CHAPTER 1
"I was a man once. A good man, if the stories were kind. I never wanted vengeance, only truth. I didn't choose this path. It chose me.
But you…
You came to my home with fire and steel. You slaughtered my kin, painted my walls with blood, and carved grief into my bones with your cursed Lightblades.
So now? I don't want answers anymore. I want your heads. I want your world to burn.
Death is coming. And it wears my face."
***************
Aldrich jerked awake as a mechanical horn wailed through the street outside. His head throbbed. He sat up slowly on the creaky cot, silver hair damp with sweat.
Groaning, he rolled his shoulders and rubbed at the ache pulsing in his temples. The room around him was narrow and cracked, an apartment barely held together by concrete and luck.
He dropped to the cold floor without thinking. Habit. Routine. Three hundred push-ups. No exceptions.
By the end, sweat slicked his skin and his breath came in hard, ragged bursts. His body burned, but the kind of burn that proved he was still here. Still fighting.
A cold shower snapped the fatigue off his back. The water pressure was weak, but he didn't waste it. Heat was a luxury the Lowlands couldn't afford, and water wasn't far behind.
He dried off, glancing in the chipped mirror bolted to the wall. Lean frame. Sharp jaw. Silver hair now trimmed close to his head. People called him "pretty boy" like it was a joke. Like looking like this in the Lowlands was something to be ashamed of.
He didn't care.
Black shirt. Black pants. Black boots. Same every day. It was simple and functional.
By the time he stepped outside, the smog-streaked sun was trying and failing to break through the gray sky. Lowlanders filled the streets, miners in heavy gear trudging toward the ore pits. Dust kicked up around their boots. Their faces were sunburnt and hollow.
A Red Core patrol followed close behind. Laser rifles gripped tight. Their helmets hid their expressions. Aldrich kept his head down and didn't make eye contact. One wrong look, and those rifles didn't ask questions.
He jogged. Quick. Focused.
Twenty minutes later, Monarch's Dojo rose out of the haze like a worn monument. Inside, the air cracked with the rhythm of fists on pads and the grunts of effort. Fighters were already at it. Most barely looked up, but a few nodded when he walked in. Others just made room. Being top dog in a place like this earned you respect.
He moved toward the mats, rolling his shoulders.
Then..
"Aldrich!"
He turned. Herman.
Same height. Twice the width. Broad-shouldered and barrel-chested, with a scar slashed across the bridge of his nose. Brown eyes, sharp as ever. That scar was from a dare gone wrong back when they were ten. Aldrich remembered because he was the one who'd dared him.
"Beat you to training today," Herman said, grinning like it meant something.
"Not everything's a race, you idiot," Aldrich muttered, but his smile gave him away.
They slapped palms. Rough. Familiar. Brothers without the blood.
Herman had been there for all of it, when Aldrich lost his mom, when the hunger got bad, when Aldrich decided to claw his way out of the mud. Herman didn't ask why. He just followed.
"You remember Ma Ackanam?" Herman said, settling beside him. "Always said life starts with a race. We're all winners for being born."
Aldrich groaned. "You're sixteen. Stop quoting nursery rhymes."
"Don't disrespect the dead, man," Herman said, kissing two fingers and saluting the ceiling.
They stretched in sync, muscle memory drilled in from years together.
"We sparring today?" Herman asked.
"Veltroch pulled the top ten," Aldrich replied. "Doesn't want us busted up before the trials."
Herman nodded. The weight between them shifted.
"You think we're ready?" Aldrich asked.
Herman barked out a laugh. Heads turned. "You're asking me that? You're the best brawler here."
Aldrich didn't smile.
"We screw this up," he said, "we're stuck here four more years. And our minority cards expire soon."
"Yeah," Herman said, voice dropping. "Come January, I'm seventeen. You're March. After that, they ship us to the mines every morning."
The mines. Where people didn't live—they eroded.
And if the mines didn't kill you, the Gray Disease would.
Only cure? A core. Any core. Red. Yellow. Green. Blue. White. All locked behind military controls and price tags that laughed in your face. Even white cores, the easiest to get, were but a dream for them. In a place where a hot meal was a gamble.
Aldrich's jaw clenched.
His mom hadn't made it. Two years ago, the disease ripped through her lungs. She died coughing blood and hope. His dad? Gone before that. They said he died in the Highlands. A combatant. A hero.
But what kind of hero left his wife and son in the dirt?
Aldrich had asked that question a thousand times. His mom had always answered with the same whispery phrase…"He did it for us." Even as the sickness stole her breath, she believed it.
Aldrich didn't.
When they returned his dad's things, the box was nearly empty. A cracked watch. A dull knife. A few taels. That was all. No pension. No apartment in the Heights. Just dust and silence.
Aldrich felt the heat rise in his throat.
Herman noticed.
"You good?" he asked, voice gentler than usual.
Aldrich nodded once. "Yeah."
Herman clapped a heavy hand on his shoulder. "We're gonna crush the trial."
Aldrich exhaled and stood. "Why do I even stress when you're around?"
Herman grinned. "Don't go soft on me now, pretty boy."
"There it is," Aldrich muttered.
Herman's laughter echoed as he headed to the bags. Aldrich turned toward the mat, wrapping his fists tight.
Then he paused.
Breathed.
Focused.
When his eyes opened, there was someone standing across from him.
Himself.
Same silver hair. Same stance. Same quiet fire in his eyes.
No one else in the dojo saw it.
But to Aldrich, the clone was as real as anyone.
"Long time," the figure said.
Aldrich lunged.
To the others, he was shadowboxing. Nothing special.
To Aldrich?
He was fighting himself.