The next night, I finished it.
My hands were blistered, stained with grease and blood. The workbench around me was littered with shattered tools and scorched scraps of failed attempts. The prototype sat in the center of it all—perfect, ominous. A cube of black alloy etched with glowing lines, pulsating like a heartbeat.
My head swam with a cocktail of alcohol and synthetic stimulants. My eyes stung, my vision doubled, but I was smiling.
"Mother..." I slurred, staggering as she entered the workshop.
She froze at the door, taking in the scene—burn marks on the walls, sparks fizzing from a shattered terminal, and me, leaning like a broken statue.
"I did it," I murmured, holding up the cube. "This—this is the most powerful weapon ever made."
She stepped forward slowly, alarm growing on her face.
"It turns an object's own gravitons against itself. It collapses... like a dying star... folds inward until nothing is left. Not even light..."
I laughed, wobbling, then crumpled to the floor.
"I finished it..."
I was unconscious before I hit the ground.
She dropped to her knees, pulling me into her arms. I was feverish, mumbling fragments of blueprints and memories.
Nkhensani burst into the room moments later, breath catching in her throat.
"Help me," my mother said, her voice shaking.
Together, they carried me down the corridor and laid me gently on my bed. My chest rose and fell with shallow, uneven breaths.
"He's burning out," Nkhensani whispered.
"He's becoming something else," my mother replied, brushing hair from my face.
A silence settled over the room, heavy with fear.
The next morning, I woke to searing pain in my skull. The memories of last night came back in shards—her voice, the weapon, the fall.
But there was no time for recovery.
Training began at sunrise.
Every day, we drilled harder than the last. We stepped into 3D simulations projected from combat data—real scenarios recorded from the invaders' planet. Every battle, every cry, every death.
It wasn't just war. It was life. Families. Laughter. Terror. Resistance. The enemy wasn't faceless anymore.
We watched mothers shielding children, lovers saying goodbye, rebels falling in slow motion.
Sometimes, we hesitated.
Suru dropped his rifle during a hostage drill. Nkhensani screamed during a house breach where the walls were painted with handprints.
I stood still in one scene, unable to move as a boy—no older than I was when the war began—looked straight into the lens, eyes wide with fear and defiance.
These weren't just training exercises. They were mirrors.
We bled in silence. We broke and rebuilt ourselves every hour.
Not every mission was a fight. Some were infiltration. Rescue. Witnessing pain we couldn't prevent.
But through it all, something formed between us—a bond carved through shared suffering.
We were becoming more than a unit.
We were becoming a force forged in truth, not just tactics.
This was the first arc of our transformation.
And it would decide whether we rose as protectors...
Or collapsed like the stars we swore to defend.