THE GENIUS WHO COULD SEE SKILL EVOLUTION

The first thing Oliver Grant learned about being ordinary was that nobody considered it a 

tragedy.

They considered it a fact.

It was written on examination sheets, whispered in training halls and occasionally delivered with the sort of sympathetic smile people reserved for those who had disappointed them without doing anything particularly wrong.

Ordinary.

It was an unremarkable word, yet Oliver had spent most of his seventeen years discovering how many different ways people could use it to describe him.

He wasn’t stupid. His grades were respectable, his attendance was nearly perfect, and he possessed enough physical coordination to avoid embarrassing himself during practical examinations.

Unfortunately, none of those qualities mattered very much in a society that had spent the last century measuring human potential through supernatural ability.

Awakening had changed everything.

Approximately a hundred and twenty years earlier, the first documented energy manifestations had appeared across the world. What began as isolated incidents of extraordinary physical phenomena gradually developed into an established field of science, military application and professional competition.

People awakened abilities.

Some could manipulate heat. Others possessed extraordinary sensory perception, spatial distortion, kinetic reinforcement or the ability to influence the properties of physical matter.

There were thousands of documented abilities, each classified according to its usefulness, complexity and developmental potential.

Children were tested for their compatibility from the age of twelve.

By sixteen, most had undergone their first awakening.

And by eighteen, those with exceptional talent were already being recruited by prestigious academies and professional organisations.

Oliver had awakened at fifteen.

His ability was called Minor Enhancement.

It allowed him to reinforce a small portion of his body with a thin layer of condensed energy.

The enhancement improved strength, durability and physical stability, although the improvements were modest.

He could reinforce his forearm enough to withstand a wooden training baton.

He could strengthen his legs sufficiently to jump slightly higher than an ordinary person.

He could even reinforce his knuckles, although doing so for extended periods resulted in considerable fatigue.

It was useful.

It was also painfully unremarkable.

“You’re doing it again.”

Oliver glanced sideways.

His best friend, Daniel Hayes, stood beside him with his hands tucked into the pockets of his academy jacket.

Daniel had the irritating habit of appearing whenever Oliver was thinking too much.

“Doing what?”

“Looking like someone has informed you that your entire family has been sentenced to prison.”

“I was thinking.”

“That’s considerably worse.”

Oliver rolled his eyes.

They were standing outside the western training complex of Westbridge Academy, watching several students demonstrate their abilities on the outdoor platforms.

A girl with silver hair moved between suspended metal discs, leaving brief distortions in the air wherever she stepped.

Another student produced small spheres of concentrated flame and launched them against a reinforced target.

The resulting explosion rattled the viewing platform.

Daniel whistled.

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Her ability is classified as high-output thermal manipulation.”

“Thank you, Professor Grant.”

“You’re welcome.”

Daniel grinned.

Unlike Oliver, he possessed a genuinely impressive ability.

His awakening had produced something known as Kinetic Redirection.

Essentially, Daniel could redirect a portion of the physical force applied to his body.

A punch could be redirected into the ground.

A fall could be converted into forward momentum.

With sufficient concentration, he could even alter the trajectory of small projectiles.

It wasn’t an overwhelmingly powerful ability, but it had enormous practical applications.

More importantly, Daniel understood how to use it.

He had spent the previous two years developing techniques that allowed him to compensate for his relatively modest energy reserves.

Oliver admired him.

He also occasionally hated how effortlessly Daniel seemed to make everything look.

“You’re coming to the assessment tomorrow, right?” Daniel asked.

“Obviously.”

“Good. I’ve decided we’re both getting into the advanced combat programme.”

“Have you?”

“Naturally.”

“You realise they select students based on performance?”

Daniel looked offended.

“Are you suggesting I might not perform well?”

“I’m suggesting you shouldn’t make plans on behalf of other people.”

“Fine. I’ll get in, and you can watch from the stands.”

Oliver laughed.

It was a familiar exchange.

They had known each other since primary school, long before either of them had awakened. Daniel had once broken his wrist attempting to jump over a drainage ditch because he was convinced that a slightly running start would make him fly.

Oliver had accompanied him to the hospital.

Daniel had subsequently blamed Oliver for not providing adequate encouragement.

Some friendships developed through extraordinary experiences.

Theirs had developed through years of remarkably stupid decisions.

“Come on,” Daniel said, checking his watch. “Your mother said dinner was at seven.”

Oliver frowned.

“How do you know?”

“She invited me.”

“Again?”

“Your mother likes me.”

“She likes everyone.”

“Not true. She told me my handwriting looked like evidence from a criminal investigation.”

“That’s because it does.”

Daniel laughed.

They left the training complex together.

Neither of them noticed the instructor standing on the second-floor balcony, observing the departing students.

The Grant residence was a modest two-storey house situated in the older section of Westbridge.

It wasn’t particularly impressive, but Oliver had always liked it.

The front garden was poorly maintained, the kitchen window had a crack that his father had 

promised to repair for nearly six months, and the living room contained a sofa that had clearly survived several generations of unfortunate decisions.

It was home.

And that was enough.

“You’re late.”

Oliver’s mother stood in the kitchen doorway.

Eleanor Grant was a relatively small woman with dark brown hair and an expression that suggested she had spent years negotiating with people who were considerably less reasonable than she was.

She was holding a wooden spoon.

Oliver raised both hands.

“By four minutes.”

“Five.”

“The clock is fast.”

“The clock is correct.”

Daniel stepped forward.

“Good evening, Mrs Grant.”

Her expression immediately softened.

“Daniel, sweetheart. You’re looking thin.”

Oliver stared at her.

“He eats more than I do.”

“Then perhaps you should eat more.”

Daniel smiled triumphantly.

Oliver considered leaving.

His father appeared from the dining room, carrying a plate.

“Your mother has decided we’re feeding the entire neighbourhood tonight.”

“Only two extra portions,” Eleanor replied.

“Three. I counted.”

“Then perhaps you should stop counting.”

Arthur Grant was a maintenance technician employed by one of the city’s energy 

infrastructure companies.

He was a broad-shouldered man approaching fifty, with prematurely grey hair and hands that carried the permanent marks of mechanical work.

His ability, Minor Thermal Regulation, was useful for his occupation.

It allowed him to manipulate small temperature differences between connected surfaces.

He could cool overheated machinery, prevent certain components from freezing and identify dangerous fluctuations in industrial equipment.

It had never made him wealthy.

It had, however, kept him employed for almost twenty-five years.

Oliver had inherited neither his father’s practical confidence nor his mother’s patience.

“How was training?” Arthur asked.

“Fine.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It was ordinary.”

Arthur placed the plate down.

“Ordinary isn’t necessarily bad.”

Oliver shrugged.

His father studied him for a moment.

“Assessment tomorrow?”

“Yes.

“Good luck.”

“Thanks.”

Arthur nodded.

He didn’t offer an inspirational speech.

He didn’t tell Oliver that he was destined for greatness.

He simply returned to the kitchen to help his wife.

Oliver found that he preferred it that way.

Dinner was noisy.

Daniel told an exaggerated story about an incident involving a training dummy, a misplaced technique and an instructor who had subsequently threatened to deduct his disciplinary points.

Eleanor laughed so hard she nearly spilled her drink.

Arthur pretended to disapprove while quietly encouraging the story to become increasingly ridiculous.

For a few hours, Oliver forgot about his assessment.

He forgot about rankings, talent classifications and the students who seemed to have been born with extraordinary abilities.

He was simply a boy eating dinner with the people he loved.

Later, when Daniel had gone home, Oliver found his father sitting in the living room.

Arthur looked at him.

“Sit down.”

Oliver did.

For a moment, neither spoke.

Then his father asked, “Are you worried about tomorrow?”

“A little”.“Why?”

Oliver considered the question.

“Because I know what they’re expecting.”

“And what do you expect?”

“To pass.”

Arthur nodded.

“Then that’s enough for tomorrow.”

Oliver wondered what it would feels to be classified among the exceptional students.

“Do you ever regret your ability?” he asked.

Arthur looked at his hands.

“Sometimes.”

Oliver turned.

“Really?”

“Of course. When I was younger, I wanted something more impressive. Something that would make people look at me differently.”

“What happened?”

“I got older.”

Arthur smiled.

"The world is full of people trying to become extraordinary. There’s nothing wrong with wanting that, but you shouldn’t spend your entire life treating what you already have as a disappointment.”

Oliver remained silent.

His father leaned back.

“You’re allowed to want more, son”.

Oliver nodded.

He wasn’t entirely convinced.

But he remembered his words.