The air around Mammoth City seemed to hum with raw energy. As The Wanderer descended, the skyline unfolded like a fortress of steel and muscle. Colossal towers rose from the earth, not with grace, but with brutalist intent, each one reinforced with heavy exo-frames and gleaming alloys. Freight drones glided between them, hauling containers large enough to house small aircraft. Below, massive treaded transports rumbled through the city's arteries, their vibrations a low, constant thrum I could feel through the ship's deck plates. This was not the elegant, sterile perfection of Novara's shining domes—this was a city built for power. Zander pressed his face against the viewport, his senses wide open. "It looks alive," he murmured. "Like the whole place is… breathing." Sensei stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back. "In a way, it is. Mammoth City is the heart of humanity's strength—body, mind, and machine. It does not hide its nature."
When the ramp lowered, the heat hit Zander first—a dense, sun-baked warmth tinged with the coppery scent of iron and ozone. The spaceport was a symphony of industrial might: heavy-frame loaders clanking, engineers shouting orders over the shriek of metal, hydraulic arms hissing like metallic serpents. Everything here felt heavier, louder, more real. Sensei led the way, his calm presence a blade cutting through the noise. They passed through the bustling industrial quarter until the landscape shifted into a massive courtyard lined with reinforced pillars. The faint tremor underfoot grew stronger, a rhythmic pounding that spoke of immense, focused effort. A massive gate loomed ahead, etched with the sigil of a clenched fist surrounded by concentric rings. Above it, the words DRAYDEN DOJO – Strength is Freedom glowed in bold, metallic light.
Inside, the air was thick with sweat, effort, and the sharp tang of super-heated metal. Trainees—men and women alike—strained against enormous machines that pulsed with red energy. Some lifted stone blocks that had to weigh several tons; others practiced strikes against magnetic barriers that flashed violently upon impact. Every sound was a testament to the will to overcome resistance. At the far end stood a man whose very presence seemed to anchor the room, a point of absolute stability in the chaos.
Drayden. He was tall—towering—and built like a living monolith. His muscles carried a density that seemed to bend the light around him. His hair was shaved close on the sides, streaked silver through black, and a faint scar ran across his temple. He wore no armor, only a pair of reinforced gauntlets that gleamed as though freshly forged. "Again!" His voice boomed like rolling thunder, cutting through the din. The trainees under his watch strained to lift a metallic slab the size of a hovercar. "Don't fight the weight—become the weight! Feel its heart, then command it!" The slab shuddered but rose, trembling in midair as eight students roared in unison. When it slammed down, the ground trembled with a controlled shockwave.
Drayden nodded approvingly before turning—and his gaze locked onto Sensei and Zander. "Slade, you old ghost!" His severe features broke into a grin that was surprisingly warm. "Finally decided to bring your prized weapon out of the shadows, have you?" "Drayden," Sensei replied, bowing his head slightly. "And you look like you're one bad mood away from tearing this city down with your bare hands." Drayden laughed, a deep, genuine sound that seemed to shake the very air. "Only the east wing, I promise." He approached, offering a hand that looked more like a slab of iron than flesh. When Zander took it, he felt as though he were gripping a compressed star.
The grip was firm but not crushing, yet the raw, passive density behind it sent a vibration through his bones. Zander met his grip without flinching, a silent test passed. Drayden's eyes, gray with streaks of pale gold, studied him with an unnerving intensity. "So this is the boy who broke a Lygari. I expected more… scars. Or at least a bit of fire in the eyes. You're quiet." "The loud ones are usually the first to get hit," Zander replied, the words leaving his mouth before he could stop them.
Drayden's grin widened. "Ha! The boy has a tongue. Good. Modesty is a virtue, but silence in a fighter is a liability. You might just be worth the rumors." Before Zander could reply, Drayden turned toward a massive, unblemished stone formation embedded into the floor—a training monolith used to test physical impact. He rolled his shoulders. "Talk is cheap. If I'm going to train him, he needs to understand the language we speak here." Without another word, he stepped forward. The ambient noise of the dojo seemed to fade away as all eyes turned to him. He drew a slow breath, and the very air around him grew tight, heavy.
Zander's kinesthetic sense screamed; he could feel the kinetic energy building in Drayden's body, a chain reaction starting from the floor, coiling through his legs and torso, and concentrating into his clenched fist. Then Drayden punched. The sound was not a crack—it was a contained explosion, a deafening silence followed by a roar of displaced air. The monolith didn't just break; it atomized, vaporizing into a cloud of dust and pebbles. A shockwave of pure force rippled through the room, kicking up grit and sand.
The trainees stepped back in awe, their faces lit with reverence. Zander's heart pounded. He had felt the power build, but the release… it was raw, unfiltered might on a scale he had never witnessed. His palms dampened. That was one punch. Drayden shook the dust from his gauntlet and grinned. "Strength isn't about making a spectacle. It's about focus. A punch that can shatter a mountain is an amateur's trick. The true master can shatter the mountain or cradle a seed in the same hand. That is control."
Sensei's faint smile returned. "You've been practicing your poetry, Drayden." "Been stealing your lines for years, old friend," Drayden replied. He turned back to Zander. "You'll be with me every morning. We'll see if those bones of yours are steel or glass." "And the evenings?" Zander asked, his voice a little hoarse. Drayden glanced at Sensei, a spark of old camaraderie in his eyes. "Evenings, you're with him. I'll forge your body into a weapon; he'll sharpen your mind into a razor's edge. Between the two of us, you might just survive." Sensei nodded. "Your mornings will belong to strength. Your evenings to balance." "Perfect," Drayden said. "We start at dawn. Don't be late."
After introductions, Drayden gave them a tour. The dojo was more like a small fortress, its center a colossal open-air pit lined with lifting towers and magnetic pulse machines. The technology fascinated Zander. He could feel the controlled gravity fields humming, see the pulses of vibrational energy designed to destabilize muscle rhythm, forcing students to maintain control through chaos. Every machine was an instrument of discipline. "Well?" Drayden asked, watching his expression. "Overwhelmed yet?" "It's…" Zander hesitated, searching for the right word. "A lot to process. But it's incredible." "'Incredible' is one word for it," Drayden said, satisfied. "'Intimidating' is another. Hold onto that feeling. Intimidation reminds you that strength isn't free.
It's earned, every single day, in sweat and pain." They paused at a balcony overlooking the training pit, the bronze-tinted sky stretching to the horizon. In the distance, massive reactors pulsed like slow heartbeats. Sensei leaned on the railing. "You've built quite the empire, old friend." "Not mine," Drayden corrected softly. "Mammoth City was forged by those who refused to stay weak. I'm just the caretaker of that spirit." Zander turned to him. "Sensei said this city is one of the safest on Earth." Drayden nodded. "Guards in every sector, drones in every corridor, and reinforcement fields that can withstand a small war. You're as protected here as any human can be." Zander glanced at Sensei, who gave a faint approving nod. "Then we can focus entirely on training." "Good," Drayden said, his grin returning, sharp as a blade. "Because starting tomorrow, this city becomes your own personal hell. And we'll find out if that Lygari win was skill… or just blind luck."
That night, as Zander lay in his new quarters, the faint echo of the day's sounds lingered—the clang of metal, the roar of trainees, the shockwave of Drayden's punch. Through the window, Mammoth City pulsed like a giant machine, alive and unyielding. He stared up at the ceiling, heart still thrumming with anticipation and a hint of fear. Tomorrow, he thought, I begin again. And somewhere deep inside, beneath nerves and uncertainty, a spark of excitement flickered—the feeling that whatever awaited him in this city of strength, it would shape him into