The anger from the Gut Pit didn't cool; it settled, becoming the quiet, kinetic fuel that powered Kai's next movements. The small bundle of credits from the win, barely thicker than his thumb, felt lighter than it should have, already earmarked for far more pressing things than glory.
He took a battered, repurposed transit sled back to Sector 4, the "Rust Belt"—a sprawling district of low-cost housing units built atop decommissioned factory complexes. The ride was long and bumpy, forcing him to reflect on the scout's words, turning them over and over in his mind like sharp shards of glass.
Unconventional training.
Back-alley success.
Lack of suitable lineage.
A flashback hit him: a few years prior, a local, mid-level approvedCultivation Master had caught Kai attempting to access traditional meridian training using self-taught, erratic energy flows. The Master had thrown him out, shouting that he would corrupt his own Bio Energy if he didn't stop forcing the flow against the established paths.
But the established paths didn't work for me, Kai thought, pressing his knuckles to his tired eyes. The rigid, standard training systems always seemed to tax his energy reserves for minimal gain. It was only when he started experimenting, allowing his unique problem-solving approach to guide the energy—the Divergent Flow—that his control and power skyrocketed. His body, not a manual, had written his path.
The prejudice was a mathematical constant in this world. Kai knew students with lower technical scores—students from families with lineage, money, and certified training—who would walk through the gates of the Top 5. His genius was measured against his social debt, and the debt always won. The Arbitral Council, governed by the top academy students, ensured that the laws always favored the continuation of the existing power structure.
He finally reached his apartment block—a monotonous, grey-concrete tower. The hallway smelled of stale recycling and ozone from constantly sputtering power junctions.
When he opened the door, the first thing he saw was the strained, familiar look of worry on his Grandmother's face.
Grandmother Zore was thin, her hands callused not from engineering, but from decades of repetitive motion on a factory assembly line. She was watching a local news feed, which was running a highly stylized segment on the academic success of the 'new generation of elite.' The contrast between the holographic image of a smiling, privileged student and the reality of their cramped living space was a harsh slap.
"You won, Kai," she said, her voice quiet but firm, a small, proud tremor beneath the surface. "I felt the shift in the neighborhood."
"Yes, Grandmama. Not much, but enough." He immediately divided the credits, placing the larger portion toward the communal terminal. "Debt payment first."
Their primary constant threat wasn't starvation, but the Bio Energy Debt—a crippling, cumulative tax levied on low-born families for using public power, public transport, and even breathing the filtered public air. It was a vicious, self-perpetuating cycle designed to keep families financially and socially bound to their sector.
"You should keep more for replacement tools," she argued, though her hand trembled as she placed the credits on the terminal.
"The tools can wait. The debt can't. If we miss the payment, they cut the power to your vital systems," he reminded her, the practical fear pushing the emotional exhaustion away.
Suddenly, a loud, sharp knocking rattled the thin door. It wasn't the police; it was more familiar, more casual, and somehow more menacing.
A moment later, the door slid open to reveal a burly man in a poorly fitted, grey enforcement uniform: Warden Grix. Grix was an auxiliary officer for the sector's communal resource management—a polite name for a professional bully who leveraged the Arbitral Council's convoluted laws for personal gain.
"The champion returns," Grix drawled, stepping inside without invitation, his eyes already scanning the room for anything of value. "I heard the good news, Zore. Big win. Big pot."
Kai's hand tightened into a fist at his side. He kept his voice level, maintaining the quiet politeness that was his shield against the street. "The payment has been allocated, Warden. You have no business here."
"Maybe I do," Grix sneered, kicking a stray pile of Kai's technical schematic printouts. "That salvage job? I'm sure you used communal energy cells for the calibration, yes? That constitutes a Resource Infringement under Section 4, Sub-clause Beta-9 of the Astral Council's regulations. Your unconventional repair job likely created an unlicensed energy fluctuation on the grid. That requires a fine."
Kai felt the cold burn return. The absurdity of the law was its strength. He had saved them money, but the system demanded its pound of flesh.
"How much is the fine, Warden?" Kai asked, forcing himself to breathe through his nose, using the mental discipline of his martial arts training to suppress the urge to lash out.
Grix smiled, a yellow, ugly thing. "Let's call it half your winnings, boy. For the inconvenience."
This was the true face of the prejudice—not just the rejection from the top schools, but the daily, grinding theft enabled by the complex laws written by the very students who had just dismissed him. Kai felt a deep, profound sense of injustice. He had fought the mechanical limits of the chassis and won; now he had to fight the legal limits of his society and lose.
He fought the urge to argue, knowing it would only escalate the fine. He reached into his pocket and placed the remaining credits on the terminal.
Warden Grix laughed, snatching the credits before they could even register. "See you next week, champion. Keep winning."
As Grix finally lumbered out, shutting the door with a loud thud, Kai stood motionless. Grandmother Zore gently touched his shoulder, her hand rough but comforting.
"They cannot take what is in your mind, Kai," she whispered, her voice filled with a quiet, fierce belief that had kept them alive for years. "That, they cannot touch."
Kai looked down at the palm where the heat burn still smarted, a grim reminder of his effort. His chip on the shoulder didn't just fuel ambition; it fueled a desire for systemic revenge. He was going to build something that defied their laws, their rules, and their lineage. He would make them pay for every slight, every fine, every insult. The APEX Suit wasn't just a dream; it was a war declaration.