The countdown timer floating in Aiden's peripheral vision read **23:47:33** and ticking down with mechanical precision. Every second that passed felt like a hammer strike against his skull, reminding him that he had less than a day before his brain turned into cognitive soup.
"You know," Aiden muttered as he crept through the darkened academy corridors, "most life-changing power-ups come with tutorials, not death threats."
**Correction: This IS the tutorial. Lesson one: Don't die. There will not be a lesson two if you fail lesson one.**
The training yards were supposed to be locked after midnight, but three years of sneaking in for extra practice—not that it had ever helped—meant Aiden knew which sensor to bypass and which guard liked to nap behind the equipment shed. The main arena was dark, its polished platforms reflecting starlight through the transparent dome overhead.
"Okay," he whispered, pulling up his hood. "I need someone to fight. Someone beatable."
**Your options are limited. Perhaps challenge a practice dummy? They're about your skill level, and they don't fight back.**
"Your material needs work."
**Your combat rating is twelve. My material writes itself.**
Footsteps echoed from the far entrance. Aiden ducked behind a pillar, watching as a figure entered the training area. Marcus Webb—a second-year student who consistently ranked in the bottom thirty percent. Not terrible, but not good. More importantly, Marcus had a habit of training alone at night, trying to improve without witnesses to his failures.
In any normal circumstance, Marcus would still destroy Aiden in under a minute. Tonight, however, normal circumstances were dead and buried next to Aiden's dignity.
"Webb," Aiden called out, stepping into the moonlight.
Marcus jumped, nearly dropping his training blade. "Cross? What the hell are you doing here?"
"Same as you. Training."
Marcus laughed—not cruel, just genuinely confused. "No offense, but why? You're getting expelled in five days anyway."
"Maybe. Maybe not." Aiden activated a practice platform, its surface glowing soft blue. "Want to spar?"
"You're serious?" Marcus looked around as if expecting hidden cameras. "Is this a prank? Did Lucas put you up to this?"
"No prank. Just you and me, standard rules. Unless you're scared of losing to the academy's worst fighter?"
That did it. Marcus's expression shifted from confusion to irritation. "Fine. But when you're unconscious in thirty seconds, remember you asked for this."
They took positions on opposite ends of the platform. Marcus activated his energy gauntlets—lower grade than Lucas's but still military hardware. Aiden had nothing but his standard-issue training wraps, the kind given to first-years before they earned real equipment.
**Analyzing opponent... Analysis complete. Marcus Webb: Competence rating 34/100. Preferred stance: Orthodox. Primary weakness: Telegraphs right hooks. Secondary weakness: You're about to find out.**
"How do I use Adaptive Resonance?" Aiden thought, trying not to move his lips.
**Step one: Don't die. Step two: Observe enemy movement patterns. Step three: Try to copy them without having an aneurysm. Simple.**
"That's not—"
Marcus lunged.
The fist came faster than anything Aiden had dodged before, but something was different. He could see it—not just the punch, but the entire sequence. The slight shoulder dip, the weight shift, the predictable follow-through. His body moved before his brain could process why, tilting just enough for the strike to whistle past his ear.
"What—" Marcus started, but Aiden was already moving.
Not attacking—he wasn't that stupid. Instead, he watched. Every step Marcus took lit up in Aiden's vision like a blueprint. Foot placement, hip rotation, the way he chambered his kicks. Data flooded Aiden's consciousness, and for one terrifying moment, he thought his head might actually explode.
**Warning: Neural load at 47%. Recommendation: Stop thinking so hard. You're not equipped for it.**
Marcus threw a combination—jab, cross, knee. Aiden dodged the first two by margins so thin they shouldn't have been possible, but the knee caught him in the ribs. He flew backward, rolling to absorb the impact.
"That's more like it," Marcus said, advancing. "For a second there, I thought—"
Aiden's hand moved in a perfect mirror of Marcus's earlier jab. The form was identical—the hip twist, the shoulder alignment, even the slight overextension Marcus didn't know he had. The fist connected with Marcus's jaw with a crack that echoed through the empty arena.
Marcus staggered, eyes wide. "How did you—"
But Aiden wasn't listening. The knowledge was flooding through him now—not just movements, but understanding. Why Marcus favored his right side (old injury, left ankle). Why his defense dropped after combos (breathing pattern inefficient). Why he always stepped back with his left foot first (trained by someone with the same habit).
"Impossible," Marcus snarled, charging forward with a haymaker that would have decapitated a practice dummy.
Aiden's body moved like it belonged to someone else. He slipped inside the punch—a technique he'd seen Mira use once—grabbed Marcus's extended arm, and used his opponent's momentum for a throw he'd watched Kade demonstrate months ago. Marcus hit the platform hard, electricity crackling from his gauntlets as they discharged into the floor.
**Neural load at 73%. Permanent damage threshold at 85%. Perhaps slow down before your brain leaks out your ears.**
The warning came too late. Pain exploded behind Aiden's eyes like someone had shoved molten wire through his skull. He dropped to one knee, blood streaming from his nose. The world tilted, colors inverting, and for a moment he saw everything—every possible move Marcus could make, every counter, every outcome branching into infinity.
Marcus was getting up, shaking his head. "What kind of enhancement drugs are you on, Cross?"
Aiden forced himself to stand, wiping blood on his sleeve. His vision was splitting into doubles, triples, but he could still see the pattern. Marcus would throw a front kick, follow with an elbow, leave his right side exposed for exactly 0.7 seconds.
The kick came exactly as predicted. Aiden stepped into it, taking the hit on his shoulder instead of his chest, spinning with the impact. His elbow—moving in perfect imitation of a technique Lucas had used on him last week—found the exposed spot with surgical precision.
Marcus Webb, ranked 847th out of 3,000 students, crumpled to the platform unconscious.
Aiden stood there, swaying, blood dripping onto the glowing surface. "Did I just..."
**Congratulations. You've defeated someone barely better than you. Achievement unlocked: Marginally Less Pathetic. Neural damage: Moderate but not immediately fatal. Overall performance rating: Still embarrassing, but improving.**
"Thanks for the pep talk." Aiden stumbled off the platform, leaving Marcus unconscious but breathing. "Now what?"
**Now you don't die in the next twenty-two hours. Also, you might want to run. Security incoming in approximately forty seconds.**
"You couldn't have mentioned that earlier?"
**Where's the entertainment in that?**
Aiden ran, or tried to. His legs felt like they belonged to someone else, and his depth perception kept shifting. He made it three corridors before crashing into someone coming around a corner.
"Bro!" Jay's voice was equal parts shock and delight. "What are you doing here? And why do you look like you just went ten rounds with a blender?"
"Training," Aiden gasped, trying not to vomit.
"Training? At 1 AM? While bleeding from your—dude, are your eyes different colors right now?"
Aiden caught his reflection in a window. One pupil was completely dilated, the other contracted to a pinpoint. "That's new."
"New? You look possessed! Also, I just came from the yards because my boy Marcus texted that he was going to practice, and I wanted to place a bet on how long he'd last against the training dummies, but plot twist—he's unconscious! Did you see what happened?"
"Maybe."
Jay's eyes widened. "No. No way. You didn't—"
"I need to sit down."
"You beat Marcus Webb? YOU beat Marcus Webb?" Jay was practically vibrating. "This is insane! I had fifty credits on him lasting at least ten minutes against the dummies. Wait, should I be betting on you now? What are the odds on expelled students suddenly becoming competent?"
**Approximately 1 in 4.7 million, adjusted for your specific incompetence.**
Aiden almost responded to the System before remembering Jay couldn't hear it. "Just help me get back to the dorm."
"Right, right, but also—" Jay pulled out his comm unit, "—I need to document this historic moment. Aiden Cross's first victory! The apocalypse must be starting."
"Jay."
"Fine, fine, walking first, social media later. But seriously, what happened? Did someone slip you military-grade stims? Because if they did, I want some."
They made it halfway to Omega Block before running into the last person Aiden wanted to see. Mira Hale stood in the courtyard, still in her training gear despite the hour. She looked at them—at Aiden specifically—with an expression he'd never seen on her face before.
Curiosity.
"Cross," she said, her tone unreadable. "You're bleeding."
"Occupational hazard," he managed.
She stepped closer, and Aiden realized she'd come from the direction of the training yards. "Marcus Webb is unconscious on Platform Seven. Security is investigating." Her silver eyes narrowed. "You wouldn't know anything about that, would you?"
"He was—" Jay started, but Aiden elbowed him.
"Must have pushed himself too hard," Aiden said. "Happens to the best of us."
"It doesn't happen to Marcus Webb." She circled them slowly, like a predator evaluating prey. "He's predictable. Safe. He doesn't push hard enough to knock himself unconscious." She stopped directly in front of Aiden. "But you... you're bleeding from neural overload. That's not from getting hit. That's from something else."
**She's dangerously perceptive. Also, your left eye is starting to hemorrhage. Might want to address that.**
Aiden felt something warm trailing down his cheek. Not tears—blood.
Mira's expression shifted minutely. "Medical. Now."
"I'm fine—"
"That wasn't a suggestion." She pulled out her comm unit. "I'm calling ahead. They'll be ready."
"Why do you care?" The words slipped out before Aiden could stop them.
She paused, looking back over her shoulder. "I don't. But if the academy's worst fighter suddenly develops interesting symptoms, someone should document it. For science."
Jay waited until she was gone before whistling low. "Bro, I think she just showed concern. Mira Hale showed concern for you. Should I check if gravity still works?"
"Shut up and help me walk."
**Mission complete. Reward: Continued existence. Time remaining: 22:13:47. New mission generating...**
"New mission?" Aiden thought, stumbling against Jay's shoulder.
**Mission: Survive the next twenty-two hours without dying from neural hemorrhaging. Bonus objective: Try not to be so pathetic next time. Difficulty: Considering your baseline, nearly impossible.**
"Encouraging as always."
"What?" Jay asked.
"Nothing. Just... thinking out loud."
They reached Medical just as Aiden's vision started going dark around the edges. The last thing he saw before passing out was a message floating in his rapidly failing vision:
**Warning: Unknown entities have flagged your profile. You're being watched. Congratulations—you're finally interesting enough to matter. Let's hope you survive long enough to find out why.**
In a room that didn't exist on any academy blueprint, Marrow smiled at the surveillance footage. "Faster than expected. The System chose well."
Another figure stepped from the shadows—tall, imposing, wearing insignia from a military division that had been officially disbanded years ago. "He nearly killed himself in his first real use."
"All the best ones do," Marrow replied, zooming in on Aiden's unconscious face. "Send word to our sponsors. The prototype is active."
"And if he dies?"
"Then we activate the next candidate. But something tells me..." Marrow traced a finger across the screen, "...this one's too stubborn to die. Even if the universe is betting against him."
The countdown timer in Aiden's unconscious mind kept ticking: **22:11:33... 22:11:32... 22:11:31...**