Fifth year.
Sixty students.
Four classes.
Fifteen per class.
The class assignment list was posted in the morning.
Paper edges cut clean.
Black text arranged clearly.
Seven was assigned to Class 1 of Year Five.
His name sat midway in the first column.
No marks.
No explanation.
He looked at it.
His gaze lingered for half a second.
Then moved away.
Ros and 77 had also advanced—
to Year Three, Class 3.
Different floors.
Opposite classroom directions.
Their paths in the corridors crossed less often.
—
Tuesday afternoon.
The corridor of the Ability Training Building was brighter than usual.
Not because of stronger lighting.
The overhead lamps remained the same row of cold white tubes.
Constant brightness.
No flicker.
There were simply more people.
Footsteps overlapped.
Soles brushed against the floor in fine, fragmented sounds.
Some walked fast.
Some jogged.
Fabric rustled.
Wristbands lightly tapped doorframes.
The air carried a mix of sweat, disinfectant, and chalk dust brought out from classrooms.
Dry.
Slightly sharp.
Electronic screens updated the schedule.
Blue-white interface.
A soft notification tone sounded during refresh.
Tuesday afternoon.
Thursday afternoon.
Saturday morning.
Ability training sessions.
Text aligned in uniform spacing.
The previously empty evening slots—
now filled.
—Night Training.
Standard font.
Same size as other courses.
No emphasis.
No annotation.
The announcement was restrained.
"Elite Reinforcement Program (Trial)."
Flat tone.
No explanation.
That was the external wording.
—
Access control time for training rooms was extended.
Permissions that used to close automatically at night were retained.
Entry was still allowed after 21:00.
When wristbands were scanned, the reader emitted a crisp confirmation.
"Beep."
Green light.
Door slid open.
The recording system added a new category—
"Night Data."
Interface unchanged.
Day and night displayed in separate columns.
Only one additional statistical line appeared.
Its color slightly lighter.
Walls were fitted with sensor arrays.
Black modules embedded along the structure.
Indicator lights flickered occasionally.
Brief.
Floor sensors increased sensitivity.
Each step sent clearer feedback.
A faint vibration traveled upward from the soles.
A new line appeared on the white recording board:
"Continuous Recording."
Handwriting neat.
Ink still dark.
—
At first, students only felt—
time had become longer.
After training ended,
they were not dismissed.
The timer reached zero.
"00:00" paused for a moment.
Then the next segment began immediately.
Numbers reset.
Countdown resumed.
Some sat on the floor to rest.
Backs against metal walls.
Cold seeped through fabric.
Sweat cooled rapidly across their backs.
Some leaned against the wall.
Fingers still tingling from ability release.
Slight trembling.
Knuckles pale.
Palms warm.
The night air was cooler.
The air conditioning had not changed.
But body temperature dropped more noticeably.
Sweat evaporated faster.
A thin chill spread across the skin.
Breathing stretched in the open training space.
Inhale.
Exhale.
Some breathed rapidly.
Some deliberately slowed it.
Lighting unchanged.
Still cold white.
Shadows did not lengthen.
Outside, the sky darkened gradually.
Glass reflected the interior light.
Inside—unchanged.
Time compressed into continuous segments.
The first night of training—
no ceremony.
no speech.
no additional explanation.
Only the timer continuing.
Numbers ticking.
Graphs scrolling.
Data on the screen appeared more pronounced than during the day.
Fatigue accumulated.
Shoulders sank slightly.
Posture no longer straight.
Leg reactions slowed.
Jump timing lagged.
Heart rate increased.
Chest movement widened.
Mental fluctuations intensified.
Some abilities destabilized.
Light wavered slightly during release.
Edges blurred.
Faint fractured streaks flashed through the air.
Some over-released.
Force fields shifted.
Ground trembled.
Metal plates emitted low echoes.
The floor vibrated faintly beneath their feet.
No one called a stop.
No command.
Recording continued.
Keyboard taps remained steady.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
—
Second week.
Night training became default.
When time came, students moved toward the training building naturally.
Faster than the first week.
Results counted.
Training points were added to rankings.
The bulletin board updated:
"Night Training results carry equal weight to standard training."
Bold text.
That line changed the rhythm.
Running appeared in the corridors.
Footsteps struck the ground harder.
The cafeteria closed earlier in the evening.
The sound of utensils being collected came sooner.
Some walked into the training building carrying unfinished meals.
Eating as they moved.
Their throats worked visibly as they swallowed.
Some returned after treating wounds in the dorms.
Bandages loosely wrapped.
Edges uneven.
Blood seeping faintly through.
Night fell.
Outside—black.
The field lights were off.
Distant buildings blurred into silhouettes.
Inside—still bright.
Metal equipment reflected cold light.
Shadows of people flickered across surfaces.
Sweat dripped onto the floor.
Tap.
Quickly wiped away.
Moisture traces remained briefly.
Gone within seconds.
Occasionally, mistakes occurred.
Ability deviation.
Directional misalignment.
Release angle exceeded limits.
Explosion.
Air burst open.
Cracks appeared on the wall.
Fragments fell.
By the next day—repaired.
Walls restored.
No announcement.
But the curve remained.
That peak stayed clearly marked on the chart.
Peak values highlighted.
White coats spoke quietly.
"More samples."
"Greater fluctuation at night."
"Lower thresholds."
Flat tone.
Like discussing numbers.
—
Third week.
Night training was no longer just extended time.
Test windows were introduced.
23:00.
The digital clock flipped.
"23:00."
Lighting dimmed by one level.
Brightness reduced.
Shadows deepened slightly.
Not for rest—
but to simulate fatigue conditions.
Floor sensors synchronized.
Indicator lights changed color.
Students lined up.
Formation precise.
Spacing fixed.
No conversation.
Throats dry.
Faint shadows under the eyes.
Blood vessels visible in the whites.
Shoulders lowered.
Fingers still trembling.
Testing began.
Numbers called.
Steps forward.
Ability release.
Air compressed.
Eardrums vibrated faintly.
Light bent.
Peripheral vision distorted slightly.
Data spiked.
Curves surged upward.
Some exceeded daytime peaks.
Values crossed previous lines.
Some briefly lost control.
Trajectories deviated.
Fields destabilized.
Air oscillated within space.
Pressure built in the ears.
Chest vibrated.
Recording panels refreshed rapidly.
Numbers rolled.
"Continue."
A unified command.
Flat tone.
No reassurance.
No encouragement.
Only continuation.
When night training ended—
it was near midnight.
The digital clock shifted slowly.
Corridor lights still on.
Light evenly spread across the floor.
Students exited the building.
Steps slower than daytime.
Feet dragging slightly.
Wind came across the field.
Cold.
Sweat chilled instantly.
Carrying the scent of grass.
Some looked up.
The sky—pitch black.
Stars sparse.
Breathing became clear in the night.
Most dorm windows were already dark.
Theirs had just turned off.
Wristband notification sounded.
Recording ended.
—
Next day.
Classes as usual.
Bell on time.
Mathematics.
Language.
History.
Pages turned in unison.
Chalk scraped across the board.
Fine dust drifted down.
Some blinked more often.
Some lowered their heads longer.
No one mentioned night training.
The classroom remained quiet.
But report sheets changed.
Night data listed separately.
Font slightly smaller than standard data.
Rankings adjusted.
Numbers shifted.
Gaps widened.
A new chart appeared on the bulletin board.
Night training participation rate—
bar graph rising.
Night data growth—
curve trending upward.
A new honor badge:
"Night Reinforcement."
Edges gleaming.
Engraving sharp.
Medals reflected small points of light.
Some paused to look.
Then left.
No one questioned it.
Because results counted.
Night training course launched.
Elite reinforcement.
Voluntary participation.
Equal weighting.
Honor bonuses.
Training under fatigue conditions.
Observation at the edge of mental thresholds.
Expanding intensity within tolerable limits.
Deviation written as "fluctuation."
Injury written as "error."
Night became a condition.
Students became participants.
The system ran smoothly.
Access control stable.
Data uploaded in real time.
Curves aligned neatly.
Data increased steadily.
Reports trended upward.
The lighting remained cold white.
At night—
the training room doors closed automatically.
"Beep."
Locked.
At exactly midnight,
the recording system completed archiving.
The progress bar filled.
The last line remained on screen for a moment:
"Night Training Record Complete."
White light reflected off the display.
Then—
it went dark.