Alden was heaving, his hands on his knees as he took in deep breaths. Sweat dripped from his forehead as his gaze lifted to the ceiling of the underground training facility. The pce was in ruins—metal scraps and shattered boulders y scattered across the floor, the aftermath of an intense battle.

  He wiped his brow, but his focus never wavered from Cale.

  The boy…

  'Should I even call him a boy at this point? Alden thought.'

  Technically, Cale was only fourteen years old, but he hardly looked it. He stood nearly as tall as Alden, his presence commanding, almost inhuman. His hair—once dark—had turned completely silver, shimmering under the lighting. But it was the armor that truly unsettled Alden.

  A fusion of organic and biomechanical elements, the armor looked both sinister and elegant. It was sleek yet jagged, intricate ptes overpping like the exoskeleton of a predatory creature. Sinewy ridges shifting subtly with every breath Cale took.

  The chest piece was segmented, molded perfectly to his form, resembling the hardened carapace of some otherworldly being. Rib-like structures branched out from the center, reinforcing its eerie, living appearance. The shoulder guards bore elongated, bded extensions that curved backward like the spines of a nightmare beast, adding to his already intimidating presence.

  His arms were encased in seamless armor that transitioned into cwed gauntlets, each finger tipped with razor-sharp talons. The lower body followed the same theme—built for speed and agility while maintaining absolute protection. Bded fins and protrusions jutted from his thighs and calves, lending both elegance and brutality to his form. Even his boots were dangerous, ending in pointed soles designed to anchor him firmly to the ground.

  The back of the armor was lined with organic ridges, spine-like formations that made him look like a predator coiled before the strike.

  And then, just as quickly as it had formed, the armor sank into his skin, disappearing like liquid metal merging with his flesh. Beneath it, Cale’s training clothes remained untouched. He turned to Alden and grinned.

  "Are you tired already?" Cale asked, amusement flickering in his rich brown eyes.

  Alden let out a heavy breath, straightening up. "Yes, I am," he admitted. He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair, shaking his head. "I still can’t believe how much you’ve grown. If someone had told me that a kid—barely fourteen—could beat me, I would have spat in their face."

  Alden smirked, though there was something almost resigned about it. "I’m done with you for today. Go to your room and take a shower. Your friends must already be waiting."

  He gestured toward the reinforced gate behind him.

  Cale gave a respectful bow. Despite surpassing his teacher in strength, he still acknowledged him as his mentor. Without another word, the gate slid open, and he made his way toward the elevator.

  Once inside his room, Cale quickly stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and stepped into the shower. The warm water ran over his body, washing away the grime of battle. He exhaled, leaning against the cool tiles, letting the steam envelop him.

  After drying off, he turned to the mirror.

  He studied himself, really studied himself.

  Despite barely being fourteen, he looked closer to someone in their early twenties. His jaw was sharper, his shoulders broader, his body honed like a warrior’s. He flexed his arm, watching his biceps tense under his skin, then clenched his abdomen, feeling the solid ridges of muscle.

  "You look good, Cale," he muttered to himself with a smirk.

  But the smirk faded as his gaze drifted to his silver hair. Why?

  The gray-robed men had run countless tests on him, but even they couldn’t expin it. His unnatural growth, his changing body, his power… No one had exact answers.

  He exhaled sharply and shook his head, grabbing a set of clean, simple clothes before sprawling onto the bed. He stretched out, letting himself sink into the soft mattress, a smile touching his lips. The moment of peace was brief but welcome.

  Then—a knock on the door.

  Cale’s eyes snapped open. He sat up, brushing a hand through his damp hair before moving toward the door. As he opened it, he found a familiar figure waiting.

  A gray-robed man stood before him, his face impassive as always.

  "Your friends have arrived," the man stated before turning on his heel, expecting Cale to follow.

  Cale stepped out but hesitated for a moment.

  'After all these years… I still don’t know the name of a single one of them,' he thought. He had asked before, but they never answered. Never even acknowledged the question.

  He sighed, pushing the thought away as he followed the robed man down the corridor. His friends were waiting, and right now, that was all that mattered.

  The robed man opened the door for Cale, and he stepped inside.

  Mirelle and Davion were already there, sitting on a couch, deep in conversation. They stopped the moment they saw him.

  Compared to him, they looked normal for their age—almost.

  Davion had grown into a wall of muscle, his broad frame matching Cale’s height. His once-round face had sharpened, hardened by years of relentless training. Mirelle, on the other hand, had grown into a poised young woman, her red hair tied back in a ponytail, accentuating her striking green eyes. She still carried that quiet intensity, the kind that made it seem like she saw the world differently than everyone else.

  Without hesitation, Mirelle approached him and wrapped her arms around him in a warm embrace.

  Cale closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the warmth of her body against his. It had been too long.

  They stood like that for a few seconds before finally letting go.

  Cale turned to Davion and gave him a firm hug as well. Davion returned it without hesitation, his grip strong yet familiar.

  Cale opened his mouth, about to ask about Tristan—but the words died on his tongue. Their retionship had soured over the years, in ways Cale still couldn’t fully understand. Tristan was still friends with Davion, but whenever Davion brought up Cale, Tristan would either ignore him or walk away.

  The thought weighed on him, but he pushed it aside. Now wasn’t the time.

  "How are you guys doing?" Cale asked as they all sat down on the couch.

  Mirelle nestled close to him, leaning her head lightly against his shoulder. There was a sense of comfort in the gesture, something unspoken but deeply understood.

  "Tired," Mirelle sighed, her voice ced with exhaustion. "The training is getting even more brutal."

  Cale offered a reassuring smile. "Look at the bright side—there are only a couple dozen kids left. Maybe this is the final push."

  "Or," Davion said, his voice low and grim, "it’ll just keep getting harder and harder until almost everyone is sent to the Forge of Dominion."

  Mirelle groaned, rubbing her temples. "Sometimes I wonder what it’s like there. I bet they don’t train even a tenth as hard as we do."

  Davion simply shrugged, but his face grew serious. He hesitated, then lowered his gaze to the stone floor, his expression heavy with something unspoken.

  Cale and Mirelle exchanged a gnce.

  Then, finally, Davion spoke. "Guys… I have something to tell you."

  Both pairs of eyes locked onto him.

  He swallowed hard, his fists clenching. "I’m leaving soon. I’m being sent to the Forge."

  Mirelle’s breath hitched. "What? How? You’re one of the best in our css!"

  Cale stared at Davion, worry flickering across his face.

  Davion’s jaw tightened. "I’m not being sent there because I can’t keep up. Instructor Raorok offered to be my mentor. He wants me at the Forge to begin training under him directly."

  Silence hung heavy between them.

  Cale leaned forward, pcing a firm hand on Davion’s thick shoulder. "That sounds amazing. Don’t be sad. I bet we’ll still have chances to meet."

  Mirelle nodded quickly. "Cale’s right. Once this training is complete, we’ll find a way to spend time together. We’ve made it this far—we won’t let distance break us apart."

  Her hand rested lightly on Cale’s forearm for a moment, as if grounding herself in the moment.

  Davion looked at them both, his tough exterior cracking. His lips trembled, and his fists clenched even tighter. "I hope so too. I’ll really miss you guys."

  His voice wavered, and before he could stop himself, tears welled up in his eyes. He quickly looked away, ashamed of the sudden emotion, but neither Cale nor Mirelle said anything about it.

  Instead, Mirelle reached for his hand and squeezed it gently. "We’ll miss you too, Davion."

  Cale gave him a small smile, his voice steady. "No matter where we are, we’ll always be friends."

  Davion let out a shaky breath and nodded, blinking away the tears. "Yeah."

  For a moment, none of them spoke. They just sat there, feeling the weight of the moment, letting the unspoken promises settle between them.

  No matter where life took them, they would always be bound together.

  Even if the road ahead threatened to pull them apart.

  They fell into small talk, discussing their training, their struggles, and what they hoped to do once they finally left this pce. They spoke of dreams beyond the cold walls, of lives waiting for them outside. Pns for the future—where to go, what to become, what kind of freedom they would have.

  Time slipped away unnoticed, and before long, two robed men arrived to escort them away—Cale to his room, and Mirelle and Davion to their dormitory.

  Cale y back on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. His mind was restless, but his body was exhausted. Sleep crept over him slowly, pulling him into its embrace.

  A few hours ter, his eyes snapped open.

  His sleep had become so short that he barely needed two or three hours a night.

  And this only meant more training.

  The door to his room creaked open, and a silent escort awaited him outside. As always, he followed without a word, walking through the dim corridors until he was led to the underground training chamber.

  The vast hall was empty at this hour, an eerie silence filling the space. The remnants of previous training sessions still y scattered—metal scraps, shattered stone, broken weapons discarded like remnants of battle.

  Cale stepped forward, his shoes echoing softly against the cold floor. If no one was here, that meant he had time for himself.

  He walked to the center of the chamber and raised a hand. The metal around him obeyed, rising from the ground in scattered pieces, drawn toward him like a magnet. The fragments came together, shifting and fusing at his will, until they took shape.

  "Looks good," Cale murmured, eyeing the rough metal sculpture before him—a horse, crude but sturdy.

  Without hesitation, he leaped onto its back. He closed his eyes and focused. The statue shuddered to life, metal groaning as it responded to his command. Slowly at first, the construct began to move, its hooves scraping against the ground as it took its first steps.

  Then it picked up speed.

  Cale rode it through the chamber, weaving between makeshift obstacles, testing his control. The wind—imaginary, but real in his mind—whipped against his face as the metallic beast surged forward, its gallop becoming more fluid with each passing second.

  Then, he raised his hand once more. Another construct took shape—this time, something rger, something menacing. A towering minotaur forged from the same scraps of metal, its massive frame hunched and ready to charge.

  Cale grinned.

  "Let’s see how well I can control both."

  His mind split, one half directing the horse, the other commanding the minotaur. The beast let out a silent roar, its metal body lurching forward, swinging its heavy arms. Cale ducked, maneuvering his horse out of the way just in time. He guided the minotaur to strike again, forcing himself to control both figures with finesse, with precision.

  Every movement had to be perfect.

  This was control training—pushing the limits of his ability, making sure he could command multiple constructs at once without hesitation, without losing focus.

  The battle continued, his constructs cshing, dodging, countering. He lost himself in the rhythm of it, in the smoothness of his control, in the feeling of power at his fingertips.

  Then, the gate at the far end of the chamber slid in to the floor.

  A robed figure stepped inside.

  Unlike the others, this one wore a white cloth over his face. Cale knew why he was here.

  His game was over.

  With a simple flick of his fingers, the constructs crumbled, colpsing into heaps of scrap once more. Cale dismounted, stepping forward without hesitation.

  The robed figure turned without a word, leading him down the long corridor to one of the many examination rooms.

  Inside, Cale already knew what to expect. He had done this hundreds of times. The routine never changed. The silent figures moved around him like ghosts, testing his physical condition, measuring his heartbeat, his muscle tension. Strange metallic devices hovered over his skin, scanning him with eerie hums.

  Once they were done, one of the figures approached, holding out a familiar vial filled with thick, dark liquid.

  Cale sighed. He had long since stopped questioning what it was.

  Grabbing his nose, he tilted his head back and swallowed it in a single gulp.

  The bitterness clung to his tongue, making him grimace. "Bh," he muttered, handing the empty vial back.

  Sleep took him before he could even steady himself. His body wavered, his vision darkened, and he felt himself falling into the void.

  And when he woke up, he already knew where he would be.

  The white room.

  "Cale..." a voice whispered.

  Cale’s eyes fluttered open, but he was not in the white room. He stood in an endless, empty void, a vast expanse of nothing stretching infinitely in all directions. A strange weightlessness settled over him as he looked down at his own hands, flexing his fingers, trying to make sense of what was happening.

  "This is new..." he murmured, his voice echoing slightly in the emptiness.

  Then the voice came again, louder this time.

  "Cale!"

  His gaze snapped forward, and his breath hitched.

  Tristan stood before him.

  He looked different—taller, yet somehow diminished. His blue eyes locked onto Cale’s, pleading, desperate. But it was his body that made Cale’s stomach drop. Tristan looked like he hadn't eaten in weeks—his skin stretched taut over his bones, his cheeks hollow, his arms trembling from weakness. His once-powerful frame was reduced to something skeletal, his clothes hanging loosely over his malnourished form.

  "Tristan… what happened to you?" Cale took a step forward, panic creeping into his voice as his eyes darted over his friend’s frail body. "What is this? What's going on?"

  Tristan didn't answer. Instead, his hands shot forward, grabbing Cale’s shoulders with a grip far stronger than his appearance suggested. His fingers dug into Cale’s skin, his breathing ragged.

  "They are feeding us to you," Tristan rasped, his voice filled with horror. "Run. Take Davion and Mirelle and run away."

  Cale’s blood turned to ice. "What? Tristan, what are you talking about? Who’s feeding you to me?"

  Tristan's grip tightened. His face twisted in anguish. "I’m sorry, Cale," he choked. "I should have been a better friend. I should have—"

  His words were swallowed by silence as his body began to disintegrate, breaking apart into glowing embers, as if he had never existed at all.

  Cale reached out, but there was nothing left to hold onto.

  "Tristan!"

  His eyes snapped open with a gasp, his breath ragged as he bolted upright in his bed.

  His heart pounded against his ribs, the remnants of Tristan’s voice still ringing in his ears. He looked around frantically, only to find himself in the same sterile, white room he had woken up in hundreds of times before.

  The sheets beneath him were damp with sweat. His hands trembled as he ran one through his silver hair, trying to calm himself, trying to understand.

  "What... happened?" he muttered, his voice hoarse. His right palm covered his eyes as he tried to piece it all together.

  Why had Tristan appeared in his dream?

  Why had he looked like that?

  And most importantly—what did his warning mean?

  A cold dread settled in Cale’s gut.

  Something was terribly wrong.

  Then suddenly, he felt it—a pull.

  It was an unfamiliar sensation, neither physical nor magical, but something deeper, something instinctual. He wasn’t sure what it meant, but he followed it.

  "I need to move fast before the robed men appear," Cale muttered as he slid off the bed and moved toward the door.

  The metal clicked softly as he slowly turned the handle. He pushed the door open just a crack and peered into the hallway. Empty. No footsteps, no shadows shifting in the light.

  He stepped out, keeping his movements silent, his bare feet making no sound against the cold floor. The pull guided him, tugging at something deep inside, leading him through the winding hallways.

  Then, it brought him to a door.

  It looked like all the others—pin, metallic, unmarked. There was nothing special about it, yet every fiber of his being screamed that this was it.

  He reached out, hesitated for just a second, then turned the handle and stepped inside.

  His breath caught in his throat.

  No.

  Cale paled, his blood running cold. His feet carried him forward before he could even think, his heart pounding violently in his chest.

  "No. No, no, no..." he whispered, his voice breaking as he rushed toward the surgical table in the center of the room.

  There, lying motionless on the cold steel, was Tristan.

  His body—

  Shriveled.

  Drained.

  His skin clung tightly to his bones like a mummified corpse, all signs of life long since stripped away. His once-sharp blue eyes, now sunken and empty, stared up at nothing.

  Cale's hands trembled as he reached out, his fingers barely grazing Tristan’s wrist. Cold. So, so cold.

  "Tristan..." His voice came out broken, a breath more than a word. "You... No."

  Tears blurred his vision as they slipped down his cheeks, unbidden and unstoppable. A burning pain swelled in his chest, an unbearable mix of grief, fury, and guilt.

  The metal around him groaned.

  The walls, the surgical instruments, even the steel sbs—everything responded to his sorrow, vibrating, bending, warping under the sheer weight of his anguish. The air felt charged, like a storm ready to break, like something inside him was unraveling.

  Cale clenched his fists, his whole body shaking.

  They did this.

  His tears dripped onto the floor, sizzling as if they were molten.

  And then—

  The metal screamed.

  Cale's armor: