The lighting cycle had already begun its slow shift by the time Bash stirred.

  It wasn’t dawn, at least, not the kind that ever rose over Earth. The ship simulated it with color: soft

  orange light blooming through the alloy walls, deepening gradually toward gold. The temperature

  adjusted with it, a subtle increase meant to mimic the warmth of a rising sun. It might have been

  comforting if it didn’t feel so artificial.

  He lay still for a long time, watching the light crawl across the ceiling panels. It had only been one day

  since he’d woken in this world, and yet the rhythm of the ship was already starting to imprint on him.

  Every sound, the hum in the floor, the distant pulse of ventilation, seemed synchronized, mechanical,

  efficient. Everything here knew its place.

  Everything except him.

  Across the room, Rixor hadn’t slept at all. The Grey shifted endlessly in his bunk, tossing, muttering

  half-formed words. The reactive fabric of his bedding rustled with every turn, faintly glowing where

  his body heat touched it. When he finally sat up, his eyes were wide and rimmed with fatigue.

  “Didn’t sleep a second,” he said, rubbing his face. “My head won’t stop.”

  Bash didn’t answer right away. He swung his legs over the edge of the bunk, his feet touching the cold

  floor, and stared at the faint orange hue filtering up from below. It almost reminded him of sunlight

  through smoke.

  S-C’s voice brushed against his mind like static on glass.

  Cycle transition complete. Coordination Chamber will open in thirty-four minutes.

  He sighed. “Yeah, I figured.”

  Combat parameters confirmed, she continued. Format: two-on-two evaluation under observation.

  Overseers Virk and Jouk presiding. Termination threshold, forty percent resonance depletion.

  “Forty percent.” He frowned. “So it’s not to the death.”

  Theoretically, S-C said. Reincarnates have been known to disregard termination protocols when

  provoked.

  He looked over at Rixor, who was now sitting hunched forward, elbows on his knees. “Think they’ll

  actually stop it if it gets bad?”

  Before Rixor could answer, S-C’s tone cut softly through his mind. Uncertain.

  That single word hung there like a stone in his chest.

  Bash stood, crossing to the small wall panel. Inside hung the same reactive clothing Rixor had shown

  him last night. He ran his hand along the material; it shimmered faintly, alive with embedded energy

  channels. When he slipped it on, the suit adjusted instantly, tightening around his limbs, sealing at his

  wrists and collar. The fibers warmed to match his body, then cooled, setting like a second skin.

  Rixor was still watching him. “Guess that’s it, huh? No armor. No weapons. Just us.”

  Bash zipped the collar into place. “Guess so.”

  The light had shifted to full daylight orange by the time they left the dorm. Jouk was waiting at the end

  of the corridor, arms crossed. His expression was unreadable.

  “Let’s go,” he said.

  They followed without a word. The walk was long, the kind that stretched the air thin with tension.

  Every step echoed against metal, swallowed by distance. The corridor curved upward toward the main

  deck, lined by faint bands of blue illumination that gave the illusion of a horizon.

  Rixor finally spoke, voice shaking just enough to betray him. “It’ll get stopped… right? Before anyone

  gets hurt?”

  Jouk didn’t look back. “As long as you avoid single-shot killing blows.”

  Bash shot Rixor a glance, but neither of them said anything more. The implication was clear.

  When the corridor opened, Bash almost didn’t recognize the place.

  The Coordination Facility, where they’d stood yesterday under Virk’s scrutiny, had been transformed

  overnight. The broad expanse that once held training platforms and observation terminals was now

  stripped bare, reshaped into a single circular arena surrounded by tiered balconies.

  When the corridor opened, Bash almost didn’t recognize the place.

  The Coordination Facility, where they’d stood under questioning just the previous day, had been

  transformed overnight. The room was smaller than he remembered, its open floor reconfigured into a

  circular arena ringed with raised viewing decks.

  The walls gleamed with reinforced alloy, seamless and precise, each strip of light tuned to a clean,

  sterile white. Less than a hundred Novarchs filled the right gallery, their voices hushed. Across from

  them, the fifteen Reincarnates stood in formation, their posture rigid, their confidence radiating like

  armor.

  The center of the chamber drew all attention, a smooth arena floor composed of interlocking hexagonal

  plates that pulsed with a low, rhythmic glow. Each pulse echoed faintly through Bash’s chest, timed to

  the hum running beneath the floor.

  It wasn’t the same facility anymore. The training space had become a proving ground.

  Bash’s stomach tightened. The floor itself felt alive, vibrating faintly with the resonance of hundreds of

  watching Spartors.

  Virk stood across the chamber on a raised platform, posture straight, her armor the color of burnished

  brass. Jouk ascended the opposite dais, his calm presence the counterpoint to her sharpness.

  When Virk spoke, her voice carried through the chamber like a weapon.

  “This session will determine accountability for the disturbance in the Nexus cafeteria. Two divisions,

  two representatives per division. The evaluation will proceed until a victor is declared.”

  S-C murmured in Bash’s mind before he could even think to ask.

  Selection parameters confirmed. Novarch combatants predetermined, Bash and Rixor. Reincarnate

  representatives will be chosen by randomization sequence.

  Bash gave a quiet, humorless laugh. “Yeah, right. Randomized. I’m sure we’ll get the two weakest

  they’ve got.”

  Statistically, probability weighting favors neutrality, S-C replied.

  “Statistically,” he muttered, eyes narrowing toward the Reincarnates forming ranks across the arena, “I

  guarantee we get their best two.

  Opponent probability distribution calculated, S-C continued. Your inclusion: one hundred percent.

  Expected pair alignment: Rixor.

  “Obviously,” he thought.

  Adjusted survival projection, thirty-two percent under cooperative engagement. Separated, nine

  percent.

  “Great,” Bash thought grimly. “So, basically, we just have to try not to die together.”

  Correct, she replied with perfect calm.

  Virk continued. “The evaluation will proceed as follows,” she announced. “Two representatives from

  each division will enter the arena. However, combat will be conducted individually, one against one.

  Victory will be determined by performance. When both rounds conclude, the division with the superior

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  record will be cleared of fault.”

  A ripple of surprise moved through both sides.

  Combat parameters updating, S-C interrupted sharply in his mind. Format revision: one-on-one

  evaluation. Pair structure canceled. Probability recalculating.

  Bash frowned. “She changed it?”

  Affirmative. Revised statistics, your probability of victory has increased to forty-one percent. Rixor’s

  has dropped to near zero.

  He felt his jaw tighten. “Figures.”

  Virk’s eyes swept the chamber. “Novarch division, first combatant forward.”

  Jouk’s voice followed, calm and direct. “Bash. Step out.”

  The air shifted. Dozens of gazes tracked him as he moved into the ring. The faint light of the arena

  crawled up his legs, mapping his resonance signature.

  Across the chamber, Virk gestured toward her line. “Reincarnate division, ”

  Before she could finish, Murdok stepped out, grinning like he owned the room. His body gleamed with

  the green resonance of an experienced warrior.

  Virk’s eyes flashed. “Fall back, Reincarnate! You will wait until I command it.”

  He smirked but obeyed, retreating a single step.

  Virk turned her head slightly. “Verrin. You’ll represent the division.”

  The chosen Spartor stepped forward, broad-shouldered and powerfully built, his movements carrying

  the weight of practiced strength. Dense cords of muscle shifted beneath his armor as a steady green

  radiance pulsed from his frame, rolling outward in measured waves as he entered the ring.

  The arena hummed.

  “Begin,” Virk commanded.

  Verrin struck first. Fast, disciplined, but predictable. His attacks were pure form, precise arcs of motion

  reinforced by resonance bursts. Bash parried the first blow easily, sidestepped the second. His new

  body responded like a well-tuned machine, reflexes sharp, balance perfect.

  Left angle, counter now, S-C urged.

  He reacted instinctively, dropping low, catching the blow against his forearm, and pivoting past Verrin’s

  reach. The strike jarred his bones, but his footing held. Across from him, the larger Reincarnate

  steadied himself, a flicker of surprise crossing his features.

  They exchanged a series of quick strikes, metallic impacts and resonant ripples echoing through the air.

  The crowd watched in silence. Bash adjusted to each movement faster than his opponent could adapt,

  not fighting to win but to learn.

  His motions grew more fluid, his timing sharper. Each parry gave him more information: muscle

  response, energy feedback, balance correction.

  Virk’s composure began to crack. This wasn’t how a newly hatched Novarch was supposed to move.

  S-C’s voice slipped in, faintly uneasy. You are exceeding neural assimilation parameters by sixty

  percent.

  “I’m just getting the hang of it.”

  Your efficiency is anomalous.

  He didn’t respond. He’d already seen an opening.

  Bash moved in, a feint left, a pivot, then three rapid strikes. The first cracked against Verrin’s arm, the

  second drove into his chest, and the third swept his leg clean. The Reincarnate crashed backward,

  armor flaring with fractured light before dimming to a dull glow.

  Bash didn’t hesitate. He followed him down, dropping into a top mount, knees pinning Verrin’s sides.

  His right fist drew back, ready to drive through the Reincarnate’s guard...

  “HALT!” Virk’s voice thundered through the chamber.

  The command hit like a physical shock. Bash froze mid-swing, muscles coiled, breath ragged. The hum

  of the arena seemed to vanish into silence.

  Bash stood still, breathing evenly. He hadn’t felt fear, only focus. S-C’s voice returned, quieter this

  time. You may have overdone it. Your display exceeds acceptable variance for an untrained Novarch.

  “Too late now.”

  On the sidelines, murmurs spread. Murdok’s voice cut through them. “That was pathetic. You call that a

  Reincarnate? Should’ve let me take the dark one.”

  Virk rounded on him. “Silence!” Her command cracked like a blade.

  Murdok’s smirk didn’t fade. “Just saying, Commander. Wouldn’t want anyone thinking the

  Reincarnates are losing their edge.”

  “Enough.” Her voice was ice. “You’ll have your turn soon enough.”

  Jouk said nothing, but Bash saw the faintest hint of a smile on the commander’s lips.

  Verrin was carried from the arena, his resonance dim. The whispers grew louder, Novarchs muttering

  disbelief, Reincarnates shifting uneasily. No one had expected a newly created Spartor to fight like that.

  Bash returned to his mark, body loose, breathing calm.

  Virk’s eyes found Jouk’s across the arena. “He shouldn’t move like that. Not this soon after hatching.”

  Jouk inclined his head slightly. “Perhaps you underestimate what your system creates.”

  Her jaw tightened, but she turned away.

  Two new resonance circles ignited. Virk raised her hand. “Next Reincarnate forward.”

  This time, Murdok didn’t wait for permission. He strode into the ring, every movement radiating

  confidence. “Don’t worry, Commander,” he said loudly. “I’ll make sure we get our reputation back.”

  Virk’s voice was taut. “Maintain discipline.” She looked toward the Novarchs. “Your next

  representative.”

  Jouk turned his gaze to Rixor. “You’re up.”

  The Grey froze. “M-me?”

  “Step forward.”

  Murdok grinned, rolling his shoulders. “This’ll be quick.”

  As they passed, Murdok leaned close to Bash, his voice a low growl. “You’re lucky you’re not him.

  Because he’s not walking away.”

  Bash didn’t move, but his pulse spiked.

  His resonance output exceeds standard combat threshold by sixty-seven percent, S-C warned. Rixor

  cannot withstand that level of impact.

  “Then I’ll stop him if I have to.”

  That would be a violation of duel protocol.

  “Yeah,” Bash thought grimly. “I know.”

  Rixor entered the ring, stiff and terrified. Murdok rolled his neck, resonance already flaring like green

  fire. The light from the arena shimmered over them both.

  Virk raised her voice. “Both combatants ready?”

  They both nodded.

  “Clarification,” she added, her tone cutting. “There must be a total victorious side. Should the

  Reincarnates win this round, a third duel will determine full accountability.”

  The crowd murmured again, excitement, unease, disbelief.

  Rixor’s breathing quickened. Murdok smiled. Bash’s fists clenched at his sides.

  Just as Virk opened her mouth to begin the match, Bash took one sharp step forward. His voice cut

  through the hall.

  “Commander Jouk,” he said, tone crisp, controlled. “Permission to speak.”

  The entire chamber froze.

  Every eye turned toward him. Virk’s expression darkened, but Jouk’s mouth curved almost

  imperceptibly, the faintest flicker of curiosity lighting his features.

  “Granted,” he said.