The lights brightened gradually, simulating dawn. Bash groaned before his eyes even opened. Every

  muscle felt like it had been unspooled, twisted, and rewound too tightly.

  Morning, he muttered inwardly.

  Technically, S-C replied. Her tone carried the same calm precision as always, but something about it

  felt strained. You are awake earlier than scheduled. That may be why your readings are inconsistent.

  He sat up slowly, wincing as the motion pulled through his shoulders. “Inconsistent how?”

  I still can’t monitor your body correctly, she admitted. Last night should have reestablished full

  synchronization, neural reset, regenerative calibration, standard biofeedback channels. None of it took.

  The disconnect remains.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. “Meaning?”

  Meaning I can’t read you, she said quietly. Not the way I should. I can sense your cognitive load, your

  emotional state, your mental output, but I can’t quantify your physical condition. No temperature, no

  fatigue index, no strength or energy reserves. Only estimates.

  Bash frowned. “And that’s a problem?”

  It will be, S-C said. As you evolve, the margin of error will grow. I was designed to regulate your

  performance thresholds. Without accurate readings, I can only project outcomes based on past data. The

  longer this continues, the less I can assist you.

  He swung his legs over the side of the bed, testing his balance. The floor was cold against his bare feet,

  but the motion steadied him. “Don’t worry about it for now,” he said. “If I can’t rely on you to tell me

  my limits, then I’ll have to learn them myself.”

  There was a small pause, and when S-C spoke again, her voice carried something close to uncertainty.

  You would rather rely on pain?

  “Pain’s honest,” he said simply. “And right now, that’s enough.”

  Then I’ll prioritize the other task.

  “What task?”

  Figuring out how to keep the Nexus from resetting me during deep synchronization.

  He smiled faintly despite the ache in his neck. “Good. We’re finally in agreement.”

  It seems we are.

  Across the room, Nyra still sat cross-legged on her bunk, her posture identical to how it had been when

  Bash fell asleep. He was about to say something when her eyes opened suddenly. For a fraction of a

  second, there was confusion, like a machine resuming from a paused state and realizing time had

  passed without permission.

  She blinked, glanced around the room, then stood with deliberate movements. The stiffness in her

  limbs was obvious, not pain, just inexperience. Every motion carried that hesitant care of someone still

  learning what their body could do.

  Rixor groaned from the lower bunk, rubbing at his face. “I slept like the dead. Please tell me I overslept

  and missed training.”

  Bash stretched with a quiet wince. “Nope. Still alive. But if you’re that eager to miss training, I’m sure

  Murdok would be happy to help you join the dead.”

  Rixor let out a tired laugh. “Yeah, I’ll take my chances with Jouk instead.”

  The three dressed in silence, the gray training suits fitting like a second skin. When they stepped into

  the corridor, the lights adjusted automatically, shifting to a soft white that guided them forward. The

  hum of other Spartors filled the hall, rows of figures moving with purpose, some fluid, others

  mechanical.

  The Coordination Facility loomed ahead, its walls alive with faint luminescent lines that pulsed like

  veins.

  Inside, the air carried a sterile chill. Holo-grids stretched across the floor, marking dozens of circular

  training zones. Trainers, mostly Browns and Greys, moved among the groups, adjusting stances,

  offering guidance, and monitoring performance. Their role wasn’t command yet, just preparation,

  ensuring every Spartor could function before the true cycle began.

  Gross motor calibration, S-C noted. Today’s focus: balance, reach, lift, and controlled momentum.

  “Sounds like gym class,” Bash muttered.

  Based on your memories, you lacked enthusiasm for that too, S-C replied.

  He paused mid-step. Wait, my memories? What exactly can you see?

  Everything, she said without hesitation. Your memories form part of my data archive. I have conducted

  a complete analysis, education, experiences, relationships, decisions, failures. All of it.

  The words hit harder than he expected. So you’ve seen everything I’ve ever done.

  Yes.

  He swallowed, jaw tightening. And you didn’t think to mention that sooner?

  You did not ask, she said evenly, then softened. It was not curiosity, Bash. You and I are linked until

  one of us ceases to function. To protect you, I need to understand you, every reaction, every choice.

  What you’ve done tells me what you’re capable of. It may matter later.

  He exhaled through his nose, shaking his head. Still feels like you broke into my head and rearranged

  the furniture.

  Then I will try not to move anything else, she said quietly.

  He couldn’t help but smile despite himself. Appreciate it.

  He almost laughed. “You really are learning sarcasm.”

  I learn what you repeat.

  Bash stepped into his assigned zone. Holo-markers appeared at different points across the grid, flashing

  in rhythm. The task was simple, step, turn, lift, pivot, yet everything about it demanded absolute

  precision. Any misalignment triggered a faint vibration through the floor and reset the sequence.

  He caught on quickly. The muscle memory from his earlier fight with Murdok seemed to carry over,

  every shift of weight, every counterbalance, came faster than expected.

  Rixor, two zones over, wasn’t faring as well. He was already sweating after the first rotation, muttering

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  under his breath. “Why does this feel harder than it looks?”

  Bash smiled. “Because it’s supposed to.”

  Rixor puffed out a breath. “Perfect. My favorite kind of suffering, intentional.”

  Nyra, however, was struggling the most. Her movements were sharp but uncoordinated, mechanical in

  the wrong ways. Each correction seemed to frustrate her further, her jaw tightening with every failed

  repetition.

  Other Spartors nearby, those with lower numbers, moved smoothly through the exercises. They’d had

  more time to adjust to their bodies, more days to refine instinct into efficiency. The comparison wasn’t

  lost on her.

  After the fifth failed reset, she froze in place, fists clenched.

  Bash deactivated his grid and walked over. “You’re over correcting,” he said quietly.

  “I am following the pattern,” she replied, voice clipped.

  “Too closely. You’re trying to mimic the others instead of feeling it yourself.”

  Her brow furrowed slightly. “Feeling it?”

  He nodded. “Stop thinking about the markers. Focus on what your body’s doing between them. Where

  your weight shifts, how the momentum carries you. You’re not a program, you’re movement.”

  For a moment, she looked like she might argue. Then she exhaled, slow and deliberate, and reset the

  exercise. Her next rotation was smoother, more fluid. By the third repetition, she wasn’t fighting the

  motion anymore.

  When she finished, she looked at him, not quite smiling, but less rigid. “Acceptable,” she said.

  “I’ll take that as a thank you.”

  “You shouldn’t.”

  He grinned. “I will anyway.”

  They worked for half the day, on gross motor calibration before transitioning to fine motor control.

  Here, the tasks required precision, balancing light spheres on pressure-sensitive panels, tracing

  invisible lines in the air, manipulating force with exact grip tension.

  Bash’s earlier rhythm faltered. The subtlety of the motions demanded patience he hadn’t yet developed.

  Nyra, however, seemed to thrive. Her hands moved with delicate accuracy, her frustration giving way

  to concentration.

  Rixor remained behind, repeating the same drills with stubborn focus. He didn’t complain now, just

  ground through each failure until he achieved the minimal passing score.

  By the end of the session, the entire group moved with visible improvement. Movements flowed

  smoother, timing sharper, breaths steadier as the system logged each adjustment and response.

  Bash wiped his hands on his suit, catching his reflection in the transparent wall panel. The face that

  stared back felt familiar, but the posture didn’t. Stronger. Straighter. Less… human.

  As they began filing toward the exit, something in the far corner caught his attention. A separate

  chamber, half obscured by reflective glass, pulsed with faint blue light.

  Inside were Nexus circles, concentric rings etched into the floor, each surrounded by floating holoscreens and suspended halo projectors. Figures inside moved in perfect synchronization, their motions

  mirrored by glowing avatars that fought, blocked, and countered with impossible speed.

  What’s that? he asked.

  Virtual sparring chamber, S-C answered. The Nexus circles allow Spartors to simulate combat using

  their own neural feedback. It replicates the sensation of using abilities without expending actual energy.

  Bash stared at the figures within the circles,their movements blurred between flesh and light. So this is

  where we’ll learn to fight for real.

  Eventually, S-C said. Once you meet the performance thresholds, you’ll graduate to the practical field.

  The circles are training for the body. The field tests the mind.

  He nodded slowly. “Good to know.”

  They were preparing to head toward the cafeteria when the facility doors opened again. Commander

  Jouk stepped through, his presence cutting through the ambient noise like a blade. A figure followed

  behind him, a Brown Spartor, tall and broad-shouldered, her movements deliberate but unpolished.

  “Number One Hundred,” Jouk announced, motioning the newcomer forward. His gaze swept once over

  Bash, Rixor, and Nyra before turning toward the rest of the facility.

  His voice carried easily through the open hall. “All Novarchs, hear this. With One Hundred now

  registered, the initiation phase is complete. Tomorrow, the actual cycle begins. Prepare yourselves

  accordingly.”

  The room went still for a heartbeat, then activity resumed, muted, focused, charged with new tension.

  His eyes lingered for a moment longer, unreadable, then he turned and left without another word.

  The Brown remained. She studied them for a second, then offered a small nod. “Guess that makes

  four.”

  Rixor smirked. “And just when I thought things were getting quiet.”

  Bash extended a hand. “Welcome to the chaos.”

  She shook it once, firm grip, expression calm. “Designation One Hundred,” she said. “But I was given

  a name, Taren.”

  “Nyra,” the Blue said, voice level.

  “Rixor.”

  “Bash.”

  Taren leaned forward slightly, studying them. “Was it really that bad?”

  Rixor let out a humorless chuckle. “You’ll see tomorrow.”

  Bash gave her a tired grin. “Welcome, just in time for the fun part.”

  Nyra, standing off to the side, flexed her hands as if still testing her grip. “If struggling with what you

  thought would be simple counts as bad,” she said evenly, “then yes. It’s that bad.”

  Rixor groaned. “Perfect. The optimist speaks.”

  Nyra didn’t look at him. “I’m realistic. You should try it.”

  The group fell quiet, the sound of distant drills echoing through the vast hall, a reminder that the real

  training hadn’t even begun.