Morning in the lower sectors tasted like rust and chemical rain. As Kai inhaled, the sharp tang of metal and acrid dampness clawed at his throat, dredging up memories of silent frustration and acceptance. His jaw tightened against the bitterness, which wasn't just pollution but a daily reminder of his longing to rise above it all—fuel for the resolve simmering beneath his calm exterior, a quiet ache pulsing in his chest.
Grey clouds hung over the skeletal skyline, trapping heat and smog. Cargo drones drifted overhead, ferrying resources upward while waste and neglected lives remained below.
Kai walked through the scavenger district, hood up, pack slung over one shoulder. Footsteps echoed on grime-slick concrete as neon flickered through drizzle. Nobody looked at him twice. This was the unspoken rule of the lower sectors: survive by remaining unnoticed.
Eyes facing forward, posture neutral. His steps were steady. His breathing was calm, almost meditative, as if each movement counted. Inside, his thoughts moved faster than the traffic lanes above.
"Helios Genetic Academy." The name echoed in his mind.
It wasn't fantasy. It wasn't a myth. It was real. A public institution, funded by corporations and supported by the state. It was also under military protection.
Society, shaped by decades of corporate governance and driven by technological advancements, determined whether it would advance or be marginalized within its walls.
Every year, Helios accepted a limited number of candidates through a legal public selection. No bribery. No underground nonsense. Just results.
Genetic compatibility.
Mental capacity.
Combat aptitude.
Adaptation potential.
That was the door.
With determination settling into his chest, Kai prepared to take the next step. The outside world, with its noise and restless movement, faded as he turned toward his small apartment, ready to confront the day's challenges.
By the time Kai reached his capsule apartment, the day's noise had faded. The cramped space held only the essentials—a cot, a terminal, a water recycler, and a nutrient dispenser.
A single cot.
Fold-out terminal.
Water recycler.
Wall-mounted nutrient dispenser.
He locked the door behind him and dropped his pack.
He sat, slow and careful, and focused.
Slowly.
Carefully.
Focused.
The tattoo on the back of his hand warmed, sending a pulse of anticipation through his skin. Not glowing. Not visible. But alive.
Kai closed his eyes.
"Show me."
Information unfolded. Not spoken. Not visual. Instinctive.
He became aware of his own genetic state.
Genetic Awakening: Rank 4
Stability: High
Adaptation Rate: Abnormal
Assimilation Pathway: Active
He felt the three-fold energy—compressed, waiting within his genes. More importantly, he sensed potential. It buzzed in his core, that combination of promise and nervous energy.
If these energies were fully harnessed, they could grant him heightened reflexes, enhanced cognitive abilities, and a level of adaptability that could surpass any standard human limits. The possibilities were daunting. They were also thrilling.
Not locked.
Not capped.
Open.
His lips twitched, unable to hold back a flash of satisfaction.
"So I don't need labs. I don't need serums. I don't need permission."
He stood. Power hummed faintly beneath his skin.
Then he suppressed it. Completely.
His presence dulled, his aura flattened, and his biological activity mimicked that of an unawakened human.
Perfect control.
This level of control was unsettling in itself.
"Good."
Helios Academy didn't recruit criminals. They recruited assets, which meant background checks.
Records.
Identity verification.
Kai needed a clean slate.
Night brought a different kind of energy as Kai slipped into the city's quieter hours. After careful maneuvering through sector alleys and the network, he reached a point of connection with the lower sectors' unofficial systems.
Kai didn't hack.
He didn't threaten.
He manipulated.
He fed half-truths, planted incentives, and nudged probabilities.
By the time dawn broke, his identity had been rewritten.
Kai Voss.
Age: 17
Status: Independent citizen
Education: Basic vocational certification
Work history: Scrap logistics, material handling, salvage.
Clean.
Unremarkable.
Believable.
No flags.
No alerts.
"Good."
The sun rose on Kai's actual test.
In the morning, he joined a river of candidates heading toward the Helios preliminary intake, a public event that drew the desperate and the ambitious alike.
No favoritism.
No recommendations.
No shortcuts.
Anyone under twenty could register. Most failed. Some died. Helios didn't apologize for it.
At the edge of the city, the testing facility stood, resembling a steel cathedral. Polished alloy towers, shielded domes, and security cordons extended for kilometers.
Thousands of applicants crowded the expansive entrance plaza. Kai blended into the sea of hopeful teenagers from the corporate districts.
Private school prodigies.
Military academy rejects.
Grit-eyed street talents.
Some nervous.
Some arrogant.
Some desperate.
All hungry.
Kai observed quietly.
"They're all here to escape something."
Poverty.
Obscurity.
Mediocrity.
Fear.
He just wanted control.
Once admitted, candidates stepped into the intimidating intake hall. Inside, a chamber lined with genetic scanners, neural rigs, and combat platforms awaited those who entered.
A massive holographic display ignited overhead.
HELlOS GENETIC ACADEMY — PRELIMINARY SELECTION
STAGE 1: GENETIC COMPATIBILITY
Applicants stepped forward one by one, palms pressed against glowing panels. Most passed. Some failed. A few collapsed as latent genetic defects rejected the scan.
Kai stepped up. Placed his hand on the panel. The tattoo stirred. He suppressed it.
The machine hummed. Read. Paused. A faint ripple of static passed through the display.
Then:
PASS
Kai withdrew his hand. No anomalies. No flags. No alerts. The system registered him as entirely unremarkable.
Several technicians frowned. Then dismissed it.
STAGE 2: MENTAL RESILIENCE
Neural immersion chambers.
Hallucination exposure.
Psychological stress tests.
Fear induction.
Memory assault.
Kai entered the pod.
The world dissolved. Darkness surged. Then trauma simulations.
Orphan corridors.
Starving weeks.
Radiation burns.
Dead scavenger crews.
Corporate executives.
None of it moved him.
He walked through the nightmare calmly.
Cold.
Detached.
Measured.
At the end, the system shut down.
MENTAL STABILITY: HIGH
EMOTIONAL RESPONSE: CONTROLLED
PSYCHOLOGICAL DEVELOPMENT…
The word blinked once. Then vanished. No alert.
Kai stepped out.
Several observers—a mix of academy officials and corporate representatives—exchanged uneasy looks. Their presence was a constant reminder: Helios Academy served both as an educational institution and a strategic asset for powerful entities. Each observer seemed to have an agenda, eyes sharp, watching for threats or unparalleled talents that could sway future allegiances.
STAGE 3: PHYSICAL & ADAPTATION TEST
Obstacle fields.
Reaction trials.
Pressure chambers.
Kinetic assault simulations.
This was where most failed.
Kai did not dominate. He did not stand out. He did not attract attention.
He performed at the upper edge of average.
Precise.
Efficient.
Minimal effort.
"Don't shine yet."
He crossed the finish line breathing steadily.
Results posted:
PHYSICAL SCORE: B+
REACTION SCORE: A-
ADAPTATION SCORE: A
Respectable.
Not alarming.
By evening, the final list projected across the facility's exterior wall. Thousands reduced to hundreds.
Kai scanned the names.
Found his.
Kai Voss — ACCEPTED (PROVISIONAL STUDENT)
A faint smile touched his lips. Relief softened it. The weight of all he'd hidden pressed just beneath.
Not triumph.
Confirmation.
The certainty eased something knotted tight inside.
"The door's open."