The Zenith Palace's grand training hall breathed with living light. Columns of molten silver pulsed in rhythm with the Palace's heart, and the air shimmered faintly from the gravity shifts Grant commanded.
The Ampers stood in a semicircle before him, their reflections bending across the mirrored floor. For the first time since their arrival, tension outweighed loyalty.
Grant's voice carried, calm and absolute. "No limits. All of you against me. Show me you deserve what comes next."
Acuent's ring flared first—threads of blue energy leaping from her hands to the others. "Boosting output. Make it count." The air snapped as every Gifted's power doubled in resonance.
Brakkon rolled his shoulders, bone armor growing along his forearms like ivory blades. "Finally," he muttered.
The command never came; they simply moved.
Astegger vanished in a blur of distortion, her blade slicing through space itself. Rifts cracked open around Grant like shards of glass. Xylo followed with a sweep of his arm—frost spiraling through the rifts Astegger had made, turning them into spinning rings of ice.
Nullis phased into the floor, her outline flickering as she slipped through matter. Anna hesitated for half a breath—then pulled off one glove. The contact aura flared violet, dangerous and alive.
Grant didn't raise a hand.
Astegger struck. Her dimensional slash cut the air where he'd stood, but he stepped aside just as Xylo's frozen arc slammed into the floor, scattering shards across the hall. Grant redirected the kinetic shock with a flick of his wrist, the blast sending both fighters skidding back.
Brakkon roared and dove in, claws carving glowing furrows through the polished ground. Grant caught his wrist mid-swing and turned his momentum into a throw that left the soldier buried in a fractured wall.
From behind, Anna lunged—bare fingers grazing the edge of Grant's coat. Her power flared, hungry, reaching for his energy—
—but he vanished in a blur of red light before contact could finish. The backlash hit her instead; she staggered, clutching her arm, skin flickering with borrowed sparks that weren't her own.
Nullis erupted from the floor directly in front of him, striking for his chest. Grant met her with a calm palm to the forehead. "Too predictable." He released a wave of pressure that sent her phasing backward uncontrollably, dissolving through two walls before she regained focus.
Acuent's voice rang out, desperate. "Hold formation—feed on my field!" Energy burst outward from her core, threads linking the team again. The light stitched between them—blue into orange, into white, into red.
They charged as one.
Grant moved through them like wind through fire. Every strike redirected, every blast nullified before it could find rhythm. When the last echo of impact faded, the team lay scattered across the floor—breathing hard, trembling, alive but spent.
Grant hadn't moved a meter from the circle beneath his feet.
"You rely too much on Aldus and John to think for you," he said, tone flat but cutting. "When they're gone, you freeze. You second-guess. You improvise panic."
Acuent's fists clenched. Brakkon spat blood and grinned through it. Xylo looked away, frost melting from his shoulders.
Grant's gaze swept the room. "You want to fight gods?" His voice softened, almost a whisper. "Then stop fighting like mortals."
The hall dimmed as his ring cooled from crimson to dull silver. "Next," he said quietly, "we start one at a time." The training hall reconfigures around them—walls folding into open space, ceiling dissolving into shifting constellations. Only Grant and Anna remain in the center, the others watching from the periphery in respectful silence.
Anna tightens the gloves at her wrists, then freezes halfway through fastening them. "I can't fight like them," she admits quietly. "I can't throw ice, or slice through space, or phase through walls. My power's close-range—it's useless here."
Grant regards her for a long moment, expression unreadable. "Useless?" His voice is low, almost disappointed. "Then let's test that."
He steps forward, and with a slow pull of his shoulders, the living armor along his arms reshapes—curving into twin claws that gleam like crimson glass, each one long and thin as a katana.
"I'll only use these," he says evenly. "And I'll aim to kill."
Anna's breath catches. "You're not serious."
"Always."
He moves—not with superhuman speed, but with precision that borders on it. Every step a measured strike, every motion efficient and lethal. The claws hum through the air, forcing her to react before she can think.
She ducks under the first swing, slides away from the second—but the third catches her sleeve, slicing it open. The hiss of torn fabric sends panic flooding her chest.
If he touches me—if I touch him—
She blocks with an elbow, rolls, evades a slash that tears the air inches from her throat. He's relentless—never overextending, never breaking rhythm. She tries to counter with a kick but he catches it midair, spins her, and sends her sprawling.
She hits the ground hard and gasps. Fear flickers into anger.
When he lunges again, something inside her cracks open.
Her glove tears during the fall—bare skin brushes the residue of his energy still lingering in the air. A pulse surges up her arm, alien and powerful. The world blurs.
She leaps backward to avoid the next blow—only to realize she isn't falling.
The floor drifts away.
Her heartbeat echoes in the silence as she hangs suspended, light coiling beneath her feet like a current of invisible force. Her hair floats, her breath steadying. She's not absorbing anything. She's not losing control. For the first time, she's channeling what she already holds.
Below, Brakkon lets out a low whistle. Xylo laughs. "Guess Glÿph learned to break the laws of physics too."
Grant lowers his claws, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Untapped potential," he says quietly. "I told you—you've barely met yourself."
Anna turns slowly in the air, her balance instinctive now. She's not flying, not truly—but she's defying gravity through sheer resonance, her body stabilizing the chaos that usually devours her.
When she lands, the floor ripples faintly beneath her feet before settling. She's trembling, but her eyes shine with something new—clarity.
"I didn't mean to—" she starts.
Grant shakes his head. "Don't apologize for understanding yourself."
Her lips part in disbelief, then curve into the faintest smile. For the first time since the coma, she looks alive again.
From the gallery above, Jazmine watches—silent and unreadable—as Anna walks past, the faint afterglow of power still shimmering around her hands.
The hall resets again—this time darker, denser. The walls shimmer, the air thickens. A warning tone hums through the intercom.
Gravity field: +30%.
Brakkon rolls his neck until it cracks. Bone blades curl from his forearms like white steel. "No holding back," he growls.
Grant's response is wordless. His own claws extend—sleeker, blood-hued, humming with a pulse that isn't entirely human.
The two men circle each other. The others instinctively step back from the edges of the platform. No one speaks.
Then the storm breaks.
Brakkon strikes first—low, fast, brutal. Grant parries, slides under, counter-strikes. The sound is thunder wrapped in muscle. Sparks burst from the floor, claws shrieking against bone. Each impact sends shockwaves across the chamber, the gravity field whining to keep pace.
Grant drives forward—slashing, pivoting, spinning into a knee that Brakkon blocks with his forearm. Bone splinters, then heals before the fragments even hit the floor.
Brakkon retaliates with a feral headbutt that cracks the air like a sonic boom. Grant staggers, spits blood, and smiles.
The others watch in silence, faces pale in the strobing light.
Five minutes. Ten. Neither yields. The fight's tempo slows—not from fatigue, but from calculation. They're reading each other, testing thresholds, learning.
Brakkon suddenly stumbles. His breathing ragged. The claws retract with a hiss. He drops to one knee, trembling.
Grant straightens, chest heaving. Concern flickers across his face.
"Brakkon—?"
The older man's grin splits his face. "Got you."
He explodes upward. In an instant, Grant is trapped—Brakkon's arms locking around his torso like iron bands, claws digging just shy of puncture depth. Gravity drags them both down as Brakkon drives him into the floor with a seismic thud.
Brakkon snarls into his ear, pressing harder. "Still think you're untouchable?"
Grant grins through clenched teeth. "No…"
Then his elbows twist outward—snap—and two hidden secondary claws burst from his elbows, driving them throught his stomach, breaking Brakkon's grip.
Brakkon jerks back, twin gashes streaking crimson down his ribs. He collapses to a knee, laughing even as the wounds knit shut.
"You didn't even know you could do that, did you?" he rasps.
Grant wipes the blood from his mouth. "No. Guess I'm still evolving."
Brakkon's laughter deepens, half-pain, half-pride. "You've got your mother's edge," he says, pushing to his feet. "But the speed… that's me."
Grant studies him, chest rising and falling. "You were faster that time," he says quietly. "Faster than your body should move under this gravity."
Brakkon frowns. "What are you talking about? I've been fighting the same damn way for years."
Grant shakes his head. "No—you're adapting. Your movements… they're syncing with mine. You're not matching me anymore, you're anticipating me."
Brakkon scoffs, half amused, half defensive. "You saying I got lucky?"
"Luck doesn't bend physics," Grant replies, a faint smile touching his lips. "Your instincts are reading more than you realize—pressure shifts, momentum, maybe even my intent. You're moving before I do."
Brakkon stares at his hands, flexing the claws as if testing the truth of it. "Huh. Guess I've still got a few surprises left in me."
Grant nods once. "You're evolving too."
For a long beat, they simply stand there—breathing hard, the silence carrying a strange, mutual respect neither expected.
Brakkon finally chuckles, low and rough. "Maybe we're not that different after all."
Grant's eyes soften. "That's what I'm afraid of."
The gravity field powers down with a metallic sigh. Around them, the others murmur, the awe unspoken.
Nullis hesitates when her name is called. The air feels heavier, thicker. She still remembers Grant's hand at her throat from their first encounter—the cold, absolute power behind it.
Xylo leans close, smirking. "C'mon, Katya. Time to get revenge."
She shoots him a look. "You first."
Grant's tone stays level. "Earlier, you tried phasing through the Palace walls."
Her breath catches. "You—"
"I noticed," he interrupts softly. "Even when you hoped I wouldn't."
The others shift uneasily. Brakkon folds his arms. Astegger's eyes narrow, a silent warning not to push her too far.
Grant meets their looks and nods once, promising restraint. Then he turns back to Nullis.
"I also know what you're afraid of."
The words land like a weight. She doesn't ask what he means—because she knows.
He gestures, and the floor ripples with red light. Energy barriers rise in a jagged line before her, each denser than the last.
"Through them," he says.
She nods stiffly and takes a breath. The first wall yields like mist. The second slows her. The third—solid, humming with heat—stops her cold.
She stumbles back, heart hammering. "It's too thick—"
Grant's voice cuts through her panic. "Then don't run from it. Reverse it. Shift density outward. Make the wall fear you."
His words strike something raw. For so long, she's only ever avoided—phasing through, fading away, never standing firm.
She closes her eyes, trembling. Her atoms flicker between states—solid, intangible, solid again—until the air itself warps around her.
Then, with a sharp cry, she drives her leg forward.
The wall shatters, scattering light like glass.
The impact echoes through the hall. For a second, no one breathes. Then Xylo whistles, and the tension breaks into a roar of cheers.
Nullis stands frozen, staring at her leg as if it belongs to someone else. "I… I did that?"
Grant gives the smallest of smiles. "You did. You all have more inside you than you realize."
The walls fade away, but the spark in Nullis's eyes doesn't. For the first time, she looks less like a shadow—and more like someone ready to step out of one.
****
The training hall had gone still.
The Ampers sprawled across the floor and steps—sweat, laughter, and disbelief mingling like smoke after a battle. For the first time in months, they weren't broken soldiers or fugitives. They were a team.
Anna floated lazily above the floor, testing her balance like a child rediscovering gravity.
Brakkon sat cross-legged, sharpening a fragment of bone until it gleamed white.
Nullis flexed her hand through shifting densities, watching the faint shimmer of matter blur between states.
Even Xylo had dropped his sarcasm, sitting quietly beside Acuent, who watched them all with the faintest, relieved smile.
High above, Grant stood on the balcony—arms crossed, posture still as stone. Jazmine joined him, the glow from her energy casting soft pink light across the metal rail. His own red aura pulsed faintly in rhythm beside hers, the colors intertwining like opposing heartbeats.
"You're changing them," she said, voice barely a whisper.
Grant's gaze stayed on the team below. "I'm just reminding them what they were made for."
Silence settled—a rare, fragile peace. But his eyes drifted outward, toward the horizon beyond the palace dome. The stars there flickered wrong, like a heartbeat skipping rhythm.
Jazmine followed his stare. "You sense it too, don't you?"
Grant's reply came low, almost reverent. "Yes. Something's moving in the dark."
He clenched the railing. "And it's coming for us."