The midday moon, Velunn, hung high and pale in the eternal sky, casting a stark, silver light over the training grounds. The air was crisp, carrying the distant metallic clang of weapons and the rhythmic thud of heavy boots. It was a time of peak activity for the military, a mood of focused, disciplined aggression.
The Iron Training Grounds were a vast expanse of reinforced stone and earth, designed specifically to withstand the destructive power of the Vampire Knights and their Commanders. Unlike the common grounds, this area was littered with hazards meant to simulate the chaos of war. Automated obsidian golems, towering constructs of black stone powered by complex runic cores, roamed the perimeter. They were relentless sparring partners, programmed to push even a seasoned Knight to their breaking point.
Commander Zorr stood on a raised observation deck, his charcoal skin dry and cool despite the activity around him. He didn't shout; he didn't need to. His presence alone was a heavy, suffocating weight. His single good eye tracked every movement below, while the other—a mass of sealed scar tissue—remained a permanent reminder of his history.
"Pain," Zorr rumbled, his voice grinding like tectonic plates, "is the only teacher that don't lie to you. Comfort is a liar. Safety is a myth. Only pain tells you you still breathin'."
Down on the field, Barek and Bronx stood opposite each other. They were stripped to their waists, sweat soaking their black military trousers, steam rising from their skin in the cool air.
On the sidelines, Tag and Skarrin leaned against a stone pillar, watching with keen interest.
"Yo, look at 'em," Tag said, dreadlocks swaying as he nodded toward the pair. "The new guy and the Boss's son. You think Barek ready for this smoke?"
Skarrin chuckled, the metal coils on his head clicking. "Bronx ain't no joke, fam. Youngest noble to ever evolve into a Knight. Dude's built different. He got that true Ironkong strength runnin' deep."
"Yeah," Tag agreed. "But Barek... first noble to ever get handed a Knight rank without even evolving? That's unheard of. The Elders think he got somethin' special. I wanna see if it's real."
In the center of the ring, Zorr's voice cut through the air.
"Aight, listen up. I want fifty percent output. Fifty. You go over, I step in, and y'all don't want me stepping in. Keep it tight."
Bronx cracked his neck, a massive, confident grin splitting his face. "Aight, lil' man. Let's see if that tank performance wasn't a fluke."
Barek matched the grin, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet. "Less talkin', more hittin', big man."
BOOM.
They collided in the center. The impact sent a shockwave rippling through the dust.
Bronx was a heavy hitter, even by Ironkong standards. He moved with the unstoppable momentum of a landslide. He threw a right hook coated in a shimmering aura—a technique refined over centuries to maximize impact.
Barek blocked it, crossing his arms. The force drove his feet six inches into the stone floor.
"Heavy," Barek grunted, sliding back.
"I'm just warmin' up!" Bronx laughed, following up with a barrage of body blows. Each hit sounded like a cannon firing. Thud. Thud. Crack.
Barek was on the defensive. He was using his own unique style, the ancient art he had awakened, but heavily suppressed. Without the refinement of modern techniques, his movements were wilder, rawer. He couldn't release past 65% of his potential without risking backlash, and Zorr had capped them at 50%. It wasn't his best.
Bronx landed a clean kick to Barek's ribs, sending him skidding back. Before Barek could recover, Bronx closed the distance, aiming a hammer fist.
Barek didn't panic. He grit his teeth, muscles flaring. 'Adapt,' he told himself. 'This guy moves heavy. He commits to the strike'.
Just as Bronx came down, Barek didn't block. He shifted. A fraction of a second faster than before. He slipped the punch and drove a fist into Bronx's side.
Bronx grunted, stumbling. He looked surprised.
"Oh?" Bronx's grin widened. "You learnin' already?"
They clashed again. This time, the rhythm changed.
Tag straightened up on the sidelines. "You see that?"
"Yeah," Skarrin murmured. "He gettin' faster. Every time Bronx throws a combo, Barek reads it. He ain't just tanking hits no more. He's adapting."
In the arena, the exchange became a blur of violence.
Left hook. Dodge. Uppercut. Block. Knee strike. Counter.
Barek's aura flared, dense and crimson. He was getting stronger. Fractionally, moment by moment, his speed was ticking up. His strikes were getting heavier.
Up on the deck, Zorr's eye narrowed. 'The boy is absorbing the fight, he thought. Bronx is static—powerful, but consistent. Meanwhile, Barek is fluid. He's strange, the way he adapts. His growth rate... it ain't natural.
In the ring, the two Knights were lost in the sauce. The thrill of the fight had taken over.
"Come on!" Barek shouted, laughing as blood trickled from his lip. "Is that all you got, big man?"
"I'll show you what I got!" Bronx roared back.
They pulled back their fists simultaneously, both clearly enjoying the fight, grins plastered on their faces, ready to unleash hell.
Then—it hit.
A wave of pressure.
It wasn't a physical blow. It was an atmospheric crush. A dense, terrifying aura brushed over the entire village, heavy with malice and ancient power. It passed through the castle walls, through the earth, and settled cold in their bones only for a moment.
Barek and Bronx froze mid-punch, their instincts screaming at them to stop.
Tag and Skarrin stood bolt upright, looking around wildly. "What the hell was that?" Tag hissed.
But Zorr...
Zorr gripped the railing of the platform so hard the metal crumpled like paper. His charcoal skin went ashen. His single eye widened, staring at nothing, the feeling felt familiar.
'That pressure', Zorr thought, his breath hitching. 'I know that aura. The Red Zone'.
The memories flooded back. The ambush. The screams of his squad. He remembered the feeling of being the only one left standing, bloodied and broken, staring death in the face. He remembered how the beast had simply stopped, looked at him with abyssal eyes, and then vanished back into the shadows, leaving him alive to carry the memory. He had returned alone, carrying nothing but his scars and the weight of his fallen brothers.
A sharp beep from his communicator snapped him back.
"Zorr." It was Gondor. The voice was urgent. "My chambers. Now."
Zorr didn't waste a second. He vaulted over the railing, landing between Barek and Bronx with a heavy thud that cracked the floor.
"Training's over," Zorr growled. His voice was different now—the amusement gone, replaced by cold, hard steel.
"Boss?" Bronx asked, sensing the shift. "What was that?"
Zorr ignored him. "Stand by for further instruction. Don't go far."
The Throne Room
Ten minutes later, Zorr stood before the massive obsidian throne. Gondor sat heavily, his expression grave. Behind him, the dark silhouettes of his two massive personal guards loomed like statues.
A holographic map hovered in the center of the room, highlighting a sector of the planet marked in flashing crimson.
"The Red Zone," Gondor said, his voice low. "An uncharted sector. Thousands of years ago, the Originals flagged it as a forbidden zone. A place where beasts roam that don't fit no classification."
Zorr stared at the map, his jaw tight. "I remember."
"I know you do," Gondor said softly. "That pressure we just felt? It's the same signature as the one from your mission fifty years ago right? The one that took your squad."
Zorr said nothing, but his fist clenched at his side.
"A Virefang scout team was already near the sector," Gondor continued. "The King wants eyes on it. He ordered a joint operation. Zorr, you and your team are to rendezvous with the Virefang unit. Investigate the source of the pressure."
Gondor leaned forward, his gaze piercing. "But listen to me closely. You are to investigate only. Do not venture into the Red Zone unless absolutely necessary. We need intel, not casualties."
"Understood," Zorr rumbled.
"And Zorr," Gondor added, his voice softer. "Be smart. If it's what you saw back then... make the hard call. Don't let pride get your men killed."
Zorr turned, his single eye burning with a cold resolve.
"Yes sir" Zorr muttered to himself as he walked away.