Dawn bled across Mammoth City like molten steel poured over glass towers. The clang of metal echoed through the sprawling dojo grounds, mixing with the roar of mechanized training rigs and hydraulic lifts. Heat shimmered from polished alloy floors. Sparks rained from a chamber where men wrestled with machines built to break them.
Zander followed Sensei Slade through the great iron archway into Drayden's dominion. Drayden stood shirtless at the center of it all, veins like cables, his skin marked with faint metallic scars — signs of countless augmentations fused long ago.
He gripped a massive pillar made of reinforced alloy. Around him, half a dozen disciples strained under similar loads, their feet digging into the metal flooring. With a grunt that cracked the air, Drayden lifted the pillar clean over his head — then hurled it aside as if it were driftwood. The room fell silent. "That," Drayden said, turning toward them, his voice the sound of an avalanche that knew exactly where it wanted to fall, "is control." He looked at Zander with a faint grin. "Welcome to the Furnace."
The Morning Trials The first trial began with the Magnet Walls — panels that pulled against the body with crushing, shifting gravity. Zander's limbs trembled as he forced himself through, every step like walking against a hurricane. Drayden's voice thundered over the intercom. "Don't fight the field — feel it! Strength isn't only how much you can lift. It's how much you can endure without losing yourself!"
By the third round, sweat soaked through Zander's training suit. His muscles screamed, nanofibers in the fabric glowing faint blue as they redistributed strain. He staggered forward, teeth gritted — and somewhere in the agony, his senses began to sharpen. He could feel the chaotic, swirling currents of the magnetic field not as a wall, but as individual threads of force. He could feel the vibrations running through the magnetized plates, a hum that changed in pitch near the weak points.
He pressed his palms against the wall — and with a sudden push of will, found a seam in the current and slipped through like water through a break in stone. Drayden's brows lifted. "Good. He listens to his body, not just his pride." Sensei Slade watched from the catwalk above, arms folded. "He feels more than he knows. That will be both his weapon and his curse."
The Shockwave Cannon By midday, Zander stood in a circular chamber lined with black plating. In the center, a squat machine pulsed with blue light — a Shockwave Cannon. The other disciples had struggled to withstand two blasts. Drayden crossed his arms. "Let's see what you're made of, boy." The cannon whined—then fired. A concussive blast slammed into Zander, hurling him backward. His chest burned. His ears rang. He staggered up, his breath ragged. The second blast came before he'd fully risen—but this time, something shifted. He didn't just hear the vibration; he felt the pressure wave building in the air, a split-second of dense, compressed energy before the blast was even unleashed. He shifted his stance, braced his core—and when it hit, he pushed against it, becoming an anchor against the storm. The blast broke around him like wind against a mountain. Drayden's lips parted slightly. "Again." Ten blasts later, the floor beneath Zander's feet was scorched — but he was still standing, trembling, a breathless, triumphant laugh escaping his lips. His hands felt alive with sensation. He could sense it all—every particle in the air, every vibration in the floor. It wasn't sight or sound; it was touch in a new dimension. Sensei Slade descended from the catwalk. "Do you feel it now?" Zander nodded weakly. "Everything. It's like… I can feel the world breathing." "Good," Slade said. "Then learn its rhythm. Pain is the conductor."
The Synthetic Beasts Weeks bled into one another. Days filled with agony, nights with exhaustion. Every morning, Drayden's drills grew crueler, moving to the Synthetic Beasts: constructs of muscle, steel, and programmed hostility. They lunged, clawed, and attacked with the fury of predators. Zander's body hardened. He began to move with an instinct that bypassed thought. One day, a beast cornered him. It roared, releasing a sonic pulse meant to disrupt balance—but Zander only smiled. He could feel the air shift, the vibrations of the sonic wave dancing around its core. He pivoted, ducked under a swipe, and drove his fist into a joint in its metallic hide he had sensed was weaker. Metal cracked. Drayden slammed his fist into his palm. "That's it! Stop thinking! Let the fire in your bones move you!" When the fight ended, Zander stood in the center of the wreckage, chest heaving, his balance perfect. The 24th chromosome was no longer whispering; it was beginning to sing.
The Clash of Ideals That evening, Drayden and Sensei stood watching as Zander trained under the night sky. Their voices were low but sharp, like blades drawn in quiet rooms. "You're pushing him too fast," Slade said. "He's a scalpel, not a sledgehammer." Drayden snorted. "You've coddled him too long. You can't cut through starship armor with a scalpel. Power without pressure is just wasted flesh." "And flesh without a mind to guide it is just a monster," Slade countered. "If you break him now, you may lose the very thing that makes him special." Drayden's eyes flickered toward Zander. "You think I don't see that spark? He's meant to burn. My job is to give him a fire hot enough to forge him into a star." Slade's reply was quiet. "Feed the fire, Drayden. But do not let it consume him."
The Rivalry Two months in, Zander was a different person. But strength drew eyes—and envy. Ryker, one of Drayden's finest at Stage 6, approached him on the sparring platform. "You're Slade's pet project," Ryker said, voice dripping with disdain. "Let's see if you deserve the attention." Drayden's gaze slid from his perch. "Approved. Arena match. Controlled output." The ring sealed. Ryker moved first—a blur of clean, brutal power. But as the blows came faster, Zander's instincts awoke. His enhanced touch guided him, feeling the tremors in the air before each hit. He countered—slipped under a punch, pivoted, and drove his elbow into Ryker's ribs. The crowd gasped. Ryker snarled, unleashing his Martial Art: Titan Rush. The floor quaked. But Zander felt the rhythm and stepped through the vibrations, his own technique forming fluidly. His Heavenbreaker Riptide met Ryker's chest with a low hum, and Ryker was sent sliding backward, carving grooves into the floor. When the ring powered down, both stood panting, but Zander had not fallen. Drayden nodded once. "Respect is earned, not given." Ryker stared, then extended a hand. "You're not bad, kid. Maybe you're more than just Slade's shadow."
That night, they shared a meal in the city. Zander, Ryker, and a few other disciples. For the first time in months, Zander felt normal. Human.
He laughed as Ryker told a crude story, the sound echoing in the neon-lit streets. "...and then Drayden tells him, 'The pillar is not your enemy, it's your attitude!'" Ryker boomed, and the group erupted in laughter.
As they wandered through a quieter district, the sound of their camaraderie a warm bubble in the cool night air, a faint hum touched Zander's senses. It was a vibration too steady, too deliberate to be part of the city's normal rhythm. His smile faded. "Hey, guys, I… I need to use the restroom," he said, forcing a casual tone. "You head on. I'll catch up as soon as I can." Ryker clapped him on the shoulder. "Alright, don't take all night. We'll meet you back at the dojo. Don't get lost." As their laughter faded down the street, Zander turned, his focus narrowing.
He followed the vibration through a narrow, dark alley. The air grew colder. Metal pipes lined the walls, humming faintly. The pulse grew stronger—a mechanical heartbeat buried deep beneath the city. Then he saw it—a hidden maintenance hatch, half-covered by rust and shadows. It wasn't marked, but he could feel the low-level electromagnetic field humming behind it, a frequency that felt both alien and strangely familiar. His hand hovered above the latch, his enhanced touch tingling with the energy radiating from the metal. For a second, the world seemed to still—the distant sounds of the city fading into static.
He took a breath. And pulled the hatch open.
A rush of cold air escaped — and faint, flickering light spilled from below.