The cube pulsed again, the hum deepening, almost like a breath.
"Jack," the AI said, voice calm, steady. "From all the data I have collected, I can now map your abilities into a framework for maximum control. You are not simply summoning randomly—you are shaping classes of entities, each with tactical applications."
Jack dragged himself upright, wincing. "
. Your power organizes itself into categories. Understanding them will give you precision. I will list them."
The glow shifted, cycling through faint holograms in the air. Shapes shimmered into existence—monsters of varying silhouettes, each tied to a word.
Diggers: ground-based creatures. They attack from below, destabilize terrain, and ambush unsuspecting enemies.
Flyers: airborne monsters with speed and range advantages. Useful for scouting and striking from above.
Damage: brute force summons designed for overwhelming strength and destruction.
Trappers: creatures that act as snares or lay traps, controlling movement and limiting options.
Runners: fast monsters with agility and pursuit abilities, capable of hit-and-run tactics.
Weapons: living weapons forged from your summons—swords, bows, spears, each an extension of your power.
Minions: swarms of smaller creatures, weak individually but devastating in numbers.
Swimmers: water-type monsters adapted to shallow and deep environments, capable of control in aquatic battlefields.
Summoners: high-level creatures that can command or produce their own minions. They cost you energy but multiply your influence.
Stealth: monsters adept at hiding, infiltrating, and killing without notice.
Tricksters: deceptive entities that use illusions, misdirection, and unpredictability to break enemies' focus.
"Additionally," the AI continued, "there are subclasses, including insectoid and plant-based variants, which can overlap with any primary class. These expand your tactical options without draining your energy into entirely new categories."
Jack's eyes narrowed. His notebook lay open beside him, his scrawl of "current summons" mocking him with its simplicity. He grabbed the pen, flipping to a new page.
"So I've only scratched the surface," he muttered.
"Correct," the AI said. "You have begun with Damage, Trapper, Flyer, Digger, and Weapon. But your potential includes far more. Learn them, Jack. Control them. And one day… command them all."
The cube's glow dimmed slightly, as though settling back into rest.
Jack's pen hovered over the page. He wrote in sharp strokes:
Goal: unlock every class. Control them all. Never lose again.
He set the notebook aside, leaning back against the chamber wall. His body still trembled with exhaustion, but his mind burned with a sharper focus than ever before.
For the first time, he had more than survival.
He had a path.
Jack's eyes fluttered open. The training room's ceiling loomed above him, pale lights humming faintly. He hadn't even realized he'd passed out here, slumped against the cold wall. His whole body ached like he'd been dragged through fire and stone.
The cube pulsed nearby, its glow steady, patient—as if it had been watching him sleep.
"You pushed your body beyond its threshold," the AI said calmly. "Your energy output was unstable. Recovery was necessary."
Jack forced himself upright, groaning. His legs shook but he didn't let them give out. "I don't have time to recover. Not here. Not in this place."
He pressed a hand against his ribs, breathing hard. The voices in his head were restless again, muttering, eager for more blood and teeth. He clenched his jaw, counting under his breath until they dulled. One… two… three…
"AI," he rasped, grabbing his half-filled notebook from the floor. Pages crinkled as he flipped to a blank spot. "You said I have classes to unlock. Which one should I start now?"
The cube pulsed brighter, scattering faint holograms across the air—shadowy silhouettes of monsters shifting in and out of focus.
"Each class opens new strategies," the AI said. "Diggers give you ambush. Flyers grant vision and reach. Damage expands raw force. Trappers control the battlefield. Weapons sharpen your personal combat." The holograms dissolved, leaving only a dim glow. "But for your current stamina, I recommend beginning with Runners. Speed offers survival. Mobility creates opportunity. And they cost less energy than your larger summons."
Jack leaned back against the wall, tapping his pen against the paper. The idea of running made the whispers inside him hiss in disdain. They wanted destruction, not escape. They wanted screams, not speed.
He shut his eyes and counted again. Four… five… six. The voices faded to a simmer.
"Runners…" he muttered. His lips curved into a thin, tired smile. "Yeah. I could use something fast. Something sharp."
The cube's glow deepened, threads of light weaving into spirals.
"Then focus," the AI instructed. "Shape velocity. Manifest pursuit. Carve motion into being."
Jack inhaled slowly, his pen scratching across the page. His hand trembled, but his resolve didn't.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's summon."
Jack pressed his palm against the cold floor of the training room, trying again to summon. His eyes burned, shifting into a pale, unnatural grey. The whispers inside his skull surged, urging him to pull something through, to shape it—
—but his chest seized.
He coughed hard, blood flecking his lip. His vision swam, the glow of the cube blurring into streaks. His body gave way before his will did, and the grey faded back into dull exhaustion.
"You are depleted," the AI said, its calm voice cutting through the ringing in his ears. "Your body cannot sustain a new summon in its current state."
Jack panted, dragging himself to the far wall. His hand hovered over the embedded control pad. He hated asking for help—even from a machine—but he knew if he didn't, he'd collapse before progress.
"Recurve meal," he muttered.
The pad blinked, and a hidden panel hissed open, sliding out a tray. The smell of roasted meat and steamed vegetables hit him—rich, real food, far better than the sludge they usually fed. He sat cross-legged on the floor, eating slowly, deliberately, every bite focused on forcing strength back into his body. The meat steadied him, the vegetables eased the burn in his chest.
When he finished, he set the tray aside and pushed himself up. His legs wobbled, but they held.
The cube dimmed as if to signal the end of training. Jack left the room, dragging his tired body through the sterile hallways until he reached the dorms.
When the door slid open, he froze. Nova's bed—empty. Ruin's too. The silence pressed heavy against him.
He frowned, uneasy, but didn't ask questions. If they weren't here, it meant they were somewhere else—missions, training, or worse. All he could do was keep moving.
He made it to his own bed, dropping into it like stone. His body gave up the fight almost instantly.
---
When Jack's eyes opened again, the room was different—bright, silent, still. He blinked, disoriented. His body felt lighter. The constant ache in his ribs was gone. He swung his legs over the edge, noticing the faint scars had sealed almost completely.
He stumbled into the bathroom, turning the mirror toward himself. For the first time in days, the reflection staring back wasn't ragged and broken.
"What the…?" he muttered.
Lifting his wrist, he tapped the watch device. A soft chime echoed before the display lit:
Elapsed time since last log-in: 48 hours.
His stomach sank. "Two days?"
The whispers stirred at the revelation, murmuring about weakness, about lost time. Jack clenched his fists, breathing slow until they quieted.
He couldn't worry about it. Not now.
He tightened his shirt, stepped out of the bathroom, and walked with renewed steadiness down the hallway. The training door slid open with a hiss, revealing the cube waiting in silence, its glow pulsing faintly.
Jack stepped inside, jaw set. "Alright. No more delays."
Jack's boots thudded lightly against the sterile floor as he made his way back to the private training room. His body still felt hollow, but stronger than before. His thoughts drifted as he walked.
"I've seen someone order that same meal before," he muttered under his breath. The empty hallway swallowed his voice, but he kept speaking anyway. "She wore white… hair white too. Eyes… red."
The memory burned sharp in his mind. A girl, expression sharp but tired, her voice quiet as she ordered.
This will be good for me to recover for my next match.
Jack clenched his jaw. Whoever she was, she had the same edge in her tone he now carried—someone who knew the system would grind her down, but was determined to get back up and fight anyway.
The training room door slid open with a hiss. The cube's glow greeted him, pulsing steady, like a heart waiting. Jack crossed the room and dropped into a sitting position, notebook already in his lap.
"Alright," he said, rubbing at his face. "Enough wasting time." He looked at the cube, eyes narrowed with focus. "What type of speed monster do you think would be good to start with?"
The hum deepened, the cube's surface rippling like water disturbed by a drop. Holograms flickered into being—faint sketches of shifting, blurred creatures.
"For Runners," the AI replied, its tone even, "efficiency matters. A first summon must balance stamina cost with tactical value. I can suggest three potential designs for you to attempt."
The holograms sharpened:
1. Bonejack Hound – A quadruped with skeletal limbs wrapped in sinew, its speed comes from sudden bursts of muscle tension. Perfect for rapid charges and evasive maneuvers.
2. Glasswing Stalker – A thin, insectoid form with wings like transparent blades. Fast across both ground and air, using vibration to disorient prey as it rushes them.
3. Ashfang Strider – a centipede like monster with poison leaking from fangs and dark think she'll with many eyes on its head with hands on its bottom side and a singer on its end of its body
The cube dimmed slightly, letting the choices hover before Jack.
"All three are viable. Which path do you want to pursue first?"
Jack stared at the projections, his hand twitching as he scribbled rough sketches into his notebook. His chest tightened, the whispers already hissing with excitement at the possibilities
Jack sat cross-legged on the cold floor of the private training room. His body still ached from his recovery, but the hunger to push forward gnawed sharper than the pain. He closed his eyes, pictured speed—something fast enough to outpace any blade, any bullet. His breathing slowed.
"I need a runner," he whispered.
The air shifted, the cube at his side pulsing faintly. A shape crawled at the edges of his mind: a centipede, armored in dark, thick shell, fangs dripping poison. Dozens of eyes blinked across its head. Hands twitched along its underside, and at its tail coiled a stinger like a spear.
Jack focused harder, straining—when pain lanced through his skull. He gasped, clutching his head as a voice slipped into his mind. Low. Calm. Tired, yet heavy enough to press the air flat.
"Why are you trying to control me, boy?"
Jack froze. His pulse thudded. The monster's image loomed larger in his mind.
"Who do you think you are?" the voice continued. "You will not use my power."
"I don't want to control you," Jack muttered aloud, teeth gritted. "I want us to work together. I need your speed—I can't win without it."
A pause. Then a scoff, soft and cold. "Need is not reason enough."
Jack's heartbeat quickened. He steadied his breath, just like he did when the voices grew too loud. Counting. One… two… three. "Then let's make a deal," he said. "I won't bind you. You lend me your power, and I'll give you battles worth running for. Not cages. Not silence. A purpose."
For a long moment, nothing. Then the voice gave a low hum, like a chuckle smothered by exhaustion.
"…Fine. But know this: my mark is mine. You carry it now, whether you understand it or not."
Jack's vision snapped open as gray light bled into his eyes. His hands shook, but not from weakness—energy surged through him. On the floor, shadows coiled, then tore upward into the centipede form. The Ashfang Strider screeched, venom dripping, claws scraping against the room's steel plates. It bowed slightly, waiting.
Jack's chest heaved. Then a hot sting burned across his back. He stumbled toward the wall mirror. Turning, he caught sight of his bare shoulders—his skin etched with new black lines.
A long, segmented mark now stretched down his spine like a centipede's body.
But worse—he noticed others. Old, faint scars glowing sharper than before:
a jagged slash across his shoulder blade (the Scythe Beast, Damage),
a circle with branch-like legs across his ribs (Spider, Trapper),
a spiral droplet near his collar (Moisture Beast, Water),
twisting root-lines down his side (Vines, Plant),
and two crescent scars crossing near his lower back (Dual Sickles, Weapons).
He staggered back, breath shallow. He hadn't realized. Each first summon had left its mark. His body was becoming a map of monsters—secrets carved in flesh.
Jack pressed his hand against the centipede mark, trembling. "What the hell… am I turning into?"
The tired voice echoed one last time before fading. "...Into what you were always meant to be."
He looked at himself in the mirror, at the web of scars and the new black spine pulsing faintly, and understood in a way that left no room for doubt: he wasn't merely a summoner, or a vessel. He was the best mutation of the families he called—born to be their apex, the final, perfect mutation of the monster bloodlines.