Heat, sweat, and effort—those were the only currencies in the training room assigned to Squad Four. The hum of the barrier surrounding the Uratsu Knull Zone provided a steady white noise, sharpening focus and drowning stray thoughts. Overseer Erementaru moved among them, eyes sharp, pleased with their progress.
The track mirrored those used in Olympic events, yet here every step was heavier, every breath costly. Still, they ran—Erementaru included. Nathaniel was far ahead, already lapping the others. His latest time flashed across the display: 07.29 seconds. In a Knull Zone, that was unheard of. The world record for a 400-metre dash under these conditions still belonged to Wayde Van at 43.03 seconds. Nathaniel had just shattered it.
They had run roughly 46 kilometers for the standard endurance test, yet when the others finally dragged themselves across the finish, they found Nathaniel leaning against a wall, calmly sipping an energy drink, not a bead of sweat on him.
It became a pattern throughout the rest of the physical trials. Any test that didn't involve Uratsu amplification, Nathaniel would shatter expectations. In the push-up drill, Erementaru—wearing low-power prosthetics—capped out at 1,554 reps. Nathaniel stopped at 2,500, no breaks, his expression barely changing. His grip strength registered at seven times stronger than Alucard's—no small feat, considering Alucard's physical stats were already in the upper echelons of Neo-human capability.
That sheer strength explained his unnatural weight. His muscle fibers were far denser and more powerful than any human norm, more akin to the difference between a man and a gorilla if they somehow shared the same mass—only in Nathaniel's case, the frame carried triple the density.
Nathaniel's reaction speed was on par with a Formula One driver, honed to read motion before it happened. That edge was on full display during his mock MMA bout with Erementaru. Both fighters were under resistance tech—Nathaniel's far heavier—his suit calibrated to simulate fifteen times normal gravity, every motion dragging like he was submerged in molten metal.
The weight clawed at him. His steps landed with a deep, muffled thump against the mat, every shift of balance sending a wave of strain through his knees. Breath left his lungs in short, controlled bursts, misting the visor. His eyes tracked Erementaru's movements—micro twitches of the shoulders, subtle hip turns—each one a breadcrumb leading to the next strike.
But there was still a wall. A delay, almost imperceptible, between thought and motion. It was the same hollow heaviness as a light sedative or the early onset of a sickness—like the old world's COVID-19—when your body responds, but every reaction feels just one step behind where it should be.
The bell sounded, and Erementaru closed the distance in two strides, his prosthetic limbs humming at low power. Nathaniel shifted into a southpaw stance, lead shoulder angled, gaze locked on Erementaru's centerline.
The first kick came high—a feint—and Nathaniel read it instantly. His guard snapped up, forearm catching the impact with a muffled whump. Even under fifteen times normal gravity, he adjusted, stepping off-line to keep from being driven back.
Erementaru's follow-up was a piston jab. Nathaniel dipped under it, his feet grinding against the mat, his thighs screaming as if each muscle fiber carried a slab of concrete. He countered with a short hook to the ribs—not explosive, but enough to make Erementaru grunt and pivot away.
The exchange rolled on in heavy bursts. To an outsider, it was like watching two predators locked in a slow-motion duel under deep water. Every strike had to be committed to—no wasted movements, no flashy spins. Nathaniel's timing kept him alive; his eyes tracked every micro-twitch in Erementaru's posture, anticipating each advance before it landed.
But the weight wore on him. His breathing came in tighter bursts, his arms sluggish in their guard. That viral heaviness crept into his limbs—the feeling of moving through sickness, where thought outruns body.
Erementaru saw it.
He stepped in, feinting low before launching a roundhouse to Nathaniel's guard side. The impact rattled through the suit, knocking Nathaniel's stance off by half a foot. Before he could reset, Erementaru's prosthetic-assisted right hook came around—low-power for training, but still carrying enough force to crack reinforced pads. It connected with Nathaniel's temple.
The world tilted. The weight of the resistance gear turned the stumble into a collapse, his knees buckling as his vision swam. The mat rushed up to meet him, and darkness swept in like a tide.
Erementaru stood over him, shaking his head but smiling faintly. "Not bad, Alderman… for someone moving through mercury."
The memory flickered into Nathaniel's mind like a half-forgotten dream.
A clinical white training chamber unfolded around him — wide, metallic, its walls curving into a perfect circle thirty meters across. Outside the enclosure, barely visible through distortion, stood a father-and-daughter science team from hell, their silhouettes caught by the internal cameras' grainy feed.
The Knull Zone was active, and in that moment Nathaniel's silver irises ignited — gleaming like molten metal as a faint red tint bled through the room.
Then came the shadow.
A monolith of ingus stone — skyscraper-tall, impossibly dense — dropped toward him. In the artificial biome's warped space, it accelerated with lethal intent, boosted to a hundred times Atheris gravity, given a fifty-height fall to build unstoppable momentum.
The impact never came.
Nathaniel caught the tower in his palms, the air screaming around him, his muscles absorbing the crushing force until it stilled. Not a tremor ran through his body.
The Knull Zone deactivated. His Ura spiked — a violent surge flooding through him. In a single breath, the ingus stone vaporized into nothing, the training room's oppressive air clearing as the voice over the intercom broke the silence:
"Well done, Arc."
The scene bled away like mist. Nathaniel's eyes opened to the present — no memory of the test, only the fresh sting of having been folded like a lawn chair by Erementaru.
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George pushed himself up, sweat still rolling down his scarred jaw. He stomped over, pointing a finger."What the hell are you on, man? We're cooked after that regimen—and you're standing there fresher than a plucked fruit!"
Nathaniel just smirked, rolling his shoulders like it was nothing."G.A.," he said flatly.
George blinked. "G.A.?"
"Genetic anomaly," Nathaniel explained, snapping his fingers as if to punctuate the words. He bent down, picked up two chunks of rubble, and tossed one to George. "My body's built tougher by default—stronger baseline without even touching my Uratsu. Thought it was compensation for not having the potential to awaken a proper augment."
George frowned, already crackling with impatience.
Nathaniel gestured to a section of the hardened wall. "Try it."
George's body lit up, arcs of electricity racing down his arms as the air sizzled around him. He hurled the stone, and it smashed clean through the wall with a sharp burst of sparks. Nathaniel followed, tossing his stone casually—only for it to slam against the same wall and stick like dead weight.
George cocked a brow, smirking at the clear difference.
Nathaniel just smiled back. "See? I'm not better than you. With your shroud active, you outpace me every time. All I've got is Kinetic Muscle—and it's not constant. I've got to charge it, take hits, let damage build. Twenty-five percent gets stored. A few decisive strikes, maybe… but then I burn out."
His voice grew quieter, heavier.
"I'm not a blade, George. I'm a shield. An imperfect one. And shields only last until they break."
Nathaniel picked up another jagged piece of debris and balanced it in his palm. His eyes flared cyan, a sudden flash racing down his arm as his muscles expanded, contracted, then locked tight with mechanical precision. He exhaled, and with a controlled snap, hurled the stone forward.
The air cracked. The shard tore through the room like a tank shell, slamming into the wall and bursting it apart in a single, brutal strike.
"That," Nathaniel muttered, lowering his arm, "was minimum effort."
George's brow furrowed, the comparison already sparking in his head. It wasn't raw strength—Nathaniel's power felt unstable, like an old railgun from the archives. Devastating when it fired, but fragile, burning itself out after one shot and needing precious time to reset.
The realization sank deeper. Both of them had barely scratched their potential—each attack like popping a balloon already stretched to the brink. If they pushed themselves, if they truly cut loose…
The image came unbidden. Not a balloon anymore. A warhead. A city erased in one blinding pulse.
From across the training grounds, Erementaru stood with his arms folded, watching the exchange with a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
George stared at him in surprise, something clicking into place as his mind backtracked—back to their first meeting, back to that fight with Erementaru, back to the final blow Nathaniel had dealt.
His eyes narrowed. "Wait… so you got the power to do that by tanking hits that would've left the rest of us reeling in base?"
Nathaniel gave a small shrug, the cyan fading from his gaze. "Yeah."
Ria stepped in after watching the exchange, tilting her head with a curious frown."What happened to your arm, though?" she asked, her tone more genuine than accusatory. "One minute you were wincing like it was about to fall off, the next you're just… fine. Like nothing even happened."
Before Nathaniel could answer, she caught his arm and turned it over, inspecting the taut muscle with narrowed eyes."And didn't you dent his high-grade official armor and send him flying a few feet?" she added, half-gasping, half-grinning. "When he was only at—what—five percent?"
George snorted. "Yeah, that little detail slipped my mind."
Nathaniel chuckled low, scratching the back of his neck with his free hand.
Nathaniel was ready for the question. He pulled a steel case from his belt and snapped it open—inside, a row of capsules pulsed with faint green light, like drops of distilled life.
"Healing caps," George said, recognizing them instantly.
"Mm." Nathaniel popped one out and rolled it between his fingers before snapping the case shut. "I had one just before that last swing. They're slotted into the gauntlet—keeps the feedback from cooking me when it overheats. Most knights strain themselves into the dirt without them." He flexed his hand casually, as if that explained everything.
Ria tilted her head, fingers still around his arm. "That covers why you weren't writhing on the floor. But denting Erementaru's official armor? With him at five percent? That doesn't sound like just a 'healing cap' trick."
Ria waved him off, already turning away. "Eh, forget I said anything." She flicked her hand dismissively and started toward the door. Nathaniel exhaled, a quiet relief in his chest.
Erementaru scanned the room, eyes dragging over his squad. Alucard was half-sprawled against the wall, head tilted back in a nap, his half-mask catching what little light the room had. Oliver sat with shadows coiling lazily between his fingers, sculpting and reshaping them in silence. Shiro scribbled something into her notebook with steady, neat strokes, expression unreadable as always.
"Hey, cadets," Erementaru called out, his tone loosening into a rare grin. "Lunch on me in five."
Nathaniel's gaze lingered on Alucard. The giant's eye had cracked open the instant the word lunch left their overseer's mouth, a glint flashing beneath the mask. Nathaniel still couldn't figure him out—why he wore it, or why he never once took it off.