I opened my eyes to the faint hum of the gravity room, the residual thrum of my muscles still vibrating from yesterday's ordeal. My body ached—bruises, cuts, and swelling telling the story of the past twenty minutes in the pitch-black chamber—but it was the kind of ache that spoke more of progress than defeat. The room's emptiness, normally so stark, now felt like a canvas, ready to be filled with movement, sound, and the discipline I was beginning to crave.
Double Earth's gravity pressed against my body like a living weight, reminding me that every step, every shift in balance, demanded precision. Axiom's voice crackled softly in my ear, dry and clinical as always.
"Zander, remember: even minor shifts in your stance under this gravity will alter projectile trajectories significantly. Adjust foot placement every 0.5 meters to maintain optimal evasion vectors."
Sensei Slade stood in the corner, silent as ever, but I could feel his scrutiny, sharp as a blade. His presence always made my senses heighten, my hearing now picking up the subtlest creaks of the room's reinforced floors. At twelve, I knew I was already far beyond any child on Earth. My body, my mind—they weren't just stronger—they were evolving into something entirely new.
I flexed my fingers, testing the bruises along my left arm. Each movement sent tiny shocks of pain, but I had learned to welcome them as reminders that my body could endure, adapt, and grow. The results from the lab had been waiting for me earlier:
The 24th pair isn't just an addition, Zander. It's a complete architectural revision. On a molecular level, you've been rebuilt. Your mitochondrial efficiency is staggering—you metabolize energy at a rate that would cause systemic failure in a normal human. Cellular regeneration is no longer just healing; it's a constant, low-level process of self-repair. And your neural architecture... we're not talking about thinking faster. We're talking about cognitive bandwidth on a scale we're only beginning to measure.
I remembered the casual tone in which the doctors delivered it, as if they were talking about lab rats rather than the most significant step in human evolution. And then there was Joren—news that made my chest tighten. Already at Martial Master , he was pushing boundaries that even I had yet to approach.
I shook the thought away, focusing on today's task. Sensei Slade approached, adjusting the automated firing stations in the corners. The reinforced rubber bullets were already loaded, and today's exercise was more than physical—it would test mental acuity, spatial awareness, and danger prediction.
"Today," he said, voice low, almost a whisper, "we begin integrating reflex anticipation with continuous stress. Axiom will provide real-time data on projectile speeds. Any hesitation, Zander, and I will intervene. You will not stop."
Axiom chimed in, dry as always: "Projectile velocity doubled. Randomized trajectory angles. Lateral deviation calibrated at 15–30 degrees per interval. Maintain auditory focus and head positioning to optimize evasion."
I stepped into the center of the room, feeling the weight of gravity double against my bones. The first barrage began immediately—rubber bullets cutting through the air, ricocheting softly against the padded floor, bouncing unpredictably.
I dove left instinctively, bruising my shoulder against the wall. The impact pushed me backward, teeth gritting as I rolled and recalibrated. Each projectile that came my way forced micro-decisions: shift, duck, angle the torso, pivot on the balls of my feet. My hearing had sharpened to a level I hadn't yet fully explored. Every whisper of movement, every ricocheted thud, was feeding into a mental map of the room.
My body reacted before thought could catch up. I heard a soft click—a subtle prelude to the next rubber bullet—and for a fraction of a second, my mind anticipated its trajectory before it was fired. Reflexively, I twisted, barely avoiding the impact, but the sharp sting of a grazed arm reminded me I was far from invincible.
Sensei's voice broke through: "Not bad. You're predicting, but don't let it override instinct. Balance anticipation with reaction."
I gritted my teeth, focusing on the flow of sound around me. My own breaths became markers, each exhale punctuating my location in space, each heartbeat syncing with the bullets' rhythm. My ears were no longer passive sensors; they were extensions of my mind, mapping trajectories, alerting me to shifts in velocity, angle, and distance.
Ten minutes passed—or at least, that's what I thought. Time seemed compressed, each second stretched and condensed in the dance of evasion. I could feel my limits approaching: exhaustion clawing at the edges of my consciousness, muscles screaming, lungs burning. Axiom's quiet, analytical prompts helped me adjust continuously.
"Minor lateral drift detected in left foot. Correcting 12 centimeters. Projectile angles recalibrated."
I stumbled, tripping over a slight lip in the floor, sending a bullet skimming past my head. Pain shot up my leg, but I pushed through. Each micro-injury, each bruise, reminded me I was learning, surviving in real time. For twenty minutes, I moved continuously, reacting, anticipating, surviving—every motion a calculated risk.
Then, as the bullets came from an unexpected angle—directly above me from a robotic gun arm—I felt a brief flicker of insight. My brain seemed to connect points before sound reached my ears: the ceiling trajectory, the ricochet possibilities, even the soft footstep behind me. I twisted midair, narrowly avoiding a direct hit. For a single heartbeat, I realized I had anticipated the attack—subtle, almost imperceptible, but it happened.
The next bullet struck my shoulder, the sting sharp, and then another clipped my chest. Pain exploded through me, and darkness crept at the edges of my vision. Sensei Slade intervened immediately, catching me before I collapsed fully. I hit the floor with a thud, and the room went silent.
When I opened my eyes, I was back in the recovery chamber, suspended in the green healing liquid. Bruises and cuts still burned, but I could already feel the accelerated regeneration beginning. My mind replayed the twenty minutes in fragments: anticipation, danger perception, echolocation-like awareness. The faint prediction of projectile trajectories lingered—a small glimpse of potential I didn't yet understand.
Sensei Slade's voice was calm, almost approving: "You pushed well beyond the first level, Zander. Your reflexes and spatial awareness are approaching the threshold of Martial Master rank—but everything else is still far from mastery. You're twelve years old, and already leaps beyond ordinary children. Remember, I am at the peak of second rank. You still have a long path ahead."
I absorbed the words, letting them sink in. The thought of reaching that level, of surpassing limits I hadn't yet seen, filled me with a mix of awe and determination. I knew that no matter how much this training hurt, no matter how much I bled or bruised, I would continue. I would conquer my body, my mind, and everything that stood between me and the path ahead.
The next morning, I returned to the gravity room. Axiom's voice prompted technical adjustments, monitoring my movements, while Sensei Slade pushed me further, increasing lateral drifts, rotation angles, and unpredictability of projectile angles. Between sessions, I retreated to the library: physics, anatomy, psychophysics, neurobiology. Martial arts study continued—boxing, jiu-jitsu, kickboxing, taekwondo—all advanced levels. My body absorbed the knowledge as quickly as it did the training, my mind racing ahead of even my own actions.
The doctors occasionally visited, their casual briefings revealing subtle truths: my chromosomal structure now included a 24th pair, making me fundamentally different—a new human species. My body, my mind, my senses—they were evolving beyond Earthly norms. Joren and the other children were mentioned briefly, news of their progress filtering in: Joren had reached Martial Master Rank, a reminder that my peers were advancing alongside me, even if I could only see their paths from the edges of reports and observations.
One afternoon, while exploring the base's vast corridors, I stumbled upon a room I hadn't noticed before. Dimly lit and filled with sleek consoles and screens, it exuded the scent of electronics and anticipation. At the center, an interface blinked, inviting. On the main screen flashed the words: Ultimate Instinct.
My heart raced. This wasn't part of the usual training regimen, but the thrill of discovery, combined with the knowledge of my own limits and potential, made my pulse spike. Sensei Slade's voice echoed in my mind, reminding me of discipline, while Axiom quietly noted adjustments and possible outcomes in the background.
I knew instinctively that this was the next test, the next challenge—one that would push my reflexes, perception, and danger anticipation further than any pitch-black room or gravity chamber ever could.
And as I reached for the interface, the lights dimmed, and the hum of the room shifted. A thrill ran down my spine: I was ready—but had I truly prepared for what was about to come?
The game waited. And so did the next stage of my journey.