted a sharp beep, followed by a message that froze the entire classroom: [Violet One Stage reached. Time: 57 minutes]

  Giordano had almost broken that record, but something had gone wrong, perhaps due to an imperceptible error or a moment of distraction. It was rare, almost impossible, to successfully materialize ice on the first attempt, yet Ripa's process seemed to be something different. Ripa wasn't forcing anything. He wasn't struggling. He seemed like a machine just doing its job.

  "A pure Omega..."

  "A pure Omega did it."

  Voices in the classroom grew increasingly louder. Michelotti approached Ripa quickly, tablet in hand. Her eyes widened as she scrolled through the recorded data. "I'll call Lieutenant Esposito right away," she announced with a tense voice. In her eyes was not surprise but only a growing awareness of what she had witnessed.

  Esposito entered shortly after, accompanied only by the rhythmic and decisive sound of his military footsteps. The birthmark on his cheek seemed to pulse, but for once his gaze wasn't hard with anger. On the contrary, it exuded unusual satisfaction.

  "A new record for an Omega," he said, studying the data on Michelotti's tablet. "And almost ten minutes less than the previous one. A remarkable result indeed."

  Esposito's words hung in the air like lead. Ripa had outclassed Giordano, and that just didn't sit right.

  "AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARGH!"

  A harrowing, almost animal cry exploded from the other side of the classroom. Giordano's scream echoed in the room like thunder announcing a storm. A cascade of icy, violent vapor exploded from his hands, but unlike Ripa's glacial calm, Giordano's manifestation was pure rage, a primordial force, chaotic and untamed.

  The class remained paralyzed with all eyes fixed on him. His fury poured out in a cloud of violent vapor that resembled a vortex of frustration. And it was at that moment that violet-colored ice began to form in a way very similar to Ripa's.

  [Violet One Stage reached. Time: 1 hour and 2 minutes]

  "Two records in one day," Michelotti seemed incredulous, almost stunned by the rapidity with which events were unfolding. "The best times ever recorded for an Omega."

  "After Ripa," Esposito specified with a tone that seemed as sharp as ice. "A pure Omega still beats a bastard Omega. The natural order of things doesn't lie."

  His voice didn't hide the satisfaction of triumph but was closer to a bitter observation. And his words hit Giordano like a punch to the stomach. He had given his all, reached an immense milestone, yet he was still overshadowed.

  Brando, meanwhile, observed in silence, trying to catch a more subtle detail: Ripa had summoned his power with glacial calm, while Giordano had been driven by the anger of competition.

  Giordano Volpe and Davide Ripa were two sides of the same coin.

  Brando opened the door to his room with a hand trembling from effort. He had spent so many hours trying to meditate that he couldn't take it anymore, and as if that weren't enough, he hadn't managed to produce even a single ice crystal.

  He dragged himself inside, collapsing onto the bed still dressed. His secondhand uniform was drenched in sweat, and that empty circle on his chest seemed to mock him even in the dark.

  He and Giordano had spent the entire day practicing meditation. After the afternoon lesson ended, they had stationed themselves in an isolated clearing, determined to make progress.

  "Shit," he muttered to the peeling ceiling. The scene from that afternoon continued to torment him like a broken record: Ripa reaching Violet Stage in less than an hour, as if he were doing the most natural thing in the world. Giordano, on the other hand, determined not to be outdone at any cost.

  Giordano had quit around eight in the evening. "Bro, my head is about to explode," he had said. "If I keep going like this, my brain will leak out of my ears." Then he'd returned to his dormitory, in the section reserved for the talented ones, leaving Brando alone with his stubbornness.

  The only light in the room came from a streetlamp outside. At this hour, the other students were probably celebrating their progress, comparing their colored ice like children with new trading cards. He was one of the few who hadn't yet reached [Violet One] stage, and it frustrated him to death.

  He sat up, feeling every muscle protest. His reflection in the window showed him what he was: a kid from Rione Sanità trying to pretend to be a Cold Soldier. His secondhand uniform was wrinkled and sweaty, and that empty circle on his chest seemed to continue mocking him.

  "A Zeta Rank," he grunted. "What chance does someone like me have?"

  Exactly. How could he accelerate his progression? Giordano had suggested trying different techniques: deep breathing, visualization, things like that. But nothing seemed to work. It was as if his body categorically refused to produce ice. It was as if, for him, the ability to improve was somehow jammed.

  He had less than a week to prove he wasn't the incompetent everyone thought he was, to give meaning to that rank that seemed more like a curse than anything else.

  The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

  He stood up, trying to ignore the pain. He took off his boots, and the floor was cold beneath his bare feet, colder than...

  Wait.

  Brando moved around the room following that sensation of abnormal frost. The thermometer the guy from the enclosure had given him was on the nightstand and flashing red. It had never done that before.

  "Hey, little one?" he called softly. He thought the puppy would immediately pop out from under the bed, wagging its tail with all three eyes glowing. But this time there was no response.

  He knelt to look under the bed. The small fortress of blankets the puppy had built was empty, and the fabrics were torn from the inside, as if something were trying to break free from a skin that was too tight.

  "Damn..."

  He found it huddled in the darkest corner of the room. The puppy was writhing like an animal in the grip of convulsions and violent spasms. Its fur was falling out in entire patches, exposing what looked like a network of icy veins growing underneath.

  "What the hell!"

  He approached cautiously. The third eye on its forehead had unnaturally widened, pulsing with an intermittent purple light. Its whimpers were like those of a hit stray dog that doesn't understand why it's suffering.

  When he reached out to touch it, he withdrew with a choked cry. The cold it emanated wasn't normal.

  "Shit, shit, shit..."

  He grabbed the special thermometer and pointed it at the creature. The display flashed frantically before showing an absurd number: -15°C. The body temperature of a Pseudo-Glacial should never drop below thirty degrees; the guy from the enclosure had told him that a thousand times.

  The puppy opened its mouth in a sound that had nothing animal about it. Its teeth were mutating. They were literally recreating themselves in sharper forms.

  "This shouldn't happen so quickly. I need to take you to the enclosure right away," Brando murmured. Pseudo-Glacial mutations were gradual, could take weeks. But this was like seeing weeks of agony condensed into minutes.

  He approached the puppy and wrapped it in his jacket. The frost on the floor crackled under his feet, expanding like a web of ice. When he lifted it, the cold bit his skin like acid.

  "Shit."

  The puppy instantly stiffened. The creature trembled without stopping, and each spasm was accompanied by a metallic sound that made his skin crawl.

  "Hang in there, little one," he murmured. "I'm getting you out of here."

  He stopped in front of the door. It was past midnight; curfew had begun a while ago. If they caught him in the corridors at this hour, there would be trouble, but the puppy emitted another of those unnatural sounds.

  "Fuck everything."

  The Academy corridors were deserted. He needed to run, but any sudden movement seemed to cause more pain to the puppy. He moved quickly but steadily, slipping from one shadow to another as he had learned to do in the Rione.

  When he finally exited the building, the night air hit him like a slap. The Alien Artifact dominated the horizon. The Academy grounds stretched before him like a maze of avenues, secondary buildings, and shadowy areas. The southeast enclosure was on the other side, almost at the foot of the volcano. It would take a quarter of an hour.

  He took the secondary path that skirted the woods. It was longer but less exposed. The sound of his footsteps on the gravel seemed deafening in the silence of the night.

  He stopped suddenly, holding his breath. Three people had appeared practically out of nowhere. They moved with a precise pattern, converging on his position. The puppy stiffened in his arms, as if it too had sensed the danger.

  "Stop, Casadei."

  The voice was calm, almost professional. Three figures stood out against the dim light of a lamppost. Ripa detached himself from the group in his imposing stature, standing over two meters tall. The other two remained behind, motionless as statues.

  The puppy trembled violently. The frost on the jacket expanded, creating crystals that crackled in the silence.

  "Until today, you've never spared me a glance," Brando said. "What the hell do you want?"

  Ripa approached. He didn't smile, showed no emotion. His figure blocked the light from the lamppost, casting a shadow that engulfed Brando.

  "Lieutenant Esposito says you're a problem. I solve problems."

  His voice was flat and mechanical. He took another step. The puppy emitted a metallic sound.

  "Screw you," Brando said, clutching the icy bundle. "I don't have time to waste. This is an emergency."

  "An emergency?" Ripa stopped. Something changed in his tone. "You know what's really an emergency? A Zeta rank who refuses to understand his place."

  It was at that moment that Brando understood. It wasn't just about kicking him out of the Academy. There was something deeper, more visceral. Ripa had that look that Brando knew all too well; he had seen it a thousand times in the alleys of Rione Sanità. It was the look of someone who wants not just to fight, but to destroy.

  "Last chance, Casadei." Ripa's voice was almost gentle now. "Leave that animal and get out of the Academy. Now."

  Brando looked at the icy bundle in his arms, then at the dark path behind him. He had no choice.

  He turned abruptly and began to run with all his might. The cold night air burned his lungs. Deep down, his body knew what to do; years of escapes in the Rione had taught him how to move, how to breathe, how to survive. He curved his back, lowered his head, and cut through the air like a blade.

  The three figures didn't move immediately. They didn't need to. They began to walk and follow him with measured, precise steps in the darkness.

  The Academy grounds were a maze of avenues and secondary buildings. Brando turned between the trees, trying to use the shadows as cover. The puppy trembled against his chest while the frost penetrated through the frozen jacket.

  Brando ran, ran with his head down. He could only see the glow of the lamppost lights forming yellowish shadows on the pavement. Every possible turn or change of direction served to disorient his pursuers. He found himself navigating a maze of streets without knowing where he was going, and his mind was clouded by the run.

  He turned right, then left. His legs burned, his lungs were on fire. The weight of the puppy slowed every movement, but he couldn't leave it. Not after seeing it writhing in pain in his room.

  But after all that running, Brando finally ended up in a dead end. The tall silhouette of a dilapidated building loomed in the night, blocking his path. He looked around for an escape route but found himself surrounded only by trees and mud. If he panicked, he would lose all hope. He had to find a solution, and quickly. Cold sweat began to drip down his temples, while his heartbeat began to increase. His strangely lucid mind considered every possibility.

  "It's not over yet! I can take a new path, I just need to turn around and..."

  "Shit."

  His stream of thoughts was interrupted by the appearance of the three figures who had by now caught up with him. How had they done it? Brando was sure he had distanced them by a lot.

  Only at that moment did he realize that they had actually been on his heels the whole time; they hadn't lost sight of him for even an instant. They had been playing cat and mouse from the beginning. He gritted his teeth and clutched the puppy tighter. Unconsciously, he backed up, finding himself with his back to the wall. There was no escape now.

  "What the hell do you want from me?" His voice echoed in the alley.

  The two henchmen smiled sadistically, while Ripa remained impassive, stepping forward and cracking his knuckles and neck joints.

  Brando had never seen him up close. He was nineteen, but no one would have given him that age; he looked at least thirty. His imposing musculature showed years and years of hard training. He displayed hard, angular features, and his height approached two meters with a weight well over a hundred kilograms. He stared at Brando with an icy, grim look that revealed a life of fighting and clandestine challenges. The sleeves of his jacket were rolled up, showing thick, herculean forearms, and on his forehead, a thin whitish scar ran diagonally from the hairline to the right eyebrow.

  "I think the Lieutenant is right. You're a problem that needs to be solved. And I..." He assumed a fighting stance with a grace that shouldn't belong to such a massive body. "As I told you, I'm very good at solving problems."

  The puppy emitted another of those metallic sounds, and for a moment the frost seemed to intensify. Brando felt the cold penetrate to his very bones. But he couldn't let it go. Not here, not now.

  "If you manage to hit me even once, I'll never bother you again. If you don't succeed..." Ripa said, cracking his knuckles one last time, with a hint of madness crinkling his face. "I'll come back. Again and again, until I've completely massacred you."