He tidies himself and says. "Let's continue this later, we need to go now."
"No. First you apologize for hitt -" he gets cut off.
"On your feet." he stands Luka up and they start walking toward the elevator.
"○Ughh, I won't forget this." Luka thinks to himself irritated.
The Camera pans down from the high-altitude observation deck, tracking the elevator as it descends rapidly back toward the industrial belly of the fortress.
The pneumatic doors hiss open, and the roar of the 'Crucible' hits Luka like a physical wall.
The training ground is no longer just a landscape of machinery; it's a sea of people. Hundreds of recruits and agents are gathered in the center of the vast floor, the air thick with the smell of ozone and the low hum of collective conversation.
"Time to go," Darjan says, not looking back as he strides out of the elevator.
Luka follows.
As they approach the main gathering, a familiar, lean figure detaches himself from a nearby group.
Denox walks over, a fresh towel around his neck and that same knife-carved grin on his face.
"Back so soon, Dare?" Denox asks, nodding toward Luka. "Found out if the kid has any tricks yet?"
"He's a work in progress," Darjan replies shortly.
Suddenly, a sharp, metallic sound rings out—a heavy gauntlet striking a steel railing.
The Camera pans upward to a high-point balcony overlooking the floor. A man stands there, looking down at the crowd. He's older, with graying hair cropped short and a face that looks like it was etched out of granite. He wears a simple, dark uniform, looking visibly irritated and tired.
"Listen up!" the man yells, his voice amplified by the acoustics of the room. The chatter dies down instantly. "This year, you will be working in teams of three. Just like every other year."
A collective groan ripples through the crowd.
"Hey, Old Man!" someone shouts from the back. "Why are you the only one here? Where are the other Commanders? C'mon, give us a real show!"
The man on the balcony rubs his temples, looking like he'd rather be anywhere else. "Deal with it. They're all out to god knows where, and you all know they're greedy bastards with egos. I'm all you get."
The crowd sighs, but they fall into a respectful silence.
"Alright, let's begin," the Old Man says, tapping a digital tablet. "First squad. Nikola, step forward."
The Camera cuts to a man emerging from the group of participants. He has brown hair and sharp brown eyes, moving with a disciplined, serious expression. He's average height, but his build is dense—every muscle looks like it's under high tension. He walks to the designated 'Selection Area' to the side.
"Irina."
A small girl steps out. She has long, ink-black hair and wears a sharp black-and-white outfit that looks more like formal wear than combat gear. She looks nervous, her fingers twitching at her sides, but she takes her place next to Nikola.
"Inoj!"
A third man walks up, significantly taller than the first two. He has a head of curly ginger hair and a wide, easy smile that seems out of place in the grim environment. He stands beside the others.
"This is Squad One," the Old Man drones. "From now on, you are a single unit. Move aside."
The three walk off to the side, Nikola already whispering orders to the other two.
"Now, for the Second Squad," the Old Man continues. "First up... Darjan."
Darjan looks at Luka, his expression as stone-cold as ever. "Just stay here. You'll get your name called out soon."
Darjan turns and walks toward the side, his massive presence instantly making the Second Squad area look formidable.
"Continuing, we have Zlatko."
The Camera pans through the crowd, searching. No one moves. For three long seconds, the room stays still.
Thump... thump... thump.. —
The sound of footsteps comes from directly behind Luka. As Luka turns his head, a man roughly his age walks right beside him. He has a cold, detached air, his eyes fixed forward. As he passes Luka, a sharp spark of blue electricity arcs across the man's shoulder for a split second.
Vzzt—
The air smells like burnt hair as Zlatko passes, joining Darjan.
"○Wait... he has the lightning?" Luka thinks, his heart sinking. "○That's what I thought I had. C'mon dude."
"And for our third..." The Old Man stops, squinting at his tablet. He looks confused, tapping the screen a few times. "Who is this? Who the hell is.. Luka?"
The silence that follows is deafening. All eyes begin to dart around the room. Whispers break out among the veterans.
"Luka? Never heard of him."
"Wait didn't you hear that there was a new awakened?"
"Yeaa now that i think about it. You're right."
"Abother awakened? For real?"
A chatter erupts.
"Quite!" The old mans voice stern.
Luka feels the blood rush to his face. His hand feels like it weighs a hundred pounds, but he slowly raises it into the air.
"Ok, so who is this Luka where is he?" The old man asks looking around.
"It's me," Luka says, his voice cracking slightly before he steadies it. "I'm Luka."
The Camera pans slowly across the sea of hardened faces, every eye in the "Crucible" locking onto the boy in the tattered hospital gown. The silence is heavy, punctuated only by the distant hiss of steam from the training machinery.
The Old Man on the balcony squints, his thumb hovering over the tablet. He clears his throat, the sound echoing through the rafters.
"Alright," the Old Man says, his voice devoid of warmth. "Don't just stand there. Move to your designated spot."
Luka begins the walk. Every step feels like he's wading through deep water. The air is thick with judgment. He can feel the "Static" under his skin reacting to the sheer amount of Qzi concentrated in the room. As he approaches the spot next to Darjan and Zlatko, the tension is a physical weight.
Luka takes his place, his heart hammering against his ribs.
"○Why would they put the kid in so early," Darjan wonders. "Though it is protocol I guess, and it was a decision made by the higher ups."
"○..."
"○On top of that getting him in like this is probably the best way to ease into this work, it'll be easier this way later on. Not to meantion the inroduction, now everyone knows him, no akward conversations, and it's out of the way." Darjan asseses Luka situation.
Immediately, Zlatko scoffs. He doesn't even look at Luka; he keeps his eyes fixed on the Old Man above.
"You're joking, right?" Zlatko's voice is sharp, cutting through the silence. "Why am I being saddled with a beginner? I saw the medical report. This kid just woke up three days ago. He doesn't even know how to hold his own center yet."
Zlatko turns his head slightly, his lip curling in a cocky sneer.
"To be honest, Old Man, I'd rather be in a team alone," Zlatko continues, his tone arrogant. "Excluding Darjan, too. I don't need a babysitter and I definitely don't need dead weight dragging down my score."
The Old Man sighs, looking even more tired than before. "The teams are calculated based on potential and output, Zlatko. Deal with it or take it up with the Board when they get back from the front."
"The Board can kiss my—," Zlatko starts, before the Old Man cuts him off with a glare that could melt steel.
Zlatko simply shrugs, slacking his posture and stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Whatever. You all know I can do better alone anyway. Just don't expect me to pick him up when he breaks."
"○Who is this cocky kid?" Luka thinks, his knuckles whitening as he clenches his fists. "○He's barely older than me and he's acting like he owns the place."
Darjan doesn't look down at Luka, but his voice carries a low, grounding frequency. "Don't worry about him. He's like that with everyone, even though he's the newest member besides you. Just focus on the platform."
The chatter among the recruits begins to rise again, but the Old Man slams his gauntlet down one more time.
"Quiet! Moving on," the Old Man barks. "Third Squad. Kaelros!"
The Camera cuts to the crowd as a man steps forward. He is visibly older, perhaps in his mid-20s, with a face mapped by experience. He moves with a predatory grace, his boots clicking rhythmically on the metal floor. He takes his position with a nod.
"Ikaro!"
A second man steps out. He looks to be exactly Luka's age and height, with unassuming brown hair and a neutral expression. He doesn't look like a warrior, but the way the crowd parts for him suggests otherwise. He walks to his spot beside Kaelros.
"Virek!"
The third man emerges. He has bright, messy blonde hair and a smirk that radiates confidence. As he strides past Luka's squad, his eyes catch Luka's. He lets out a quick, playful wink before taking his place next to Ikaro.
The three of them stand in a perfect line—The Third Squad.
"Move aside!"
The heavy thrum of the facility continues as the Old Man's finger swipes across the tablet. The crowd is buzzing now, the energy in the 'Crucible' reaching a fever pitch.
"Moving on. Fourth Squad! Rafael."
A young man walks out, his long black hair tied back loosely. He looks barely older than Luka, but he moves with a heavy, grounded confidence that suggests he's seen more than his fair share of events.
"Noor."
A woman steps forward from the shadows of the machinery. Luka recognizes her instantly—the short, muscular fighter who was boxing with her eyes closed earlier. Her expression is granite-hard, her eyes scanning the room with a clinical, serious intensity. She takes her spot beside Rafael without a word.
"Arisa!"
The Camera shifts. The loud industrial humming of the room seems to fade into a muffled heartbeat.
As Arisa emerges from the crowd, the frame rate drops. Every step she takes is fluid, her presence cutting through the grime of the training hall like a diamond. She looks to be exactly Luka's age, with a face that belongs on a screen rather than a battlefield.
Luka's breath hitches.
For Luka, time doesn't just slow; it halts. He watches her walk toward the designated spot, completely mesmerized. Everything else—the white grounds, the people around, the looming Darjan—simply vanishes. He's staring, his jaw slightly slack, eyes glistening with the classic, undeniable "love at first sight" shock.
Arisa reaches her spot and turns her head. Her gaze sweeps across the room and stops.
She catches him.
Their eyes lock for a split second. Luka feels a jolt of Qzi that has nothing to do with his training—a genuine spark of panic and attraction. He realizes he's been staring for way too long. He tries to look away, to look cool, to do anything else—
"FOURTH SQUAD! MOVE ASIDE!" The Old Man's bark shatters the silence like a gunshot.
The slow-motion snaps back to real-time. Arisa pulls her gaze away, a neutral expression returning to her face as she walks toward her team. Luka exhales a breath he didn't know he was holding, his heart racing.
"Squad Five!" the Old Man bellows, not missing a beat. "Moonho!"
A man walks out, his silhouette striking against the high-tech background. He's Japanese, wearing a traditional outfit—a sharp contrast to the tactical turtlenecks and armor plating of the others. He moves with a silent, deliberate grace, taking his spot.
"Zyra!"
A woman in her mid-20s steps forward. She's visibly more experienced, her posture relaxed but ready, an air of veteran authority radiating from her. She joins Moonho.
"Denox!"
Luka snaps his head toward the crowd. The shirtless boy who had been teasing him earlier jogs out, still looking like he just stepped out of a street fight. He doesn't just walk to his spot; he stops and points a finger up at the balcony.
"Hey, Geezer!" Denox shouts, his tone playful but loud enough to echo. "When are we getting our second match? C'mon! You know I don't end on losses!"
A few of the people chuckle. The Old Man on the balcony visibly annoyed, his grip tightening on his tablet. He scoffs, waving a dismissive hand.
"Take your seat and be serious for once, Denox," the Old Man grumbles. "Or I'll make sure your next mission is running loops around the island."
Denox just grins, unbothered. As he walks to join Zyra and Moonho, he shoots a cheeky, wide-eyed smile toward Luka and Darjan.
Luka can't help it; a small laugh escapes him, the tension from the Arisa moment finally breaking. Beside him, Darjan doesn't move, but his eyes roll upward in a silent, 'I deal with this every day' gesture.
The tension in the 'Crucible' lowers down for Luka.
The Old Man doesn't let the momentum slip, his voice cutting through the whispers of the recruits.
"And the three remaining," he barks, "you are the last squad. Squad Six! Venoh! Hanad! Violet!"
The Camera pans across the last three figures as they move to their positions.
Venoh: A man clearly in his late 30s. He has a rugged, weathered look, with deep-set eyes. Still has a light smile on his lips. He moves with a slow, deliberate weight that commands respect.
Hanad: A young Black man, roughly Luka's age. He wears modern athletic gear under a light armored vest, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet as if he's ready to sprint a marathon.
Violet: A girl with striking, long violet hair that flows down her back like silk. She has a sweet, elegant face and a lithe, graceful build, but there's a coldness in her posture that says she's anything but "sweet" in a fight.
"Alright," the Old Man says, snapping his tablet shut. "It's settled. These are the teams. This is your reality."
The Camera cuts to Zlatko. He's leaning against a structural pillar, his arms crossed, his face twisted in a look of pure boredom.
"C'mon," Zlatko sneers, his voice echoing. "Just tell me when our first mission is, Old Man. I don't need to train. I'm already better than half the veterans in this room. Let's stop wasting time."
The Old Man stops. He looks down at Zlatko with a gaze so heavy it feels like it adds ten pounds of pressure to the room.
"Well," the Old Man replies, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "Technically... it's already started."
Luka blinks. "○Started? What is he–"
"Stop playing, Old Man," Zlatko scoffs, stepping forward. "You're too old for these games, you're too old be foo –"
K-THUNK—
The sound of massive pneumatic locks disengaging shakes the entire floor.
The Camera zooms out rapidly to show the circular platform beneath Squad 2 Luka, Darjan, Zlatko and Squad 3 Kaelros, Ikaro, Virek, suddenly splitting into two massive semi-circles.
"WOAH!" Luka screams.
Before anyone can react, the floor vanishes. Luka, Darjan, and Zlatko plummet into the darkness below, followed instantly by Kaelros's team.
Luka flails in the air, the wind whistling past his ears as he falls into a cavernous, pitch-black pit. His heart is in his throat. He reaches out for anything—a ledge, a cable—but there's nothing but open space.
"Hold on, kid!" Darjan's voice booms through the dark, sounding completely calm, as if he's just falling off a curb.
THUD, THUD, THUD —
They hit the bottom. It isn't concrete; it's a high-tech, shock-absorbent synthetic floor that gives under their weight. Luka rolls to a stop, coughing, his head spinning.
He looks up. They are in a massive, hexagonal arena, few hundred meters beneath the main Crucible floor. Huge floodlights flicker to life, bathed in a harsh, clinical blue. Across the arena, Squad 3—Kaelros, Ikaro, and Virek—are already standing, brushing and tiding their shoulders.
From the top of the pit, from high above the squads, the old man's voice booms over the intercom. And the other participants all flying on individual platforms to spectate the matches.
"Test Number One – Assessment of team synergy and individual strengths through Squad-versus-Squad combat. Consider this like fighting for your lives. Consider this a real mission." The old mans voice echoes.
The Camera zooms in on Luka's face, pale and sweating. He looks at Darjan, who is cracking his knuckles, and then at Zlatko, whose eyes are keen locked onto the other team. Lukas head darts to both of them, than the old man, than back to the opposing squad.
The slight pause broken by the shout on the intercom—
.
"BEGIN!"