Lyd stumbled through the labyrinth of Orario's back alleys, his ribs aching with every ragged breath. He was following the silent, cloaked giant who had appeared in his life like a phantom of death and salvation. The man—if he was a man—moved with a predatory grace that was utterly terrifying. He flowed through the shadows, his path a perfectly efficient line through the maze of the city, never hesitating, never looking back. Lyd struggled to keep up, his limp more pronounced from the beating he had taken.
He had no idea where they were going, only that he was leaving the filth and despair of his old life behind. He had accepted the stranger's cold offer because it was the only thing anyone had offered him in a long time that wasn't a threat or an insult. It was a chance, brutal and demanding, but a chance nonetheless.
They arrived at a decrepit, forgotten warehouse in the industrial district. The Spartan placed his hand on the heavy iron door, and a faint click echoed in the silence. The door swung inward, not with a groan of rust, but with the smooth, near-silent motion of a well-oiled machine. He gestured for Lyd to enter.
Lyd stepped inside, and his jaw dropped. The interior was not the dusty, rat-infested ruin he expected. It was a space of impossible cleanliness and alien design. The air was cool and tasted sterile, free of the city's stench. The walls were smooth, metallic plates, and the stone floor was clean and level. Soft, white light emanated from glowing panels in the ceiling. In the center of the room stood strange machinery, including a large, multi-jointed mechanical arm that hung silently from above. It was like stepping into another world.
The heavy metal hatch hissed shut behind them, sealing off the outside world completely. The sound made Lyd jump.
"This is your new reality," the Spartan's voice stated, devoid of emotion. He removed his heavy cloak, revealing the dark, functional tunic beneath. Even without his armor, his physique was breathtakingly imposing. He was a mountain of perfectly sculpted muscle, every line of his body screaming power and discipline. "This is your barracks, your training ground, and your forge. Here, you will be unmade and rebuilt."
He turned to face Lyd, his gaze as intense and unyielding as a star. "You accepted my offer in the alley. Before we proceed, you will confirm your commitment. There is no turning back. You will obey every order without question. You will endure every hardship without complaint. Your past life is over. Do you accept these terms?"
Lyd looked around at the impossible workshop, then back at the man who commanded it. This was madness. It was suicide. It was also the only path forward. He straightened his back, wincing in pain, but met the Spartan's gaze. "I accept."
A notification, visible only to the Spartan and Cortana, flashed in his HUD.
[MISSION UPDATE]
[MISSION: The Forging of Assets]
[OBJECTIVE 1: Recruit the first asset (Lyd) - COMPLETE.]
[REWARD: Unlock Option for Schematic [M805X Mjolnir Integration Suit] has been granted.]
"Excellent," Cortana's voice murmured in his private comms. "The undersuit schematic. One step closer to being fully operational again."
The Spartan's focus remained on Lyd. "Your injuries," he stated, pointing to the boy's bruised ribs and split lip. "Report."
"They're just… bruises. I've had worse," Lyd mumbled.
"Infection is an inefficiency. Pain is a distraction. We will correct this." He gestured to a clean, metal bench. "Sit."
Lyd obeyed, perching nervously on the edge. The Spartan approached a wall panel, which slid open to reveal a medical kit unlike any Lyd had ever seen. There were no potions, no bandages of questionable cleanliness. Instead, there were sleek, metallic instruments, injectors, and canisters. He returned with a small device and a canister labeled 'Biofoam'.
"This will feel cold," was the only warning he gave. He pressed the applicator against Lyd's worst bruises. With a soft hiss, a pale, green foam expanded over the injuries, instantly numbing the pain and hardening into a protective cast. The sensation was bizarre, a chilling cold that seeped into his skin, followed by a complete absence of pain.
"What… what is this?" Lyd asked, staring at the strange substance on his skin.
"A self-sterilizing, tissue-regenerating polymer," the Spartan replied simply, as if explaining the function of a hammer. "Your internal bruising will be healed within the hour. The cracked ribs in three. Now, to the debrief."
He stood before Lyd, his posture that of a commanding officer addressing a new recruit.
"In the alley, you made a tactical assessment. You correctly identified that crippling you was an inefficient method for your creditors to collect their debt. That showed intelligence. However, your physical state was insufficient to capitalize on that assessment. You were disarmed, cornered, and neutralized. Your strategy was sound; your execution was a failure. That is what we will change."
He began to pace, his presence dominating the sterile space. "The philosophy you will learn here is simple. It is the core of what I am. It is the rejection of luck, of hope, of divine intervention. Those are variables for the weak, excuses for the unprepared."
He stopped and fixed his gaze on Lyd again. "You will not hope for a weaker enemy; you will train until you are stronger. You will not pray for a miracle; you will create tactical conditions where a miracle is unnecessary. Your mind is your primary weapon. Your body is its delivery system. Your will is the ammunition. Everything else is a tool. You will learn to master all three."
Lyd listened, mesmerized. It was a terrifying philosophy, one that stripped away everything he had ever been taught about the gods, about destiny, about the heroic spirit of adventurers. It was cold, brutal, and yet… it made a terrifying kind of sense. It was a promise that his fate could be entirely his own, if he was strong enough to seize it.
"Your training begins now," the Spartan announced, his tone leaving no room for argument. "The first phase is physical reclamation. Your body is weak, malnourished. We will break it down to its foundation and build it back stronger."
He led Lyd to an open space on the floor. "Push-ups. As many as you can. Go."
Lyd, confused but obedient, got into position. He managed ten shaky push-ups before his arms gave out and he collapsed, his body trembling.
"Pathetic," the Spartan stated, not with malice, but with the detached disappointment of an engineer looking at faulty equipment. "Again."
The next hour was a blur of agony. The Spartan pushed Lyd through a grueling regimen of exercises Lyd had never even seen before—burpees, squats, lunges—all performed until his muscles screamed and his vision swam. There was no encouragement, no shouting. Only the cold, quiet command: "Again." "More." "Do not stop."
Finally, Lyd lay collapsed on the floor, his chest heaving, every muscle on fire. He couldn't move. He had never felt so utterly exhausted in his life.
The Spartan stood over him, a monolithic shadow. "This is your new baseline. Tomorrow, you will exceed it. Now, you will eat, you will hydrate, and you will sleep. Your body requires fuel to be rebuilt. Rations will be provided. Your bunk is there." He pointed to a simple cot in the corner.
As Lyd dragged his broken body toward the cot, the Spartan turned away, already focused on the next phase of his own work. He had planted the first seed. Now, he would see if it had the strength to grow in such harsh soil.