Karnell's underground chamber buzzed with quiet tension. The training hall was a cold, metallic dome buried deep beneath the snow-choked surface, its walls lined with observation glass and armored surveillance orbs. Here, children bled, broke, and sometimes died—not for glory, but for usefulness.
Officer Bernard Vaul stood with arms crossed behind his back. A man in his late thirties, with square shoulders and a permanent sneer, he was a seasoned combat instructor assigned to evaluate genetic activation through direct combat pressure. Today, his attention was fixated on one subject.
"AB-774. Step forward."
The boy obeyed without hesitation. Only five years old, his pale skin and shaved scalp made him look almost spectral beneath the sterile lights. Around him, the older children—some towering over him by years—watched with detached interest, others with the gleam of cruelty.
Bernard's eyes flicked to another child standing across from AB-774.
"Your opponent will be R-129. Seven years old. He's shown early signs of cognitive acceleration and short-range precognition. Let's see how the AB freak handles it."
R-129 stepped forward confidently. His lean frame radiated twitchy energy, and his silver eyes flickered as if reading the future a half-second ahead. A sneer stretched across his lips.
"I'm not going easy, runt."
The buzzer screamed. R-129 dashed forward—fast. He moved like he knew where AB-774 would dodge. But AB didn't dodge the expected way. He dropped low instead of sidestepping, forcing R-129 to stumble past.
He was observing. Calculating.
AB-774 didn't have enhanced reflexes or foresight. But he'd spent every waking hour absorbing knowledge, watching movements, and memorizing patterns. He feinted left, then quickly rolled right—using R-129's predictability against him.
The room went quiet.
Even the twins, S-410 and S-411, usually cold and unreadable, narrowed their eyes in interest. O-243 leaned forward, his expression hard, thoughtful—grudgingly impressed. He was fifteen now, and the unofficial leader of his chamber. He'd been watching AB for a while.
R-129 was getting irritated.
"You think tricks can help you, freak?"
The next strike came fast. R-129's palm struck AB's shoulder, sending the younger boy skidding across the mat. His bones rattled. His lip split. But he didn't cry out. He stood, slightly swaying. Calculating again.
Bernard watched carefully.
AB-774 launched forward—his body too small to deliver real damage. His tiny fist aimed for R-129's gut. But it was just a feint. The real attack was the fall—he stumbled deliberately, knocking into R-129's foot and causing the older boy to lose his footing briefly.
Then AB's fist struck—not the body, but the pressure point behind the knee.
It did no damage. But it startled R-129 enough to make him angry.
The retaliation was brutal. A spinning kick connected with AB's side. He dropped, unmoving. The buzzer rang.
Match over.
Bernard took a long drag from his vapor cigar and exhaled slowly. "Tch. The boy's got brains. But bare hands against genetic acceleration? Ridiculous."
Still, as he turned to log the results, he paused. That boy knew exactly where to strike. He calculated everything. He just doesn't have the strength yet…
Around the arena, murmurs spread.
Y-271, the gentle girl with healing potential, winced sympathetically.
The twins didn't speak, but S-410 whispered something to her brother that made him smirk.
O-243 stood silently, arms crossed. Watching.
The hierarchy was shifting.
As AB-774 was carried off the mat by two expressionless guards, the faint trail of blood from his lip marked the polished training floor. Yet even unconscious, there was no fear etched on his face. Only silence. A deep, hollow silence that unnerved some of the watching children.
"He didn't scream," Y-271 whispered to herself. She sat on the bench near the observation pane, hands folded tightly in her lap. She was six now, still the same kind-hearted girl who never failed to offer comfort where she could. "He never even flinched."
"Of course he didn't," muttered S-411, leaning against the wall with arms crossed. "That one doesn't feel. He's always watching, but never reacting."
S-410 added coolly, "He's calculating every move. He fights like a corpse that learned to think."
They didn't say it as praise, nor as insult. Just a statement of truth. The twins, now nine, had long since become dominant in their own chamber. Their telepathic link and flare for mindfire made them dangerous—and unnervingly synchronized.
At the far end of the chamber, O-243 stood beside Officer Bernard, pretending to not be listening.
"He's the AB type, isn't he?" he finally asked. "AB-774."
Bernard didn't look at him. "Yeah."
"What's your evaluation?"
"He's smart. Too smart. But not dangerous yet." The officer's tone was clipped. "Brains don't mean much if you can't hit hard enough to break bones."
"Yet," O-243 said, almost to himself.
Bernard raised an eyebrow.
"He's dangerous," O-243 continued, voice low. "But not like the rest of us. The rest of us burn. He waits. He studies. He's… planting seeds."
Bernard didn't reply, but the thought lingered in his head longer than he expected.
That night, AB-774 sat on the thin, cold bed in his chamber. His side throbbed where R-129 had kicked him, but he didn't touch it. His eyes were fixed on the ceiling, lips unmoving, brain working.
He had made a move today.
It wasn't a loss. Not to him.
The researchers had seen his intelligence. The way he adapted mid-fight. The guards were talking. Even the other codes had shifted slightly in how they looked at him.
Not as a liability.
But as a variable.
A schemer.
He could use that.
In Karnell, survival didn't belong to the strongest or the fastest.
It belonged to the most useful.
Elsewhere, within the elevated lab chamber above the training dome, a silent recording played the match on loop. In the shadows, a figure stood behind the glass.
Scoff Karios, the head of Project Dominion, arms folded behind his back, watched AB-774's performance for the fifth time. His grey eyes were unreadable, his expression unmoved.
Beside him, Kaios Verma, masked and hunched, muttered in his gravelly voice, "Weak body. But his neurons fire in patterns we've rarely seen. Did you see how he mapped R-129's movement three steps ahead?"
Scoff gave no reply.
Instead, he turned to a nearby screen and highlighted AB-774's profile.
Status: Non-Activated.
Type: AB.
Observation Priority: Increased.
He tapped a command on the control panel.
"Tag him for further monitoring. And restrict unnecessary exposure to physical trials for the next month. His development will take a different path."
Kaios tilted his head. "Are you preparing him?"
Scoff said nothing.
But the screen blinked once.
SUBJECT AB-774 — PRIMARY CANDIDATE FLAGGED.