**The Indomitable Spirit Warrior: Lucas Grey**
**Chapter 2: The Trials of the Dojo**
The next morning Lucas woke up feeling like he'd been hit by a mag-lev train — except the ache wasn't from injury. It was from power.
Every muscle buzzed. His vision seemed sharper; he could read the tiny serial number etched on the ceiling vent from across the room. When he flexed his fingers, he felt the faint tug of unseen threads connecting to every object in the cramped bedroom: the metal chair, Mia's stuffed bear on the shelf, even the half-empty water bottle on the nightstand.
He clenched his fist experimentally.
The water bottle wobbled, then rose an inch before sloshing back down.
Mia stirred in the bunk below him.
"Lucas? You okay? You're breathing weird."
He forced a grin even though she couldn't see it.
"Yeah. Just… excited for school."
He wasn't lying. For the first time in his life, he actually was.
By noon the rumors had already started leaking.
Someone had seen a dead wolf-beast near the old filtration plant — skull caved in, no bullet wounds, no blade marks. Just one massive blunt-force trauma. And nearby, a concrete slab that looked like it had been thrown like a toy.
The street kids whispered "Spirit Sense."
The older ones said "impossible."
The scavengers who sold beast parts on the black market started asking questions.
Lucas kept his head down at the academy. He sat through Advanced Beast Morphology and Nova Virus Genetics like any other day, but his leg bounced under the desk the entire time. Every few minutes he tested it — lifting a pencil without touching it, making a crumpled paper ball orbit his finger under the table. Each success sent a thrill down his spine.
After classes ended he didn't go straight home.
Instead he walked to the eastern gate district, to the place every aspiring warrior dreamed of but almost nobody from Rust Garden ever reached.
**Vanguard Dojo.**
The building looked more like a fortress than a training hall. Thirty stories of black composite plating, windows tinted blood-red, the massive silver "V" emblem glowing at the top. Two railgun turrets tracked lazily across the approach road — not aimed at visitors, but definitely watching.
A line of hopefuls stretched from the recruitment gate. Most were kids from mid-level districts, wearing clean training uniforms their parents had clearly saved for months to buy. A few wore the sleek black-and-silver jackets of sponsored trainees.
Lucas wore his usual faded hoodie and cargo pants. He felt every stare.
At the front desk a bored-looking woman in her thirties scanned IDs with a retinal reader.
"Name and district," she said without looking up.
"Lucas Grey. Rust Garden, Level 47."
Her finger paused over the screen. She finally glanced at him — really looked.
"You're not on any pre-registration list."
"I know. I Awakened last night. I want to take the trial."
A ripple of laughter moved through the line behind him.
The woman raised one eyebrow. "Last night? Convenient timing."
"I can prove it."
She studied him for a long moment, then tapped something into her terminal.
"Fine. You get one chance. If you embarrass yourself, security escorts you out and you're blacklisted from all future Vanguard intakes. Clear?"
"Clear."
She handed him a temporary pass-chip. "Arena 7. Thirty minutes. Don't be late."
The interior of Vanguard Dojo smelled of ozone, sweat, and money.
Polished corridors lined with holo-displays showing famous alumni mid-battle: a woman wreathed in blue lightning splitting a rhinoceros-beast in half, a man floating cross-legged while a dozen steel spears orbited him like deadly moons.
Lucas swallowed.
Arena 7 was smaller than he expected — a fifty-by-fifty-meter cube with adaptive flooring that could simulate any terrain. Today it was cracked urban wasteland: broken asphalt, rusted cars, piles of debris.
Three other trial candidates were already waiting, stretching or shadowboxing. They glanced at Lucas and immediately dismissed him.
Then the door hissed open again.
A tall boy with silver-streaked hair and the latest model combat bodysuit strode in like he owned the place. Vance Korr — son of Councilor Korr, third in last year's junior rankings, speed-specialized. Everyone knew the name.
Vance's eyes slid over Lucas and lingered.
"Rust Garden trash thinks he can play with the big kids?" he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. "This should be quick."
Before Lucas could respond, the overhead speakers crackled.
"Trial candidates, attention. This is a live-combat assessment. Holographic beasts will spawn at unpredictable intervals. Last person standing — or the one with the highest contribution score — advances to the probationary trainee list. Non-lethal mode engaged. Begin on my mark."
The floor rumbled.
The first wave appeared in a burst of blue light: six Level-1 feral hounds, smaller cousins of the beast Lucas had killed last night.
The other candidates exploded into motion.
One girl summoned whips of green vine-energy that lashed the hounds into submission.
Another boy grew bone-plates over his arms and charged like a bull.
Vance became a silver blur — he flickered from hound to hound, leaving afterimages, each strike precisely shattering a leg joint.
Lucas stayed back.
He wasn't fast. He wasn't strong. Not yet.
But he could see.
He closed his eyes for half a second — just long enough to feel the battlefield.
The hounds' life-force glowed in his mind like heat signatures: pulsing red cores in their chests.
One hound broke away from the group and lunged straight at him.
Lucas didn't move his feet.
He simply pointed.
A rusted car door twenty meters away tore free of its hinges with a shriek of metal and slammed into the hound like a guillotine blade, pinning it to the ground.
The other candidates faltered for a split second.
Vance spun mid-strike and stared.
Lucas didn't stop.
He swept his arm in a wide arc.
Three chunks of broken concrete rose simultaneously and hammered into the remaining hounds from three different angles. The impacts sounded like gunshots. Blue blood sprayed across the simulated asphalt.
Silence fell.
All six hounds down.
Less than fifteen seconds.
The overhead voice returned, sounding almost surprised.
"Wave one cleared. Contribution ranking updated. Lucas Grey — first place."
Vance's face twisted.
The second wave was bigger: two Level-3 ironback boars and a flock of razor-winged bats.
This time the others didn't underestimate him.
But Lucas was already moving differently.
He didn't just throw objects — he redirected them.
A boar charged the vine-girl. Lucas flicked his wrist; the boar's own momentum was turned against it. A steel girder from a collapsed billboard whipped sideways and clotheslined the beast at neck height. It flipped end-over-end and crashed in a heap.
Bats dove at him in a screeching cloud.
Lucas raised both hands.
The air rippled.
Every bat froze mid-flight — wings locked, bodies trembling — then reversed direction at high speed and smashed into each other in a crunching pile.
Vance snarled and blurred forward, clearly intending to finish the last boar before Lucas could steal the credit.
But Lucas was faster — not with his body, but with his mind.
He seized Vance's own metal bracer mid-stride.
Just a tiny tug.
Enough to throw off Vance's balance by half a step.
The boar's tusk caught Vance across the ribs instead of missing entirely. The impact hurled him backward into a pile of rubble.
Vance scrambled up, clutching his side, face purple with rage.
"You little—"
"Wave two cleared," the announcer cut in. "Final contribution ranking: Lucas Grey — dominant. Probationary trainee status granted. Report to Assignment Office 3 tomorrow at 0800."
The simulation faded.
The other candidates stared at Lucas — some with awe, some with resentment.
Vance spat blood onto the floor and pointed one trembling finger.
"This isn't over, slum-rat. You just bought yourself a target on your back."
Lucas met his gaze calmly.
"I know."
He turned and walked toward the exit.
Behind him, the arena lights dimmed.
But inside Lucas Grey, something bright and dangerous had just ignited.
He was in.
He was training under Vanguard.
And the real battles — the ones that would forge him or break him — were only beginning.
To be continued...