Time moved like fists—fast and unforgiving.
Damien Thorne, now a third-year student, stood taller, broader, and somehow even more terrifying than before. At six-foot-three and still growing, his frame was war-forged, his aura unmistakable. The golden eyes—once boyish—now cut like blades.
He never fused. Never synced to an AI. And he still walked the halls of Xyprus Academy like a storm wearing shoes.
The older seniors now had graduated—many heading off to private military contracts, corporate protectorates, or planetary defense squads. Their departures left a vacuum.
Damien filled it. Not officially. Not by title. But when he entered a room, people moved.
The world, meanwhile, had shifted.
News broke of fully synthetic humans being developed—constructed in labs, not born. Built from carbon mesh, neural quantum cores, and programmable instincts. Designed for war, work, and loyalty.
In the student lounge, the holoscreens blared:
BREAKING: Fully synthetic humans enter final production phase.
Mila Evermeere frowned at the projection. "Carbon mesh bodies. Neural quantum cores. Programmable instincts. And they call this progress?"
Auren Valebright smirked from across the table. "If you can print soldiers, why bother training meat like us?"
A first-year snorted. "Meat? Speak for yourself. These things are built for loyalty. No rebellion, no fatigue—"
Damien cut him off without looking up from the protein bar he was unwrapping. "No soul."
Silence spread.
It set fire to every news feed across the system.
Human rights organizations protested:
"You can't patent consciousness!"
"What happens when they outnumber us?"
At the same time, animal DNA fusion research—long deemed unethical—was no longer underground. Geneticists now studied apex predators and hyper-evolved species for combat-optimized fusion alternatives.
"Gorilla reflex. Falcon vision. Panther speed."
What was once taboo became innovation.
Protests erupted. Animal rights groups clashed with militarized security forces. Fusion labs were bombed. Propaganda flooded the nets.
And in the chaos, combat academies like Xyprus quietly adjusted their curriculums.
Because the next war wasn't just human vs. human. It was nature reprogrammed.
Damien wasn't surprised.
He'd already seen it—in the Underground.
He remembered the man with the illegal gorilla serum, arms thick as tree trunks, snarling mid-fight, bones cracking under the stress of unstable fusion. Damien won that night—but barely.
And now, versions of that creature were being refined and mass-produced.
At Xyprus, the new wave of students brought something different: Snakelike agility. Wolf-pack tactics. Spider-eye targeting systems.
They weren't just fighters. They were hybrids.
But Damien didn't flinch. Didn't upgrade. Didn't adjust.
He walked through these new threats with the same unbreakable rhythm, fists coiled, spine straight, eyes burning.
Because Damien Thorne wasn't built. He was born.
Yet something loomed. A question forming in the minds of scientists, rebels, even friends:
That night, in the training hall, Sereph Kaidenn was the one to say it out loud. "You ever going to fuse, Thorne? Or are you just planning to punch your way through evolution?"
Damien wrapped his hands, slow and deliberate. "Worked so far."
"Until it doesn't," Sereph muttered. "These new kids—they're faster. Stronger. They can see through walls."
With eyes like molten gold, he replied.
"I don't need to see through walls. I'll just put them through one."
How much longer could he fight evolution alone?
And in the background, Null Sanctum watched with quiet interest, noting each new animal-type failure… and looking toward the one boy who had survived a clash with them before they were legal.