Twenty-four hours had passed.
The recovery chamber hissed softly as Zander stirred. His eyes opened to a muted glow filtering through thick glass. Beyond it, a shadow waited patiently, unmoving—Sensei.
The fluid around him drained in a rush, leaving his skin tingling in the sudden cool air. The canopy retracted with a hiss, and Zander became instantly aware of his state of undress.
Before the thought could finish, Sensei tossed something dark into his arms. "Put this on."
Zander unfolded it. Sleek, form-fitting, unlike any fabric he had worn before. He pulled it on quickly, the material tightening perfectly to his frame. Black formed the base, but blue streaks wove through like lightning trapped in cloth.
It felt alive.
Sensei stepped forward, tapping the chest with a knuckle. "Titanlace. Woven from titanium-carbide microfilaments, tempered in aether-reactive baths. Stronger than steel, light as a feather. Heat and cold resistant. Enough to keep you alive against entry-level techniques—if you don't get careless. Don't mistake it for invincibility."
Zander flexed an arm, marveling at the way the suit stretched seamlessly. "It feels… natural."
"As it should. Armor that slows you down isn't armor, it's a coffin. Come."
The force chamber felt colder than the hallways leading to it. A tall column reinforced with alloy plating stood in the center, its surface marked by faint aether lines that pulsed with energy. The walls were lined with impact dampeners, faintly glowing runes absorbing stray force. No one else was there—just the three of them.
Axiom stood near the display, eyes steady, clipboard tucked under one arm. "We're ready."
Zander stepped forward, rolling his shoulders. His body felt stronger now, sharper—alive with the resonance he had only begun to understand. Memories of Joren's strike burned in his mind: a reminder of what a true Martial Master could do.
Sensei's voice came low, commanding. "First punch—no techniques. Just you. I want to see the raw number."
Zander nodded. He set his stance, drew a breath, and launched his fist straight into the column.
The strike landed with a crack that reverberated through the chamber. The display blinked before settling.
16,087 N.
Zander's knuckles tingled, but he stayed still. Axiom nodded once, voice calm as he wrote. "Sixteen thousand. Well above your last recorded results."
Sensei's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.
"Now," Axiom continued, "try again—this time with everything. Technique. Resonance. Your full intent."
Zander inhaled, centering himself. The rhythm of the arena came back to him—every vibration, every heartbeat, every echo. His body twisted, his spirit aligned, his soul resonated. The Heavenbreaker stance clicked into place.
He struck.
The column shuddered violently, lights blazing across its surface. The sound rang through the room like thunder. The numbers climbed rapidly, pausing only when the counter froze.
64,348 N.
Axiom's pen stopped mid-mark. His calm cracked for only an instant, but he quickly recovered, adjusting his glasses. "Normal force output: sixteen thousand range. Multiplier calculated at four. Total force recorded: sixty-four thousand, three hundred and forty-eight newtons."
The words hung in the air like a blade.
Zander exhaled sharply, feeling the force echo in his bones. He looked up, half-expecting Sensei's approval.
Instead, Sensei stood silent. For a moment, his mask slipped—the faintest widening of his eyes, the tension in his jaw. Shock. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with stern composure.
He turned sharply. "Follow me."
They left the chamber in silence. The stairwell was narrow, lit by dim strips of cold light. Zander could hear only their footsteps, the distant hum of generators, and the faint ringing still in his bones from that last strike.
Sensei's quarters were higher than he expected—removed from the training halls, set apart. The room was spartan but lived-in—walls lined with bookshelves filled with manuals, war logs, and scrolls bound in old leather. A heavy wooden table stood at the center, and a punching bag swayed slightly in the corner, its surface scarred by countless impacts.
Sensei sat at the table and gestured for Zander to do the same.
For a moment, silence stretched between them. Finally, Sensei spoke. His voice was calm, but heavy.
"Your multiplier is four. Don't tell anyone. If asked, you say three. Do you understand?"
Zander frowned. "But why—"
"Because if the wrong people find out, you'll paint a target on yourself bigger than anything I can protect. You'll be hunted, manipulated, or worse. Swear it."
Zander swallowed. "I swear."
Sensei nodded once, leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms.
"Good. Then the second thing." His eyes hardened. "You need to understand the world you've just stepped into. Most Martial Masters never break past a multiplier of two. Those who reach three are called elites. Four…" He shook his head slowly. "Four is reserved for those whispered about in war rooms and black dossiers. You're not just talented, Zander. You're a problem—for someone."
Zander felt his chest tighten. "I don't want to be a problem."
Sensei's gaze was steady. "You don't have a choice. Power draws eyes. Some will want to use you. Some will want to end you. That's why you will keep training. That's why you'll learn to hide your hand until the moment it matters."
He leaned forward, his voice quiet but charged with weight.
"You've seen a glimpse of what your body can do. But to survive what's coming, you need to understand where humanity stands now. To understand where we came from, and why we fight."
He placed a hand on one of the old scrolls beside him, its surface worn and cracked.
"It's time you learned history."