I wake to the sound of the tablet's alarm, feeling surprisingly refreshed despite my intense practice session. The enhanced physiology seems to require less recovery time—another 'feature' of my transformation. I quickly consume the meal that was delivered while I slept, a nutrient-dense paste that tastes vaguely of oatmeal and protein powder, before following the tablet's navigation instructions to the training facility.

  The training area is massive, an open space with reinforced walls and various stations for different power types. About twenty other enhanced humans are already there, divided into groups based on their abilities. A tall, lean alien instructor stands at the center, flanked by two human handlers including Kress.

  "Subject 7249, join the telekinetic group," Kress directs, pointing to a section where three others are practicing lifting and manipulating increasingly complex objects.

  As I approach, I notice the diversity among the telekinetics, an older woman with focused, steady control; a teenage boy with raw power but erratic precision; and a middle-aged man whose abilities seem specialized in fine manipulation.

  The alien instructor glides over, its movements unnaturally smooth. "New subject. Demonstration required to establish baseline."

  The training area clears as the other telekinetics step back, watching with interest. A series of objects appear from compartments in the floor, metal spheres of increasing size, crystalline structures, and finally, a humanoid combat dummy.

  "Begin with basic lifting. Progress to combat application," the instructor commands.

  I focus, drawing on what I practiced in my quarters. The spheres rise simultaneously, rotating in perfect synchronization. The crystalline structures follow, assembling themselves into a complex geometric pattern midair. The observers murmur appreciatively.

  When I turn my attention to the combat dummy, I try something more advanced, gripping it telekinetically and sending it flying across the room before stopping it abruptly just short of the wall. Then, with precise control, I dismantle it piece by piece, separating joints and components while keeping them all suspended.

  The alien instructor's large eyes narrow slightly. "Exceptional control for initial training. Combat potential high." It makes a notation on a floating holographic display. "Proceed to power endurance assessment."

  For the next hour, I'm pushed to maintain constant telekinetic output, holding increasingly heavy objects aloft while performing other tasks. My muscles tremble and my head throbs, but I refuse to show weakness in front of the others.

  During a brief respite, the older woman telekinetic approaches me. "Impressive for a first day," she says quietly. "I'm Helena. Been here two years." She glances around to ensure we aren't overheard. "Word of advice, don't show your full strength too early. They just increase expectations until you break."

  Helena gives me a knowing look, as if to say, 'Watch what happens next.' The alien instructor steps forward, its large eyes scanning the room before issuing the next phase of training.

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  "Physical application assessment begins now," it announces. "Pairs will be formed to test offensive and defensive capability. Maintain control, severe injury will not be tolerated."

  A murmur spreads among the trainees as names and matchups are displayed on a holographic panel. My name appears beside the teenage telekinetic. He catches my eye, his expression shifting from cautious observation to something more focused. His stance tightens, shoulders squaring as if steeling himself for the challenge. Any hesitation he had before is gone; now, he’s ready to prove himself.

  "Combat exercise begins in three seconds," the instructor states. "Victory by immobilization. No permanent damage permitted at this training level."

  The teenager makes the first move, sending a barrage of training objects hurtling toward me with impressive speed.

  I react instinctively, but instead of simply deflecting the projectiles, an idea sparks in my mind. Rather than wasting energy countering each object, I shift my focus directly to him. The boy's eyes widen as an invisible force wraps around his body, freezing him mid-attack.

  The flying objects clatter to the ground as his concentration shatters. Suspended several feet off the floor, his limbs stiffen as he struggles against my telekinetic hold.

  "Release me!" he gasps, face flushing as he pushes back with his own telekinesis. A sharp tension fills the air as his power collides with mine, an invisible war of will and strength.

  I keep my grip steady but controlled, not aiming to hurt him, only to show dominance. Around us, the other trainees pause their exercises, murmuring amongst themselves. I've drawn attention.

  The alien instructor watches with clinical interest, recording notes on its floating holographic display. "Subject 7249 demonstrates advanced combat application, direct organism control. Rare capability for new enhancement integration."

  I hold the boy there a moment longer, feeling his resistance wane. Then, I gently lower him back to the ground and release my hold. He stumbles slightly, regaining balance, his expression a mix of humiliation and awe.

  "Match concluded. Subject 7249 achieves victory by immobilization," the instructor announces.

  Handler Kress steps forward, studying me with an expression somewhere between curiosity and calculation. "Direct telekinetic control of another subject is typically seen in advanced stages," he says, his voice measured. "Your enhancement integration is progressing at an accelerated rate."

  Huh, I just thought I’d try it out. I didn’t know it would be that impressive a feat.

  Across the room, Helena catches my gaze, a warning flickering in her expression. A silent reminder of her earlier advice, not to reveal too much too soon.

  The alien instructor adjusts something on its control panel. "Combat potential assessment upgraded. Subject 7249 to be transitioned to advanced telekinesis training group effective immediately."

  As the session concludes, I scan the faces of my fellow trainees. Some are impressed, others wary. Marcus, the self-proclaimed second-ranked fighter, watches me carefully, his earlier confidence tempered with a new calculation. He isn’t the only competitor here anymore.

  Kress pulls me aside as the others file out. "You've attracted attention," he says in a low voice. "Several sponsors have already registered interest after reviewing your performance metrics."

  "Sponsors?" I ask.

  "Alien patrons who invest in promising fighters," Kress explains. "They provide additional resources, specialized training, and protection within the facility. In return, your victories bring them status and substantial wagering profits." He gives me a knowing look. "Being sponsored early can mean the difference between becoming a champion or ending up as practice fodder."

  As I leave the training area, the weight of my situation presses heavier. My display of power has accelerated my path through this system, but whether that works to my advantage or spells my downfall remains to be seen.