The medbay reeks of ozone, burnt oil, and dried blood. Fluorescent lights flicker above me like they're struggling to stay alive. Just like me.
I'm lying on some reinforced alloy slab they call a bed. My chest is taped, right shoulder numb, ribs probably cracked. The sword arm's shaking like a glitchy drone, and my hands won't unclench. Like they're still trying to hold that broken blade.
A monitor hums beside me, reading my vitals. Spikes. Drops. Like my body can't decide if I'm dead or evolving.
But the noise around me? Muffled. Distant.
All I hear is that guy's voice echoing in my skull:
"That was a jump. You spiked into Low 7. Maybe just for a second, but you pushed past the wall."
Form 7.
I didn't even know what the hell Form 4 was this morning.
FLASHBACK
"Hey! Someone tell me what the hell Tier 1 to 10 even means!"
The crowd had laughed. I'd been stupid enough to shout that with blood still dripping off my chin.
"You serious? Kid just cooked a guy with Flash Cut and don't even know the damn scale?"
They called it "Form," not tier. The guy—stitched jaw, cigarette breath—broke it down like a drill sergeant.
Form 1. Just swinging steel. Street brawlers. Form 2 to 3. Energy flow starts. Control begins. Form 4. Stance. Balance. Instincts. That's where I was—High 4.
Until Flash Cut happened.
Form 5. Reactions. Blending styles. Form 6. Exo users, war-ready, tournament killers. Form 7…
He'd called it the breaking point. Soul's on fire. Body just barely keeps up.
I didn't know I was capable of it.
"...You reached it. That's all that matters."
Then the clapping. The first real recognition I'd ever felt. Not for Lucien. Not for Kael. For me. Whatever the hell I am.
BACK TO PRESENT
"Vitals stabilizing," a nurse mutters to a medbot near the wall.
The bot chirps back, emotionless. "Pulse irregularities likely due to Adrenal-Surge Type C. Recommend psych eval."
Screw that. I'm not crazy. Just cracked open.
"Still breathing, huh?"
That voice—familiar. Not external.
My eyes slide to the far end of the room.
There's nothing there. But I feel it.
"AI," I whisper.
A shimmer in the air. Just a distortion. But the presence is unmistakable.
"Designation Lucien: Confirmed. Synaptic recognition at 89%. Integrity stable."
The voice is cold. Calculated.
But something in it cracks… for a second.
"You survived. Idiot."
I actually smirk. "You were watching?"
"I am in you. Watching is redundant."
"Then you saw it."
"Yes. Form 7. Temporary surge. Quantum spike noted. Not repeatable under current conditions."
I sigh. "Yeah. I figured."
Silence stretches. Then—
"You are no longer just Kael."
I tense.
"You carry Lucien's imprint. But you are neither wholly him nor yourself. The merge is stabilizing."
"So what does that make me?"
Pause.
"You're the fracture. The result of two failed systems becoming one possibility."
"…Is that supposed to make me feel better?"
"Wasn't trying to."
We sit in silence—me and the ghost in my head.
Then the AI adds, almost reluctant:
"But you're... more human now than Lucien ever was."
I blink.
"That a compliment?"
"Statistically irrelevant. But yes."
DOOR OPENS
A shadow walks in. Same guy from earlier—stitched jaw, coach energy, but no longer grinning. He's got a data pad in one hand and a wrapped lunch in the other.
"You're up. Good. Thought we lost another one."
I grunt. "You always this warm and fuzzy?"
He snorts. "You blew your nervous system trying to swing above your class. That's either brave or dumb. But you lived. So now you train."
I narrow my eyes. "I don't even know your name."
"Rovan."
He tosses the lunch onto the side tray.
"And if you're serious about climbing, kid… you're gonna need more than guts and broken blades."
I lean forward. "You offering?"
He raises an eyebrow. "You think I train every dumb rookie who flashes one big move?"
I say nothing. Just stare.
Rovan grins. "But I do train the ones who break themselves and still get back up."
He taps the data pad.
"Rest tonight. First session's tomorrow. Mercenary intake starts in three weeks. If you're not ready by then, you'll die in your first job."
He walks out like it's already decided.
ALONE AGAIN
I lie back.
My bones ache. My mind's spinning.
But under it all, something's growing.
Not Kael. Not Lucien.
Me.
Whoever I'm becoming… he's just getting started.
The training floor isn't much—just a warehouse under the warehouse, deep enough the ceiling sweats and the air tastes like old metal and grit. No mats. No gear racks. Just lines scorched into the concrete from energy-based footwork drills and a few reinforced dummies missing limbs.
Rovan doesn't start with words. Just tosses me a weighted baton.
"Swing."
I blink. "That's it?"
"No Flash Cut. No power surges. Just swing. Again. And again. Until your bones remember what your brain forgets."
He turns away, boots crunching on the cracked floor.
"Form 4's not just a level. It's a language. And you don't speak it yet."
I swing.
It's slow. Sloppy. My chest still aches. My shoulder twinges every time I torque. But I swing.
Thirty minutes in, sweat pours off me like my body's leaking exhaustion. Rovan watches from a rusted chair, tapping that damn datapad, logging every inch of my failure.
"Footwork's garbage. Your weight distribution's all front-heavy," he mutters.
"Hard to focus when half my ribs are still screaming."
He tosses a half-full bottle of synth-water at me. "You want your enemies to wait till you're healthy?"
No answer. Just more swings.
An hour later, he finally stands.
"Drop it."
The baton hits the floor with a clang. My arm is jelly. My grip's gone. But something in me is awake—sharp. Responsive. Like the AI's watching through my eyes again.
"Let me guess," I pant. "That was the warm-up?"
"Nope," he says.
I exhale in relief.
"That was the test. You failed."
I groan.
He smirks.
"But you didn't quit. So tomorrow, we start for real."
I lie on the floor, chest heaving, arms twitching.
"You... always this motivational?"
"No," he says. "Only when I think someone might actually survive."
---
Two Weeks Later
Kael POV
The drills evolve. Baton becomes blade. Blade becomes dual stance. Rovan teaches in punches, in angles, in sudden shifts.
He doesn't waste time explaining moves—he shows them, slams them into you, then makes you repeat until your body figures it out on its own. He doesn't train a fighter—he grinds you into one.
And through it all… I feel Lucien.
Not watching. Not controlling.
Merging.
His instincts creep in during the pivots. His aggression bleeds into my counters. And sometimes, in the middle of a stance reset, I hear him:
"You're off-balance. Left heel. Fix it."
I don't fight it anymore.
I let it in.
---
Three Days Before Mercenary Registration
Rovan walks in holding a thick-ass dataslate. Tosses it on the bench next to me.
"Approved," he says. "Your profile's been cleared for temp contract evaluation."
I glance down. The slate shows my name—just Kael. Not Lucien. Not Kael-Prototype. Just me.
"Your stats are borderline," Rovan continues. "But your jump to Form 7 got you flagged."
"So I'm a novelty act."
"No. You're a wildcard. And this industry eats wildcards alive."
He points at a section: Zone 8 - Sector K Deployment List. A small merc company name blinks at the bottom: Iron Choir.
"Your first job, if they take you, is recon-assist and live-body extraction in a red-tagged slum zone. Veyrax loyalist turf."
I nod slowly.
"What's the pay?"
"You don't care about pay. You want experience. Kill-switch intensity. The kind that either evolves you or erases you."
My hand grips the bench.
"Then sign me up."
Rovan's lips twitch.
"Thought you'd say that."
---
That Night
I sit on the edge of my bunk, blade resting against my knees, sweat drying across my back.
In the dark, I whisper to the presence inside me.
"You think I'll survive?"
Lucien's voice answers, quiet.
"You already died once. What's one more shot?"
I smirk.
"Damn right."
---
Training Days Later
[Training segment – as already drafted, leads into the first job briefing.]
---
Deployment Day – Zone 8, Sector K
The transport drops us two blocks from the hot zone. No insignia. No flags. Just a rust-bucket crawler rig with bulletproof mesh and a smell like gun oil and metal fatigue. The kind of ride mercs die in more than they walk out of.
Iron Choir's team leader—an ex-Veyrax demolitions expert named Hesh—doesn't shake hands. Doesn't ask names. Just throws out loadouts and maps like he's ordering breakfast.
"You. Fresh meat." He tosses me a shortblade and a shock amp. "You stay with Roza. She keeps you breathing. You keep your mouth shut."
Roza gives me a sideways glance. Late 20s, hard eyes, silent as a sniper. She checks her pulse rifle and doesn't bother acknowledging me. Fine by me.
We move in squads. The target: a data courier extraction—stuck behind enemy patrols in a derelict habitat stack. No powered armor. No backup. Just a five-minute window and whatever we can carry on our backs.
I check my blade. Lucien hums in the back of my skull.
"Heart rate elevated. Prediction: 34% chance of fatality on first contact."
"Comforting."
"You're the one who signed up."
---
Entry Point – Broken Glass, Hot Air
The building's collapsed inward like a throat. We breach through a blown-out stairwell. My heart pounds like it's trying to climb out of my ribs.
Roza signals. Two fingers. Pause. Scan.
There's movement—three hostiles, low armor, patchy gear. Not Veyrax elite, but junk-grade insurgents with itchy triggers.
"Cover left. I go loud," she says.
Then she's gone—silent and fast like she evaporated into dust.
I peek. The ambush forms fast—Roza drops one with a snap-shot to the throat, and the others scatter.
One flees toward me.
My body moves.
Not Kael. Not Lucien.
Us.
I draw and sidestep. The blade hums. No Flash Cut, no surge. Just Form 4 footwork. I pivot low, slice across his thigh, and elbow him down before he screams. Quiet. Clean.
He doesn't get back up.
I exhale. My hands aren't shaking.
Roza reappears. Nods.
"You don't suck."
High praise, I guess.
---
Upper Floor – Extraction
The courier's bleeding out in a collapsed hall, right leg mangled. Vital implant blinking from his forearm.
Roza curses. "No time. Veyrax patrol rerouted. Three minutes."
She grabs the data core. I grab the courier.
"No. He'll slow us," she snaps.
I stare back. "He's the mission."
"Data's the mission."
Something twists in my chest. Lucien's voice comes through like static.
"If you were me, you'd leave him."
"But I'm not," I mutter.
Roza glares. "We leave in two."
I yank the courier onto my back. His blood's already soaking through my shirt.
We move.
Stairs are gone. Ropes down the side.
Halfway down, gunfire lights the wall beside us. Someone found us.
"Go!" Roza shouts.
I don't argue. I brace, push the courier ahead, then drop hard. Roll on landing. Something cracks in my wrist, but I don't let go.
We sprint for the extraction point.
Last block. Then—
Clank.
Grenade.
No time to think.
I twist, drop the courier, and kick the grenade back into the alley just as it explodes mid-air.
Pressure slams into my ears. Dust blinds me. But we're still alive.
The crawler's in sight. Doors open. Hesh waves us in.
I dive in, dragging the courier. Roza follows, blood on her face but still walking.
---
Extraction Complete
We roll out. No one speaks for a while. Roza's chest heaves like she ran through a furnace.
Hesh stares at me. "You carried deadweight, almost blew the timeline."
I wait for the verdict.
Then he shrugs. "Still made it. Choir's seen worse. You're in."
He tosses me a patch—burnt orange with black ridges. The Iron Choir's mark.
"Don't make me regret it."
Roza just nods. A little slower this time.
---
Later – Bunkroom
I sit alone, flexing my wrist. It's swollen, maybe fractured. Doesn't matter.
I stare at the patch in my hand.
Lucien's voice cuts in.
"Why risk the mission?"
I don't answer.
Because I had to.
Because I'm not him.
Because I'm still figuring out who I am.
But I know this much—
I survived my first job.
And I didn't leave anyone behind.
---