The Batmobile didn't bring me back. There was no need for that kind of drama—I exited Mount Justice through the same zeta tube that had taken me there, hood up on my jacket and the training bag slung over my right shoulder like any regular teenager coming home from a daily gym session. Inside, neatly compacted, was the Manto: reinforced chest plate, articulated gloves, the collar that expanded into a helmet, the grappling hook launcher—everything folded and sealed in moisture-proof layers. No one needed to know that this sweaty kid in a soaked tank top was carrying armor capable of withstanding bullets and fire. Not today.
The trip back was silent. The zeta dropped me off at an abandoned phone booth on the outskirts of Crest Hill—the same one we used as a discreet exit point. I walked the last fifteen minutes through the tree-lined streets, the Gotham sky already darkening, the humid air clinging to my exposed arms. Every step made my muscles protest—the liver still throbbed where Robin had landed that shot, even with the elemental working overtime to repair the internal damage. The pain wasn't the worst part. The worst was the bitter taste in my mouth, the feeling of having been crushed not by brute force, but by sheer perfection. A thirteen-year-old kid. Two years younger than me. And he made me look like an amateur.
I unlocked the front door with my key. The metallic click sounded too loud in the quiet house. Mom was in the kitchen—I could hear the clatter of pans and smell roasting meat with herbs. Dad was probably in his office, staring at reports. Neither of them called out to me. Better that way. I didn't want conversation. I didn't want the "how was your day?" or "are you okay, son?" questions. I wasn't okay. I was humiliated. And humiliation, when channeled properly, becomes fuel.
I went straight down to the basement. Every step creaked under my weight, familiar as a heartbeat. The reinforced steel door opened with the biometric lock sequence—click, click, hydraulic hiss. I stepped inside and locked everything behind me. The air down here was colder, more mine: the scent of cold solder, server ozone, rubber from the mats, and the faint metallic smell of my own lingering sweat still soaked into the tank top.
I tossed the training bag onto the central workbench—the same spot where I assembled drones, soldered circuits, and transmuted scrap into impossible alloys. It landed with a dull thud. Then I dragged myself to the ergonomic chair, the one I'd built myself from aerospace foam and recycled carbon fiber. I sank into it, feeling the worn leather mold itself to my exhausted body.
"Report," I said, voice hoarse.
The screens lit up in sequence, a cold blue digital dawn. Doc appeared first—the avatar in the pristine lab coat and round glasses, expression as neutral as a medical examiner's.
"As I had previously warned," he began, voice calm and clinical, "even though your recovery rate is significantly superior to that of a normal human—currently three times faster for soft tissue and four times for microfractures—this does not technically make you superhuman. Your maximum strength, muscle contraction velocity, and aerobic endurance still fall within the elite human spectrum, albeit at the extreme upper end of the curve. The symbiosis with the elemental is rewriting your physiology, yes, but gradually. Current projections indicate that, even without additional training, your body will reach the superhuman threshold in approximately twenty-four months. Two years."
I stayed silent, staring at the avatar without really seeing it.
"If you maintain your current regimen of intensive training," Doc continued, "that timeline can be reduced to twelve to eighteen months. Should you opt to maximize hypertrophic and neuromuscular stimuli, combined with progressive overload and optimized recovery… nine months is the realistic lower limit. However, a warning: crossing the human threshold without adequate preparation may cause metabolic instability. The elemental is still young. It could burn you from the inside before you gain full control."
I took a deep breath, feeling the ember in my chest pulse like a second heart.
"Natasha," I called. "How's Project Renaissance going?"
The central screen shifted. Natasha appeared—thin rectangular glasses, short Chanel-style hair, serene expression like a librarian who's already read every forbidden book in existence.
"Cryptanalysis of the government package acquired through the dark pool is at 70.4%," she reported, voice smooth and precise. "The new hybrid quantum algorithms implemented by intelligence services are more resilient than our initial estimates. We have extracted partial blueprints for three projects: the reactive armor prototype 'Cerberus,' the tactical AI system 'Oracle-7,' and the bioenergetic compound 'Vortex.' However, the most sensitive files—especially those related to the super-soldier program—are protected by post-quantum encryption layers resistant to brute-force attacks. Estimated time for full decryption: forty-eight to seventy-two additional hours, assuming no active countermeasures are triggered."
"Understood," I muttered. "Keep going. Prioritize Vortex. If it's what I think it is… it could accelerate the elemental's maturation process."
"Affirmative."
I leaned forward, elbows on the workbench. My body ached, but my mind was razor-sharp.
"Doc… the rapid-deployment project for the Manto suit. Status?"
The Doc avatar adjusted his virtual glasses—a gesture I'd programmed to make him seem more human.
"I have encountered unforeseen complications in optimizing the reactive nanoflow mechanism. What I initially estimated at two weeks of development has proven more complex due to the need for perfect compatibility between the alchemically transmuted titanium-carbon matrix and living biological tissue. The neuromuscular interface required a complete recalibration to prevent thermal rejection. New realistic estimate: eleven months for a functional beta version. One full year for a stable combat-ready iteration."
I closed my eyes for a second. One year. One year to be able to suit up in seconds instead of minutes. One year to not be vulnerable while changing in the middle of a fight.
"Shit," I whispered. "Everything this week is going to hell."
Silence. The AIs didn't respond to cursing—they waited for instructions.
I straightened in the chair, cracked my knuckles, and—for the first time in months—clicked on the screen manually. Usually I just spoke; they were fast enough to interpret voice. But this project was different. This one I needed to touch with my own hands.
I opened the encrypted folder in the bottom-right corner of the main monitor. "SENSEI – Final Phase."
The file expanded into dozens of windows: neural network diagrams, combat decision trees, human kinematics databases, real-time sparring simulations. Sensei wasn't just another AI. Sensei would be my personal master. An intelligence designed to absorb, distill, and teach every known martial art—and then invent new ones from the synthesis. Not just human styles: krav maga blended with ninjutsu, capoeira with silat, wing chun with kali—everything combined with flawless biomechanical analysis, movement pattern prediction, and real-time adaptation. The ultimate goal? To push the human body and mind beyond any possible limit. Train in infinite simulations, no physical risk, until every reflex of mine became a deadly work of art.
I had already coded 98% of her. Only one thing was missing.
I clicked the internet access release protocol.
A red alert window popped up:
WARNING: Connecting Sensei to the global network will grant unrestricted access to all public repositories, academic archives, training videos, declassified military manuals, obscure forums, and the dark web. Estimated time for full knowledge absorption and core formation: 72 hours.
Three days.
I glanced at the calendar in the corner of the screen. The next team meeting was scheduled in four days. They had decided to use the time for heavy maintenance on the Mount: Conner and M'gann were living there full-time now, and they would help activate the cleaning station, replace old air filters, and swap out obsolete equipment that had been gathering dust since the 90s. I had four days before I had to go back and face those looks again.
Three days of absorption. One day of margin.
I took a deep breath.
"Natasha, isolate the traffic. Use every proxy, chained VPN, and Tor tunnel we've set up. Nothing gets traced back here."
"Understood. Initiating quadruple isolation."
"Doc, monitor core integrity. If there's any sign of corruption during ingestion, interrupt immediately."
"Quarantine protocol prepared."
I moved the cursor over the green button.
RELEASE ACCESS?
My finger hovered for a second.
Then I clicked.
The screen flickered. A cascade of windows opened—video feeds, military manual PDFs, academic papers on kinematics, footage from underground Thai tournaments, declassified KGB hand-to-hand combat files, even grainy recordings of modern ninja fights in Okinawa. Sensei began devouring it all.
A counter appeared in the corner:
Absorption and formation: 71 hours, 58 minutes remaining.
I leaned back in the chair, feeling the full weight of the day crash down on me. The liver still throbbed. Muscles trembled. But inside my chest, the elemental ember burned hotter than ever.
"Three days," I murmured to the empty basement. "Three days and I come back different."
The fluorescent lights hummed overhead. The sound of the servers working became a mechanical lullaby.
I closed my eyes.
Humiliated today.
Invincible tomorrow.
Advance chapters: patreon.com/cw/pararaio