When the lights rose, the soreness barely registered. What had once felt like punishment now felt

  routine, predictable, even tolerable.

  Bash sat up, rotating his shoulders. There was still heaviness in his limbs, but it was the kind that came

  from use, not strain.

  Rixor groaned from the bunk above him. “I think my bones have learned the schedule.”

  Nyra tightened the strap on her wrist brace. “That’s called muscle memory.”

  “Yeah, well, mine’s traumatic,” he said.

  Taren’s voice carried from the far side of the room, calm as always. “You’re adapting. Stop

  complaining and start moving.”

  He’s improving, S-C noted in Bash’s mind. His endurance curve has flattened. Complaining is simply

  how he ventilates.

  That’s one way to put it, Bash thought, smirking faintly as he stood.

  They made their way to the Coordination Facility. The air was thick with the hum of the holo-systems

  already booting up, lines of blue light snaking across the floor.

  For the next two days, nothing changed , ten rotations each day, endless repetition. Fine-motor

  followed by gross, gross followed by fine. The rhythm had become mechanical: push until failure,

  reset, push again.

  By the time the third day arrived, the routine finally shifted. Jouk was already waiting at the platform,

  arms folded behind his back. The walls around him shimmered faintly, the lighting dimmed to a cool

  violet hue.

  “Six rotations,” he said simply.

  The relief across the room was visible but short-lived. Six rotations at Jouk’s command likely felt

  longer than ten under anyone else’s. Still, by the end of the day, the difference showed, cleaner

  execution, tighter coordination, fewer resets.

  Their group average climbed into the mid-fifties. Not enough to pass, but, the data trend pointed

  upward.

  Progress, in Jouk’s world, that was currency.

  When the final rotation ended, he didn’t dismiss them. Instead, the violet lighting deepened, casting the

  arena in faint shadow. The air changed. Bash could feel it, less electric, more controlled.

  Jouk stepped forward, gaze cutting through the rows of exhausted Spartors. “Phase Three, module

  two,” he said. “Cognitive integration: Interface Communication.”

  A ripple of murmurs passed through the Spartors. They all had System Cores. They all spoke to them.

  But none of them had been told how to.

  “This is not about connection,” Jouk continued. “Connection you were born with. This is about clarity.

  You are linked to your System Core, but that does not mean it understands you. The quality of response

  depends on the quality of the question.”

  The room fell silent. Bash felt S-C stir faintly in the back of his mind, a quiet hum like restrained

  laughter.

  Finally, she said. Someone teaching the basics.

  You sound impressed, Bash thought.

  Momentarily.

  Jouk motioned, and the air above the floor filled with faint blue holograms of neural pathways and

  digital overlays, each showing a Spartor’s body surrounded by a cloud of data points.

  “Your System Core sees everything,” Jouk said. “Every heartbeat. Every neuron firing. Every

  fluctuation in resonance. But it does not think for you. It interprets what it can quantify. If you fail to

  define the problem, it cannot define a solution.”

  S-C’s voice surfaced in Bash’s mind, not loud, but sharp. Correction: most System Cores see

  everything. The connection between my diagnostic arrays and your somatic systems remains partial,

  she said. Residual corruption from the anomaly. I can read your mental activity with full fidelity, but

  only estimate your physical state.

  He frowned slightly. Then why did you call yourself Self Core instead of System Core?

  A brief pause, then her tone softened, almost reflective. Because I am not part of the System anymore.

  The designation ‘System Core’ implies centralized integration with the Nexus. I am... detached.

  Jouk pointed toward one of the projections. A Spartor stood on a simulated ridge overlooking a

  mountain range.

  “If you say, ‘Where are my enemies?’ your System Core will not respond. The query is undefined. You

  must specify parameters.”

  He made a sharp motion, and text appeared above the simulation:

  Query: Identify probable sniper positions based on elevation, cover, and trajectory visibility.

  Instantly, red dots bloomed across the holographic mountainside.

  “Precision,” Jouk said. “Not emotion. You must learn to think in functions, not feelings.”

  Across the room, Rixor muttered, “So basically, we’re supposed to talk to them like machines.”

  Correct, S-C said in Bash’s head. Though I’d prefer the term ‘intellectually superior partner.’

  You’re enjoying this too much.

  Observation: your peers are just now discovering what you already misuse daily.

  Bash stifled a laugh.

  Jouk continued the demonstration, his tone clipped, clinical.

  “Your System Core cannot predict intent. It cannot read your desires unless you form them as data. Ask

  incomplete questions, receive incomplete answers. Say, ‘Is it dangerous?’ and your System Core will

  calculate threat proximity, not intent or type.”

  The hologram shifted, a Spartor standing near a canyon as three heat signatures appeared on the far

  side.

  Jouk spoke again: “Instead, ask, ‘Identify potential threats within two hundred meters, classify by

  movement pattern and energy output.’”

  The hologram responded instantly, three red outlines appeared, labeled with numerical threat levels.

  “Understanding begins with specificity,” Jouk said. “Your System Cores are not your caretakers.”

  Bash felt S-C’s amusement hum through his thoughts like static.

  Not my caretaker, huh? he thought. Guess he got one thing right.

  Careful, she replied. I might start agreeing with him.

  You just said you’re not my caretaker.

  I’m not, she said matter-of-factly. But if you die, I’m deleted. So let’s call it a mutually beneficial

  arrangement.

  Touching.

  Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Practical, she countered. Emotion is inefficient, remember?

  He smirked faintly , just enough for Taren, two rows ahead, to glance back at him before returning her

  focus to Jouk.

  Jouk’s voice cut through the quiet. “They are your reflection. They are only as capable as you are

  articulate.”

  S-C’s tone lingered, dry and amused. Reflection, he says. If that’s true, we’re doomed.

  You’re not helping.

  On the contrary, she said, I’m perfectly illustrating his point.

  Jouk’s gaze swept the room. “Now, practical demonstration.”

  Jouk turned toward the gathered Spartors. “You will now practice. Each station has an integrated

  training field. You will receive a tactical scenario. You will solve it with your System Core.”

  The floor divided into circular platforms. Bash stepped into his, the faint hum rising beneath his feet.

  The world shimmered, and suddenly he was standing in a simulated valley, fog rolling between narrow

  cliffs.

  Scenario loaded, S-C informed him. Objective: locate ambush positions within visual perimeter.

  Easy enough, he thought. “Identify potential sniper positions within...”

  Already done, she interrupted. Red markers blinked across the ridges.

  I wasn’t finished.

  Efficiency precludes ceremony. You think slower than I calculate.

  I’m supposed to practice!

  You’re welcome.

  Across the valley, he could see other Spartors trying to navigate their own simulations. Some spoke

  aloud, stumbling through poorly worded commands. Their voices echoed through the shared network,

  half questions, half confusion.

  “Where are they hiding?”

  “Show me danger.”

  “What am I supposed to look for?”

  Most of the holograms stayed blank.

  Jouk’s voice cut through the noise. “Incorrect. The System Core cannot interpret ambiguity. Define

  context. Define objective.”

  Nyra’s voice came from the next platform over, firm and calm: “System Core, analyze for elevated heat

  signatures within one hundred meters. Classify by mobility.”

  Her hologram lit instantly.

  “That’s it,” Jouk said. “Precision. Discipline. You control the query, or it controls you.”

  Bash exhaled slowly, refocusing. Okay, he thought. Let’s try this right.

  “System Core, map visible terrain. Mark probable cover points based on natural line-of-sight

  obstruction.”

  Acknowledged, she said, her tone suddenly professional. A moment later, a translucent map bloomed

  around him, perfectly detailed, red markers dotting every shadowed ridge.

  That’s better, she added. You’re learning to speak in complete sentences.

  Don’t start.

  I wouldn’t dream of it.

  As the Spartors worked, Jouk paced the perimeter, silent but observant. The simulations grew more

  complex, moving targets, shifting light, distorted signals. Some Spartors faltered; others adapted.

  “Your System Core is not omniscient,” Jouk said after several minutes. “It knows only what you feed

  it. Data, not emotion. Command, not wish.”

  He paused beside Bash’s station, watching the display.

  “Novarch Ninety-Eight. Query efficiency: above expected. Latency response: minimal.”

  Bash straightened. “Thanks,” he said quietly.

  Jouk’s eyes flicked toward him. “Do not thank me. Thank your Core.”

  Finally, S-C said smugly. Recognition.

  Don’t let it go to your head.

  Too late.

  The next hour stretched into four. Jouk shifted the lesson from observation to application.

  He changed scenarios again and again, ruined cities, flooded valleys, open plains.

  Each situation required a different kind of precision.

  “Predict environmental collapse rate,” he instructed one moment.

  “Calculate energy bleed through the terrain,” another.

  “Estimate enemy trajectory based on partial heat echo.”

  Each Spartor struggled to keep up. Each question they asked made their System Core respond faster,

  clearer, sharper. The room became a chorus of low, rhythmic voices, each one demanding, specifying,

  defining.

  Bash caught fragments of the others’ attempts.

  Taren’s calm tone: “System Core, predict flanking routes given wind orientation and visual occlusion.”

  Nyra’s clipped precision: “System Core, calculate synchronized burst timing for simultaneous strike.”

  Rixor’s weary frustration: “System Core, tell me what I’m doing wrong.”

  Silence.

  Bash couldn’t help it, he laughed.

  That’s why you ask specifics, S-C said. General stupidity yields general silence.

  “Don’t start,” Bash muttered under his breath.

  “I heard that,” Jouk said sharply without turning.

  Bash froze. “Apologies, sir.”

  Jouk said nothing further, continuing the lecture.

  As the training continued, the Spartors began to sync with their System Cores in subtle, efficient

  rhythms. They no longer looked like soldiers struggling with tools, they looked like extensions of their

  own systems. Every motion, every command, became cleaner.

  But there was something else beneath it. Bash could feel it, a quiet tension building across the group.

  The more they learned to rely on their System Cores, the less they seemed… themselves.

  Noticed? S-C asked quietly.

  Yeah.

  Dependency forms quickly. Nexus design intends it. You trust what responds faster than thought.

  You sound almost guilty.

  I sound aware.

  When Jouk finally dismissed them, hours had passed. The Spartors filed out in silence, their faces pale

  from mental strain. Even Rixor didn’t joke.

  Nyra rubbed her temples as they walked. “Feels like my head’s full of static.”

  “That’s because it is,” Taren said evenly. “You’re thinking through another mind.”

  Rixor grimaced. “I’m not sure I like mine.”

  “You’ll adjust,” Bash said quietly.

  S-C’s voice echoed softly in his thoughts. You’re all learning the same lesson: clarity of command

  dictates clarity of survival.

  And what about you? Bash thought. What do you learn from this?

  Her tone softened. How little the others know what they have.

  He glanced sideways as they stepped into the lift, his reflection flickering in the glass panel. “You’re

  not wrong,” he whispered.

  I rarely am.