The helmet sealed around my head with a soft hiss, plunging me into a silent void. This was the next stage, a far cry from simply dodging rubber projectiles in the dark. This simulation was designed to forge actual combat experience. A flare of system lights bloomed across the visor, and my heartbeat answered, a steady drum against the fire thrumming in my veins.
[AXIOM: Neural interface engaged. Ultimate Instinct, Level One loading. Pain receptors: calibrated to setting 7. Duration: 10 minutes. Objective: Survive. Neutralize targets if possible.]
The darkness dissolved into a stark grid of light. Three constructs materialized. A hulking brawler cracking its knuckles for close-quarters combat. A spearman at mid-range, weapon held low and ready. And a sniper in the back, the lens of its rifle already gleaming with malevolent light.
The robotic countdown echoed in the void. Three. Two. One.
They moved as one. The brawler's fist sliced the air toward my jaw—I ducked under it, feeling a rush of displaced air. The spearpoint jabbed at my ribs—I pivoted, using my forearm to deflect the shaft, letting the brawler's momentum carry him into the spearman's path.
For a single, chaotic second, their attack patterns were disrupted. It was the only opening I needed.
Ignoring the two melee fighters, I exploded forward, my mind already tracking the sniper vector. The shot cracked like whiplash, but I was already moving, weaving between its predicted firing lines. I closed the distance in three long strides, my hand chopping down on the construct's rifle, breaking its aim. Before it could readjust, I drove my palm into its torso. A feedback spike of energy confirmed the hit, and the sniper construct dissolved into flickering static. One down.
The victory was short-lived. The brawler and spearman were on me, their attacks coordinated. The rest of the ten minutes was a desperate dance of survival, parrying and dodging, with no clean openings to strike back.
When the timer cut out, my chest heaved like a furnace.
[AXIOM: Level One complete. Targets neutralized: 1 of 3. Evasion efficiency: 68%. Offensive opportunism: high. Reliance on gross motor dodges resulted in excessive energy expenditure.]
I leaned on my knees, sweat dripping into my eyes. One kill, but my evasion was sloppy. Predictable. The word was a slap.
[AXIOM: Level Two loading.]
The simulation reset. Six constructs shimmered into place—two of each type, their formations overlapping to create a nightmarish web of attack vectors. Stronger. Faster. My jaw tightened.
Three. Two. One.
The world exploded. I tried to replicate my earlier strategy—use their momentum, create chaos, isolate a target—but with six of them, there were no gaps. Every opening was covered. A feint toward a sniper was met with a spear to the ribs. An attempt to parry a brawler left me open to a hail of gunfire.
The simulation's pain feedback bit deep. I stumbled back, breath already ragged. They were reading me, anticipating my clean, efficient movements. My training was becoming a liability.
And then, my subconscious, with the full force of its enhanced cognitive bandwidth, offered a solution. Not a thought, but a data packet—an image from an ancient martial scroll I'd skimmed weeks ago. Zui Quan. Drunken Boxing. A chaotic art. Unpredictable.
It was a spark of lightning in my mind. My weakness wasn't a lack of speed or strength; it was my perfect, logical form. I was a machine fighting other machines.
So I let go.
My knees went slack. My shoulders drooped. My movements staggered. The next bullet whistled toward my temple. I didn't step aside—I swayed into its path, tilting my head at the last possible nanosecond. The projectile carved through the empty air where my skull had been. The rifle AI, its predictive algorithm broken, fired its next shot a fraction too wide.
For the first time, I smirked.
The knives came, a synchronized slash. Instead of evading, I rolled my torso like a drunkard, and their arcs crisscrossed harmlessly in front of me. I could feel it now—something awakening. Not instinct. Not calculation. A glimpse. A sense of where the attack would be a breath from now.
But it wasn't perfect. A machine gun burst caught my thigh. Searing electricity ripped a cry from my throat. My knee buckled. I forced myself upright, weaving erratically, refusing to go down. The timer's end came like a gasp of air to a drowning man.
[AXIOM: Level Two complete. Performance: 54% efficiency. Evasion patterns erratic. However—a 12% improvement in predictive timing registered. Full duration sustained.]
Fifty-four percent. Worse, but I had survived. I hadn't landed a single clean blow.
[AXIOM: Level Three loading. New parameter added: Armor Plating. Objective: Neutralize all targets. Survival is secondary.]
My blood ran cold. Neutralize? Nine constructs materialized, three of each type. This time, they were different. Gleaming plates of simulated composite armor covered their torsos and heads, leaving only thin gaps at the joints and visor slits. Killing blows.
Three. Two. One.
I moved, but they were a tempest. There was no room to attack, no space to even breathe. It was a pure, desperate struggle to exist. The drunken footwork was the only thing keeping me upright as a wall of bullets and blades tried to tear me apart.
For a flicker, I felt it—the glimpse again, a clear trace not of the spear thrust, but of the fractional opening it would create—a gap under the arm where the armor plating ended. It was my only chance. I shifted, my hand darting out like a viper, but another construct's kick slammed into my side, throwing off my aim. The moment was lost. My mind saw the paths, but my body couldn't keep up. The simulation spat me out.
Shots raked across my torso. My knees hit the ground. My vision swam in a sea of static.
[AXIOM: Simulation failed. Level Three incomplete. Targets neutralized: 0.]
The world flickered and died. I collapsed against the pod's interior, gasping for air that wasn't simulated. Failure sat like a stone in my gut, but the ghost of that perfect, predictive glimpse lingered behind my eyes.
Slowly, I unsealed the helmet, dragging in the cool, metallic air of the base. I pushed the pod door open—
And froze.
Sensei Slade stood there. Arms folded. His expression was carved from stone. He had been there the whole time. Watching.
My throat tightened. I felt stripped bare, every weakness, every failure, laid out for his judgment.
He said only three words, his voice low, heavy as iron:
"Come with me."
The words cut deeper than any simulation.