Invincible Academy: My Invincible Childhood Friend Is Too Loved by Everyone - A 280-kilogram grip strength and a lie that gets found out immediately

The gymnasium in October smelled of sweat and disinfectant. The physical fitness tests had started that morning, and they were already into the third hour. The first-year Class 3 students stood in neat rows across the floor of Gymnasium One. Autumn sunlight slanted in through the windows near the ceiling. "Next, grip strength. Boys first, in order." The phys-ed teacher gave the instruction with a weary tone, clipboard in hand, recording paper clipped to it. Mark Grayson waited toward the back of the line for his turn. His short, curly black hair had bedhead again today. His round, deep-brown eyes darted around restlessly. (Samantha... is she gonna be okay?) His gaze landed on Samantha Clarke, standing in the girls' line. Her bright chestnut hair was tied back with a large ribbon, and she wore her usual smile. The slender wrist emerging from her reinforced uniform sleeve looked impossibly delicate. Last night, an anonymous message had arrived on Mark's phone. "Samantha Clarke's measurements will be reported to the Bureau. Her power can no longer be hidden." The words wouldn't leave his head. "Grayson, you're up." "Uh—oh, yes sir!" Mark hurriedly grabbed the grip dynamometer. The cold feel of metal. He wrapped his fingers around it and squeezed. "42.5." An unremarkable number. Mark felt a little relieved. (Normal. Normal is fine for me.) But Samantha was different. Her turn was approaching. The girls' line crept forward. Samantha was chatting and laughing with the girl in front of her. Even under the gym's fluorescent lights, that smile looked bright. "Next, Clarke." Samantha stepped up to the dynamometer. And in that moment, Mark saw it. Samantha's right hand was trembling, just slightly. (She's scared.) Something tightened deep in Mark's chest. Samantha slowly closed her hand around the dynamometer. Her slender fingers wrapped around the metal grip. The digital numbers leaped. 50. 100. 150. "...Huh?" 200. 250. The air in the gymnasium stopped. 280. Crack! Sparks flew. The grip of the dynamometer shattered from the inside out. Metal fragments hit the floor and clattered across it. "Eek!" "W-what was that just now!?" "The dynamometer broke!" A murmur swept through the gym. Every eye stabbed toward Samantha. Samantha stood frozen, still holding the shattered dynamometer. "...Oh my." A small sound slipped from her lips. And then, she smiled. "Oh dear, oh dear. It broke. This dynamometer must have been old." Her usual melting smile. But Mark could tell. Samantha's hand was still shaking. And the trembling was growing, more and more. "Hey, didn't it read 280?" "I saw it, I saw it! Isn't that insane?" "Samantha's in the powered-admissions track, after all." "So that strength really is the real deal." The whispers spread like a wave. Samantha's smile grew stiffer, bit by bit. Mark's body moved before his mind could catch up. "H-hey, wait!" Mark jumped out in front of Samantha. "That was a faulty device! I was watching! The needle was off from the start!" His voice rang through the gym. "Grip dynamometers go haywire when they get old, right? Those sparks just now—that was the internal wiring shorting out!" Mark was desperate. (Come on, everyone, believe me.) "Samantha's just a normal girl. She happened to squeeze it and it broke—the number doesn't mean anything. Right, Samantha?" Mark turned back toward Samantha. Samantha's eyes were wide. "...Mark." "I-it's fine. I'll explain it properly." Mark grabbed Samantha's wrist. So thin. Bony, but warm. "Hey, Grayson. What makes you so sure it was faulty?" The teacher's voice was cold. "There's a spare measuring device. We'll re-measure." The blood drained from Mark's face. "N-no, but, that spare might be old too..." "It's a new device. We just bought it last month." The teacher pulled a brand-new dynamometer from a box. "Clarke, measure again." Samantha gently loosened Mark's grip on her hand. "It's all right, Mark. Thank you." Samantha took the new dynamometer. And squeezed. 280. The digital numbers showed the same value. This time, it didn't break. The entire gymnasium went silent. "...So it really is 280." With that one word, the murmuring returned. "Man, Grayson, you were trying way too hard." "He said the needle was off, but it's digital." "He just wanted to protect Samantha. How cute." Laughter came from all around. Mark's face went bright red all at once. (Dammit, my lie got exposed.) His ears burned with embarrassment. But Samantha's trembling had grown smaller than before. "Mark, your face is bright red. You're making such a funny face." Samantha giggled. "S-shut up! Don't laugh!" "Oh, I'm not laughing. I just thought it was a little heartwarming." "That's the same thing!" Mark's retort made the students around them laugh too. The tension from moments ago seemed to ease, just a little. (But the number was recorded.) Mark watched the teacher write "280" on the recording sheet. A report to the Anomaly Bureau. It was starting to feel real. "Samantha Clarke." Suddenly, a clear voice rang through the gymnasium. Every gaze turned toward the entrance. Standing there was a girl. Her platinum blonde ringlets gleamed, reflecting the gymnasium lights. Cold violet-blue eyes. Impeccably arranged hair. She held an expensive-looking folding fan, hiding her mouth behind it. The St. Orchid Girls' Academy uniform. A deep navy blazer over a white blouse. Not a single millimeter of her skirt pleats was out of place. "Who is that?" "Isn't that the St. Orchid uniform?" "Wait, why is she here?" As the whispers spread, the girl walked slowly forward. The click of her heels echoed across the gymnasium floor. "How do you do. I am Cecil Stedman. Third year at St. Orchid Girls' Academy, and vice president of the student council." Cecil stood before Samantha and gave an elegant bow. "Today I've come to observe the fitness tests as the liaison for the exchange program." The exchange program. A student-exchange initiative between Central High and St. Orchid Girls' Academy. Cecil was its coordinator, and she had been present at today's measurements in that capacity. "Samantha Clarke. I was watching your measurement just now." Cecil's violet-blue eyes fixed on Samantha. "Two hundred eighty kilograms. What a magnificent number. I've been wanting to meet someone like you for the longest time." Cecil closed her fan and smiled brightly. "I'd like to invite you to my party, Samantha. I've been searching for a girl like you." "A party?" Samantha tilted her head. "Yes. A small gathering I host. A wonderful affair where St. Orchid students and Central High students mingle." "Oh, that sounds fun. Though it'd be even more fun if we all put on a festival together." Samantha answered at her own pace. "My, a festival. How lovely. But my party is far more special. I want to invite someone special—like you." Cecil held out a business-card-sized card to Samantha. A pure white card, with "Cecil Stedman" embossed in gold foil. "This is your invitation. Please do come." "Oh, what a beautiful card. Thank you." Samantha accepted the card innocently. Mark watched the exchange closely from beside her. (Something's off about this girl.) Cecil's smile was perfect. But her eyes weren't smiling. Her violet-blue eyes were sizing Samantha up, observing her slowly from top to bottom, as if appraising merchandise. "Um, Cecil?" Mark found himself speaking up. "Yes?" Cecil turned toward Mark. In that instant, Mark's breath caught. The moment Cecil's eyes landed on him, the temperature dropped. A cold stare, as if looking at an insect. "N-nothing, it's just—Samantha's a powered individual, and controlling her strength is hard, so if she went to a party or something, she might break something..." "Oh, don't worry. My party venue is quite spacious. Besides, I will take responsibility for controlling Samantha's power myself." Cecil didn't spare Mark even a glance, smiling only at Samantha. "Samantha, I'll be waiting for you. Oh-ho-ho-ho!" Leaving her high laugh behind, Cecil departed the gymnasium. The sound of her heels faded into the distance. "...What was that about, that girl?" "She was pretty. Very 'young lady of means.'" "Did you see her eyes? It felt like she was appraising you or something." "Oh, really? I thought she seemed like a perfectly kind person." Samantha tucked the invitation into her uniform pocket. (That Cecil girl is definitely up to something.) A gritty unease spread through Mark's chest. The measurements ended, and they returned to the classroom. The classroom at lunch was wrapped in its usual clamor. But Mark could tell. The air was different around Samantha. "Hey, Samantha really is a powered individual, huh." "280 kilos is insane, isn't it?" "That dynamometer really did break, huh." Whispers meant to be overheard. Samantha sat at her usual seat by the window. Her usual smile. But Mark could see it. Samantha's right hand was unconsciously crushing the edge of the textbook on her desk. The reinforced plastic cover was dented in the shape of her fingers. "Samantha." Mark sat down in the seat beside her. "Hm? What is it, Mark?" Samantha turned to him with a smile. "...No, it's nothing." He had to say something. But the words wouldn't come. (You didn't do anything wrong. You're just strong. What's wrong with that?) All kinds of words floated through his head. But none of them made it out of his mouth. "Mark, your face is scary." "It's not scary!" "Oh my, what a furrowed brow. You're thinking about something again, aren't you." "I'm not thinking!" "Liar. You always show everything on your face, Mark." Samantha giggled. That smile seemed just a little weaker than usual. After school. Mark had come to the Rosemary Café with Samantha. A three-minute walk from Central High's front gate. A long-established café founded in 1978. Thirty-two seats. Famous for its mille-crepe and omurice. Mark and Samantha were regulars. "Welcome, Mark, Samantha." The owner, Margaret Horn, greeted them with a smile from behind the counter. A sixty-eight-year-old woman with white hair. The apron suited her perfectly. "Margaret, two mille-crepes, a coffee, and a tea." "Coming right up." The two sat at their usual window table. Photos of regular customers decorated the interior. There was even a photo of Samantha as a little girl. A small girl laughing in a park. The same smile she had now. "Haah, I'm tired." Samantha slumped onto the table. "Hey, your reinforced uniform's gonna dent the table." "It's fine, at this level." "'At this level'—with your strength, I can't trust 'this level.'" "Oh, how rude. I'm properly holding back." "You weren't holding back on today's dynamometer." When Mark said it, Samantha went a little quiet. "...That was because I was nervous. I'm bad under pressure." "There's no 'pressure' in a grip test." "There is. Measuring in front of everyone makes my heart pound like crazy." Samantha puffed out her cheeks. Margaret brought over the mille-crepes and drinks. "Here you go, sorry for the wait. Samantha, did something happen today?" "Huh? Why?" "Just a feeling. You looked a little down." Margaret had noticed the change in Samantha with her years of intuition. "...I broke the dynamometer during the fitness test." Samantha said it quietly. "Oh my, you did it again. You've always been bad at controlling your strength." Margaret smiled gently. "But Samantha, you're not at fault. Being strong isn't your fault." "...Thank you, Margaret." Samantha's voice trembled a little. Margaret said nothing more and returned to the counter. "Mark." Samantha spoke while cutting her mille-crepe with a fork. "Hm?" "Thank you for today. For covering for me." Something warm spread deep in

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Episode 3

Name: Invincible Academy: My Invincible Childhood Friend Is Too Loved by Everyone
Author: Novelia

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