Ethan stood in the center of the now-familiar training chamber, arms loose at his sides, hoodie tied around his waist, breath steady.
Across from him, Welt adjusted his glasses, cane in hand, the faint red-violet shimmer of his dimensional field already forming along the bay's perimeter.
"Round two," Welt said, tone measured but not without a faint hint of challenge. "Tonight, we begin pushing your limits properly."
Ethan rolled his shoulders. "So… hell starts now?"
"Let's say the warm-up ends now."
The shimmer spread fully, sealing them once more in the protective bubble. Ethan's skin responded almost instantly—his veins pulsing faintly with gold as the solar energy stirred at his command.
"Let's begin with the basics," Welt continued. "Teleportation first. Two flickers only, with solar reinforcement in the legs to reduce strain."
Ethan nodded, then focused.
The first flicker cracked through the air—a streak of gold and heat as he vanished, reappearing ten meters to the left.
The second—back across the space, feet hitting the floor with barely a sound.
He landed in a crouch, panting just a little. "Strain's lighter now. Legs took most of the recoil."
"Good. Let's keep it there tonight. Overuse will bring diminishing returns."
Welt took a step forward. "Now combine it with the melee charge. Attack, retreat, attack again. Controlled burst."
Ethan's hand ignited with a faint solar shimmer. He launched forward—teleporting in close, charging his palm mid-move, and striking forward in a clean, fluid motion that cracked against the reinforced barrier with a dull boom. Then flick—he reappeared five meters back, legs braced, breath coming hard.
Welt gave a nod. "You're adapting faster than I anticipated. Good. Again."
They repeated the cycle—dashes, charged strikes, short-range teleportation—all under the controlled eye of Welt, who called out adjustments mid-motion. Ethan's body moved sharper, tighter each time—but the weight of the energy still clung to his limbs like molten chains.
Eventually, after several rounds, Welt raised a hand. "Stop."
Ethan staggered slightly, golden light pulsing dimly from his collarbone down to his fingers, sweat dripping off his chin.
"You held your form. Impressive," Welt said. Then, with a tilt of his head: "Now bring up your shield."
Ethan hesitated a second, then inhaled. His hands moved instinctively—palms out, breath drawing inward—and the solar barrier bloomed before him: a faintly curved wall of radiant gold.
Welt circled it, cane tapping the floor. "Do you trust it?"
"I… think so."
"Then let's test that."
Welt's cane flared with his own power, a violet bolt of condensed force lashing out—hitting the barrier dead-on. It shuddered but held.
Welt's second bolt of force struck the solar barrier with a flash, and Ethan held his ground, teeth gritted. The shield trembled, but it didn't break.
"Not bad," Welt said, lowering his cane. "You've clearly improved your control."
The barrier faded with a golden shimmer, and Ethan exhaled hard, sweat glistening along his brow.
"Let's move to foundation work," Welt added, stepping back. "Your energy is powerful, but your body still needs conditioning. That means control, stamina, and pain tolerance."
"Ah," Ethan muttered, rubbing his arms. "So this is the hellish part."
"Indeed," Welt replied, deadpan.
What followed wasn't spectacular—not solar flares or teleportation—but raw, grounded effort.
Push-ups. Sit-ups. Balance drills. Core holds with his arms extended, veins flickering with faint gold as Welt calmly instructed him to hold for ten more seconds. Again. And again. Welt said nothing about his powers—only his posture, his breathing, his limits.
Ethan lost count of how many sets he completed. His body burned with a different kind of heat now—earned, human, exhausting.
When the cargo bay clock clicked past midnight, Welt finally nodded. "That's enough for tonight. Recovery is part of strength too."
Ethan didn't argue. He just stumbled out of the training room with aching legs and burning lungs—and a strange feeling of pride.
Astral Express – Ethan's Room, Late Night
The cabin was quiet, bathed in the soft hum of stars moving past the windows.
Ethan entered slowly, towel slung around his shoulders, hair damp from a quick rinse. He moved toward the corner shelf near his bed, where his personal mementos had begun to gather.
He reached for the dented bobblehead—his grumpy little astronaut—and gave it a gentle tap. Its oversized head wobbled in silent protest.
He sat down on the bed, unfastened the golden coin from around his neck, and held it up to the ceiling light, turning it between his fingers.
Tails. Flip.
Heads.
Flip.
Tails again.
He kept flipping it slowly, humming tunelessly under his breath—something soft, nostalgic, and off-key. His voice was hoarse, tired, and low, but he didn't mind. The tune steadied him more than anything else.
The golden coin caught the light just right—and then slipped through his fingers, landing on the blanket beside him.
Ethan blinked once, then let his head fall back onto the pillow.
Within minutes, sleep took him—quiet and deep, like the weight of stars against a safe ship.
The lounge was filled with the scent of fresh toast and synth-fruit jam. Stelle and March 7th sat on the coffee table, breakfast plates set between them, half-eaten and forgotten in favor of whatever bizarre card game March was enthusiastically explaining.
"No, no, see—you don't just play the Sunfish Queen," March said, wagging her fork like a pointer. "You unleash her. Drama is important."
"She's a fish in a tiara," Stelle said dryly. "She doesn't even have arms."
"She has ambition."
A click sounded from March's camera.
Stelle blinked. "Did you just take a picture of my losing face?"
"I did," March said, flipping the camera around with pride. "It's for the gallery."
Just then, Ethan wandered in, freshly showered, hair still tousled from sleep. "Morning," he mumbled.
"More like afternoon," Stelle teased, offering him a piece of toast.
March beamed. "Good morning, Sunshine."
Ethan narrowed his eyes playfully. "That one's taken."
Click. March snapped another photo. Ethan froze.
"Why do you take so many pictures?" Stelle asked, reaching for her drink. "It's like… every five minutes."
March didn't answer at first.
She glanced at her camera and gently ran a thumb over the lens. "Because I don't remember anything."
Ethan and Stelle exchanged a look.
March continued, voice quieter now. "Before all this, I was stuck in a huge block of ice drifting through space. Himeko and Mr. Yang figured out a way to melt the ice and saved me. Who I am,Where I'm from, my name... it's like everything was erased from my mind. 'March 7th' was the day they found me, so it stuck.
That was it. So… I take pictures. Because if I ever forget again, I'll have proof I existed. That I laughed. That people liked me."
Silence stretched for a second, soft and respectful.
Ethan leaned forward. "That's… a pretty brilliant reason."
Stelle nodded, brushing toast crumbs from her sleeve. "You'll never forget with how many pictures you've taken."
March smiled at them both, bright again—maybe too bright. "Of course not! Anyway, Beautiful girls don't get sad, remember?"
She posed with a peace sign and a grin.
Click.
About an two hours later, the scent of roasted vegetables and warm spices drifted through the air as the doors slid open.
Pom-Pom strutted in, balancing two trays of lunch with a proud little hop in their step. "Special delivery for today's brave Trailblazers!"
Himeko followed, holding her own tray with practiced grace. "Time for a proper meal—and no, cereal doesn't count, March."
March groaned. "You're all against me."
Stelle and Ethan perked up at the arrival of food, just as footsteps echoed in the corridor.
Dan Heng entered, hair still slightly damp, tunic folded neatly at the collar. He gave the group a quiet nod.
"There you are," Ethan said, standing to greet him. "I didn't see another room, so… where've you been sleeping?"
March jumped in before Dan Heng could answer. "Oh! He sleeps in the archive!"
"You turned the archive into a bedroom?" Ethan blinked.
Dan Heng gave a small shrug. "It's quiet. And organized."
"He brought a futon and everything," March added. "Books everywhere. It's weirdly cozy."
Ethan laughed. "I kinda wanna see it now."
March lit up. "Room tour!"
"Room tour?" Stelle raised an eyebrow.
"C'mon," March said, grabbing Ethan and Stelle by the arms. "You've only seen your rooms. You haven't even seen mine yet—prepare to be amazed."
They finished their lunch quickly and then followed March through the Express, laughter echoing as she narrated each hallway like a museum guide. First stop: her room—complete with plushies, string lights, and far too many framed selfies.
Next stop: the archive, where Dan Heng's world came into quiet focus—bookshelves, notes, and soft lighting surrounding a tucked-in futon in the corner.
Ethan nodded in appreciation. "Okay… this is kind of genius."
Dan Heng glanced at him, faintly amused. "Functional."
"You mean aesthetic," March corrected.
The tour continued, laughter and curiosity trailing behind.
And somewhere between the bobblehead on Ethan's shelf and the photo gallery in March's room, the Astral Express had started to feel just a little more like home.
Later
Most of the crew had already wandered off—March returned to decorate her room with a fresh round of glitter stars, and Stelle had gone in search of coffee or mischief (likely both). But Ethan remained.
Dan Heng, seated at his usual spot beneath a warm reading lamp, flipped through a worn volume, taking precise notes in the margins.
Ethan stood by the shelf, fingers brushing the spines of ancient books. Some were labeled in languages he didn't recognize. Others had titles that looked more like equations than names.
"You… read all these?" Ethan asked eventually.
Dan Heng didn't look up. "Most of them."
"Impressive," Ethan murmured. "I thought I was good with data logs and field records back at the Bermuda Triangle station… but this is a different level."
Dan Heng glanced at him now, a flicker of interest behind his calm expression. "Your background was scientific?"
Ethan nodded, easing down into the chair across from him. "My dad ran our research outpost. I tagged along for everything—weather systems, deep-sea anomalies, strange frequencies. It was... structured. Until it wasn't."
A beat passed, mutual understanding settling in like soft dust between old pages.
"Does it help?" Ethan asked quietly. "Reading everything?"
Dan Heng looked toward the shelves. "Sometimes. But more often, it gives me the right questions—so I can learn what to do next."
Ethan leaned back, flipping his golden coin across his knuckles. "That sounds… grounding."
"It is."
The quiet between them wasn't awkward. It was a shared kind of silence—the kind that came from two people who had lived through things that didn't always need words.
Dan Heng resumed his writing, and Ethan stood slowly.
He looked over his shoulder. "Thanks for letting me stay."
Dan Heng simply nodded, then added, "If you ever want to borrow a book, just ask—just steer clear of the ones from the restricted shelf."
Ethan thanked him then left the archive with a strange warmth in his chest—not fire, not sunlight. Just... calm.
Dinner that evening was warm and lively, the dining car filled with clinking plates, drifting laughter, and the occasional groan over Himeko's too-strong coffee. Ethan found a spot between Stelle and March, joining in the conversations like he'd always belonged there. Even Dan Heng, quiet as ever, seemed more at ease.
Afterward, as the crew dispersed for the night, Welt caught Ethan's eye with a nod.
"Tomorrow," he said simply. "After breakfast, we begin."
And they did.
The days that followed blurred into one another—Welt's training was relentless. Early mornings. Late nights. Conditioning drills, energy control, defensive focus. They trained, always pushing, always refining. And Ethan endured it all—aching, adapting, healing.
The burn in his limbs had dulled into strength. The strain didn't vanish—but it no longer controlled him.
He was learning. Slowly, painfully—but surely.