Thirteen Days Later.
The room was dark, save for the faint silver glow radiating from the center.
Wooden floorboards stretched outward in perfect symmetry, aged by decades of footsteps and silent battles. The walls, paneled with deep brown planks, drank the light until the edges of the room faded into blackness. No banners adorned the space, no trophies lined the shelves—only the solemn hush of discipline remained.
In the middle of the dojo, a battered projector stood atop a low pedestal, its casing cracked and dulled from years of use. From it, an image emerged: a humanoid figure, translucent and flickering slightly in the stale air.
The holographic dummy adopted a basic stance, its blade lifted overhead and pointed forward. Its movements were stiff, cycling through a narrow library of preprogrammed techniques—a far cry from the fluid Masters Amir studied.
Amir tightened the worn grip of his training sword, the dull metal heavier in his hand than usual. The blade was real, its weight dragging against his muscles, but it would cut nothing here.
He exhaled, the cool air brushing past his lips, and stepped into range.
The dummy lunged without warning, a jerky thrust aimed at his chest. Amir shifted his stance instinctively, drawing upon Raalun's principles. His sword flicked upward—not to meet the attack head-on, but to catch its trajectory and slip it aside with a whisper of motion.
There was no satisfying clang of steel against steel. No jarring feedback to tell him he had successfully parried, only a soft white pulse of light where the sensors in his blade cut through the hologram and a muted chime from the projector acknowledging a successful parry.
He pressed the attack, each movement sharp, measured. Strikes and parries combined into a seamless rhythm. Every mistake—a missed angle, a slow counter—triggered a brief flicker of red across the dummy's limbs, a silent reminder of failure.
Training here demanded imagination, discipline, vision. Without real resistance, it was easy to grow sloppy, to believe skill had been earned. Amir fought that complacency with every fiber of his being, drilling each technique into muscle memory until thought itself became unnecessary.
A slow momentum built, each motion flowing into the next like music.
He stepped in with a high stab, angled precisely toward the dummy's shoulder. The blade passed clean through, prompting another flash of light. The figure countered with a clumsy horizontal swing—Amir ducked under it, pivoted to the right, and struck at its side with a quick reverse thrust.
It shimmered white.
He advanced, delivering a pair of low feints before launching into a vertical overhead strike. As the dummy raised its blade to intercept, Amir sidestepped and pierced into the opening beneath its arm. Another pulse.
He rotated back, deflecting a retaliatory jab with the flat of his sword, then stepped inside the dummy's guard with a quick attack to bat its sword away—a move designed not to damage, but to dominate positioning. As he turned with the motion, he dropped low, widening his base, and rose with a stab straight through the torso.
The dummy froze mid-animation. The program lagged momentarily, then reset its stance.
And so, in the darkness, Amir danced—one man, one blade, one apparition.
***
An hour and a half later, the sword returned to its sheath with a soft click. Amir controlled his breathing. The warmth from training still coursed through his limbs, his heart a steady drumbeat echoing in his ears.
He stepped toward the projector, wiping a bead of sweat from his brow as the hologram flickered out of existence. The silence that followed felt sacred, earned.
Lowering himself onto the floor, Amir let his body rest while his mind remained sharp. Every parry and counter replayed endlessly in his thoughts, each one just a little more fluid than the last.
Raalun was a defensive art. Counterattacks were its foundation, demanding strict positioning, no wasted motions, and complete awareness. It favored precision over power, putting results ahead of anything else.
Amir aligned with that philosophy, but his reason for choosing Raalun had always been simpler: accessibility. As one of the oldest modern martial arts still in practice, it had an abundance of surviving footage, studies, and simulations—tools that cost nothing but time and effort.
For someone without money, it was everything.
Amir studied the dojo around him. The floorboards that creaked softly with each movement. The dim lighting that barely pushed back the morning shadows. The training space was small, cold in winter, and dusty in the corners, but to Amir, it was sacred ground. He had practically lived here for six years.
Everyday, without exception, he arrived at 06:30 sharp and trained until 08:00. No holidays, no breaks. He had never skipped before—not for sickness, not for exhaustion, and not for heartbreak. Not even when his world collapsed around him.
Amir had started this routine just weeks before his parents had died. It had been his anchor in the aftermath, when everything else had crumbled. Discipline had answered his grief, and the sword became his voice.
Six years later, the ache hadn't dulled, but the purpose had changed. It wasn't about loss anymore. It was about progress—about proving he could outgrow the limits imposed on him by society and by nature.
And he did. By the age of 16, he had reached the Adept level of Raalun. Without formal mentorship, that alone was rare. Beyond that, however, advancement slowed. The higher levels required refined guidance and deeper insight, both of which were luxuries he couldn't afford.
Now, nearly 18, he was still no Master—but he was competent. That was enough. For now.
The rise of martial arts had been strange, yet inevitable.
When the floating cities were built, humanity believed it had escaped extinction. But survival came with limits—space limits, to be exact. Traditional sports were deemed too inefficient, too sprawling. Stadiums and fields were scrapped during construction. Entire generations grew up without ever kicking a ball or diving into a pool.
As global health plummeted and psychological stress levels surged, scientists proposed an unexpected solution: martial arts.
Compact, efficient, and sustainable, martial arts began to fill the physical and emotional voids. Over time, they even evolved into a way of life.
In 2104, Veltrah was developed—the first martial discipline of the modern era. It became the foundation for modern combat systems, fitness regimens, and even therapeutic practices.
Nearly all modern martial arts incorporated elements of Veltrah. This influence was especially evident in Raalun, a discipline created only decades later.
Now, every floating city had several sanctioned training halls as well as numerous commercial dojos. Amir's space belonged to the former.
It sat on the edge of District 9's education sector, inside of an aging school he'd graduated early from two years ago. His access credentials had never been revoked—an administrative oversight no one cared to fix, and one Amir had no intention of correcting.
School was almost ready to start; the early students would begin to arrive soon. Amir would be gone by that time.
***
By 08:30, Amir drifted through the industrial veins of the city, his uniform a pair of scuffed boots, reinforced gloves, and worn overalls. A chipped ID badge sat on the left side of his chest—it used to belong to someone else, but Amir had glued a picture of himself onto the front.
It wouldn't get past any serious scans, but no one checked. They didn't care. Work was work.
His destination was a warehouse on the western fringe of District 9, also called the industrial sector.
Amir arrived fifteen minutes early. The warehouse was half-lit, its flickering overhead strips casting long shadows across the floor. Towering crates were stacked along the walls—unmarked, sealed, and uniformly heavy.
A gritty-looking couple sat on one of the lower crates, their eyes dull, postures slouched. They didn't speak.
Amir ignored them. He chose a crate near the back corner, out of the way, and sat silently, his foot tapping to the rhythm of an old song he couldn't get out of his head.
More workers trickled in over the next ten minutes—some alone, some in loose groups, some clearly still half-asleep. No one greeted anyone else.
At exactly 09:00, a door hissed open with a pneumatic sigh. A woman in a crisp gray blazer stepped out, glasses perched on her nose and a clipboard tucked in her arm. She looked down, cleared her throat, and let the sharp sound carry.
Everyone straightened.
"For the next three hours, you will be moving these crates—" She motioned to the crates that multiple people were now sitting on. "—into this space."
She pulled a small remote from her blouse and clicked it. With a groan of metal, a wall at the far end of the warehouse slid open, revealing a cold, sterile loading bay. Yellow lines crisscrossed the floor, designating loading zones.
A shuttle stood silently in the middle of the bay, its silver-gray shell dull with time. Twin cargo ramps extended from the sides like open jaws, and clamps were attached to the walls, ready to secure freight. The side was emblazoned with the logo of a delivery subcontractor—one of dozens in Ventara.
"You will have one five-minute water break at 10:30. Each crate moved and placed correctly counts as one unit. You will be paid one credit per unit…"
Amir tuned out her voice. He already knew the rest—he'd taken this job dozens of times.
The lady tapped her clipboard, looked at the band on her wrist, and nodded. "Begin."
The group moved slowly at first, still sluggish from sleep, then faster, as the quiet urgency of competition took hold.
Amir didn't rush. He stood, adjusted his gloves, and approached the nearest crate. His fingers traced the seams along its edge—standard metal composite, smooth but cold.
He crouched, centered his weight, and lifted with a clean, practiced motion. His arms tensed, spine straight, knees steady. Step by step, he carried the crate across the warehouse floor. The sound of boots against concrete, of breath and exertion, filled the air.
A man nearby cursed as he lost grip on his load, and a crash echoed. No one paused.
Amir placed the crate within the yellow lines and turned back immediately. No reaction. No celebration. Just more repetition.
Over time, sweat had soaked into the collar of his overalls. His muscles burned, but he kept moving—crate after crate, no hesitation, no complaint. His rhythm was steady, his expression blank.
Others began to slow. Amir didn't. He pushed on.
By the time the alarm chimed three hours later, signaling the end of the shift, Amir had moved 30 crates.
It was the most by any individual.
His body ached, but he kept his breathing calm, standing straight while others leaned against walls or hunched over their knees. Some groaned quietly, and a few plopped down where they stood.
The warehouse floor looked no different than it had three hours ago—just emptier. Most of the crates were gone, transferred to the shuttle, now sealed and humming faintly as it prepared to depart.
The supervisor began making her rounds, her heels tapping sharply against the concrete. Clipboard in hand, she stopped at each worker and group, reading out their unit totals in a dry, clinical tone.
"Fourteen units… twelve… between the three of you, fifty-seven… twenty-two units…"
Most people didn't react. A few grunted. One man swore under his breath when he was told "nine."
Eventually, she reached Amir. She stopped short, brows knitting slightly.
"Thirty units," she stated. Her eyes flicked from her clipboard to Amir, then back down again, checking to make sure the number wasn't a mistake. "All placed correctly. No penalties."
She didn't give any congratulations or thanks. No one ever did.
Instead, she tapped her screen, and a soft ping echoed from Amir's wristband, confirming payment. Thirty credits.
It was enough for three red-grade nutrient solutions.
Amir gave a single nod and stepped aside, letting her continue her route.
Behind him, a few of the other workers muttered quietly. Someone scoffed.
"Guy's not even sweating," one said under their breath.
Amir didn't respond. He flexed his hands, letting the tension roll out of his shoulders, and started toward the exit.
He didn't work for praise or approval. He worked to survive.
Amir didn't waste time; by 12:30, he was already at another job site.
The next job was another manual labor shift at a recycling processing station near the northwestern fringe of District 9, close to the outer edge of Ventara. The job was simpler than hauling crates: stand by the conveyor line, sort through trash, and separate metals from synthetics and synthetics from organics. It didn't strain his body as much, but the stench was almost unbearable.
There were no supervisors here, just swiveling cams that tracked every movement and a wall-mounted terminal tallying every item sorted by each worker. Pay was cut for each mistake.
Amir didn't make mistakes.
By 16:00, the conveyor belts ground to a halt, letting out a sharp hiss as the system powered down. A chime sounded over the intercom, and the terminal blinked his results: 14 credits.
Not great, but it was good enough. Amir would save every credit he could.
Amir wiped his gloves clean on his overalls and started the trek back to his apartment.
Ventara's layout was built through logic. The industrial zone of District 9 sat deliberately on the outskirts, far from the city's gleaming core. Between it and the homes of most workers stood the business sector, where people pushed through daily life like clockwork.
The residential sector followed, stretching out in segmented layers—edge, lower, and middle—where the further you lived from the four core districts, the harder life became. Education had its own cluster in the north, walled off and separated from everything.
The inner-ring homes bordering the four central districts housed Tier-2 citizens. Amir lived nowhere near there.
His apartment sat near the far western edge of the residential sprawl. At 16:12, he reached the stairwell, climbed four stories, and keyed open the dented door to his unit.
He stepped into the cramped washroom and took his daily shower. The cap for Tier-1 citizens was five minutes of lukewarm water. He washed fast.
After drying off, he pulled a nutrient vial from his mini-fridge, flicked off the cap, and downed it in one long gulp. The flavor was still bitter, still sharp, but the fluid kicked in fast, reinvigorating his body and dulling the soreness from hours of labor.
He pulled on his best—and only—polo shirt and grabbed the black ID band he reserved for official work.
By 16:40, he was out the door again.
This job was different. It was his only stable employment.
Located in the business sector, Lloyd's Bar was one of the few upscale hangout spots for white-collar professionals and off-duty civic enforcers.
The bar maintained a strict image—warm lighting, clean glass panels, and a music selection only containing classic rock songs.
Amir worked there as a bouncer.
At exactly 17:00, he checked in through the employee entrance. The manager nodded at him in passing. Amir nodded back.
His job was simple: watch the line, scan IDs, break up anything that escalated, and above all, maintain order without violence. He stood by the entrance all evening, alert but still, his posture calm but imposing.
The hours passed in slow rhythm—conversations, footsteps, laughter, tension, release. He denied entry to a belligerent patron, quietly defused a heated argument between two off-duty guards, and intercepted a group of girls trying to sneak in with fake IDs.
By 23:00, the final song faded out, and the lights dimmed across the club. The staff filtered out through the side exit, collecting their credits and ending conversations. Amir didn't linger.
He took the long walk home, cutting through the back alleys where light faded and the stars—what few were visible—peeked through the light pollution above.
Amir fiddled with his key, and the apartment door creaked open. At the sound, a head peered up from his small kitchen table.
Jayden grinned, his eyes bright. "About time, man."
Amir stepped inside, surprised despite himself. A tiny cake sat in the center of the table; there were no candles, but someone had etched "18" into the icing with a fork.
"You waited?" Amir asked, shutting the door behind him.
"Course I did," Jayden said, standing and walking over. "You didn't think I'd forget, did you? You sat with me last week when I turned eighteen, even after that triple shift."
Amir let out a soft breath through his nose, gently smiling. "Wasn't exactly a party."
Jayden shrugged. "Still mattered."
Amir dropped his bag onto the floor and pulled out one of the salvaged chairs, its legs uneven. He sat across from his brother, posture easing as Jayden cut the cake.
When they both had a piece selected, Jayden immediately dug into his slice with a spoon. Amir followed, more slowly.
For a few quiet minutes, the apartment felt lighter. The flickering overhead bulb cast a soft white hue over the table, and the hum of the air conditioning faded into background noise. Jayden was still talking—some girl who liked him, a teacher who'd assigned him a six-page report, the martial tournament he was competing in.
Amir just listened, nodding here and there.
Then Jayden leaned forward, eyes sparkling with mischief. "So… you ready for tomorrow?"
Amir raised an eyebrow.
Jayden jabbed a spoon at him. "Sky Horizon. You better start at Plum Town, like we agreed. I'm serious."
Amir gave a faint smirk. "You've been waiting to bring this up all night, haven't you?"
"Damn right I have." Jayden leaned back in his chair. "It's your first login. Gotta start strong. And trust me—Plum Town is the best right now. No big powers have influence there, so it's perfect for independent players to develop."
Amir didn't answer right away. His gaze wandered toward the narrow window above the sink, the outside cold slightly fogging the frame.
"I'll check it out," he said finally.
Jayden gave a satisfied nod. "Good. Don't embarrass me."
They stayed up a little longer, finishing the cake and joking together. Eventually, Jayden yawned, rubbed his eyes, and shuffled off to his own apartment, located only 5 minutes away. Amir remained at the table for a while, head tilted back, eyes closed.
The silence was oddly comforting.
He didn't remember falling asleep, only waking to the sound of his wristband alarm.
06:00.
Amir sat up, rolled his neck, and stretched until his back popped. He completed his usual morning routine: chewing an oral cleansing pill, putting on old clothes, and heading to his old school for his daily workout.
At 08:30, instead of heading off to work, Amir strolled towards his apartment. There was only one job for him today.
He arrived at his apartment, where a gray, battered gaming capsule stood firmly on the old tile in the living room. The metal casing was dented, but the core connection light still flickered blue. Jayden had triple-checked it the night before.
Amir sat, settled into the device, and took a breath. With a press of a button, the top whirled down, trapping him in a cramped space.
He shuddered.
"Connect."