The morning after the cafeteria confrontation dawned cold and clear, the kind of sharp, metallic weather that felt like a challenge. Ark awoke not to the System's chime, but to the deep, satisfying ache of muscles pushed to new limits. The bruise on his forehead from the headbutt was a faint yellow shadow, almost healed thanks to his boosted Constitution 5 and the academy's medical nanites. He reviewed his status. The 300 EXP from the quest had pushed him to Level 4, and he'd allocated the automatic points, further solidifying his foundation. He was a rock, slowly being carved into something sharper.
The Beta physical training hall was a cavernous, echoey space on the ground floor of their wing, a stark contrast to the gleaming, holographic arenas the Alphas used. The floor was durable matting, the walls lined with basic weights, reinforced striking posts, and obstacle courses that looked more industrial than advanced. The air smelled of sweat, polymer, and the faint ozone of poorly calibrated energy dampeners.
Felicia North stood at the center, a silent monument in grey training gear. Her presence alone seemed to suppress the usual nervous chatter. The class gathered, a sea of anxious faces. Brody was there, his Galvanix Gauntlet conspicuously absent—likely confiscated for repair after its denting. He stood apart, his expression a thundercloud, radiating a sullen, wounded pride. His cronies kept a respectful, fearful distance.
"Physical capability is the chassis upon which power is mounted," North began, her voice cutting through the hum of ventilation. "A weak chassis buckles under strain, no matter how potent the engine. Today, we assess your chassis. No powers. Pure biomechanics. Partner drills. Grappling, throws, positional control."
A collective groan, quickly stifled under her gaze. For many Betas with flashy but weak powers, this was their worst nightmare—being stripped down to their unenhanced, often underdeveloped, bodies.
She paired them off seemingly at random. Ark found himself facing a boy named Leo, who had a minor chameleon-like skin adaptation ability, utterly useless in a no-powers grapple. Elijah was paired with a nervous girl who could generate weak light orbs.
"Begin," North said, and vanished from the center of the room. She didn't leave; she simply became a spectator from the periphery, her eyes missing nothing.
The hall erupted into a clumsy, grunting ballet. Bodies tangled, leverages were misunderstood, strength was applied inefficiently. It was a display of profound physical illiteracy. These were kids who had relied on their nascent, often disappointing, powers to define them. Without them, they were awkward, uncoordinated.
Ark and Leo circled. Leo lunged, trying for a simple tackle. To Ark's Perception 15, enhanced by Basic Combat Analysis, the move was a slow-motion diagram of flawed intent. Leo's center of gravity was too high, his steps too long.
Ark didn't meet force with force. He stepped inside the tackle, his body turning. He caught Leo's extended arm, used his own momentum, and executed a basic hip throw. It wasn't powerful or flashy. It was efficient. A minimal application of leverage. Leo hit the mat with a controlled thud, more surprised than hurt.
"Again," Ark said, his voice neutral.
They reset. Leo, flustered, tried a wild swing. Ark deflected it, slid behind him, and applied a gentle but inescapable rear chokehold, not applying pressure, just demonstrating control. "You're leaning forward. Your balance is in your heels. Root yourself."
Across the room, Elijah was struggling. His partner, in her anxiety, was simply pushing at him. Elijah, weak and unused to conflict, was giving ground, his hands fluttering ineffectually.
Ark released Leo. "Stay. Breathe. Think about your center." He then walked, without asking permission, to Elijah's mat. North watched, her expression unreadable.
"Elijah," Ark said. The girl stopped pushing, looking at Ark with wide eyes. "May I?"
She nodded, stepping back, relieved.
Ark faced Elijah. "You're treating this like a shoving match. It's not. It's about structure." He assumed a basic, balanced stance. "Copy me."
Elijah tried, his posture frail, knees locked.
"Widen your stance. Sink your weight. Not your shoulders—your hips." Ark placed his hands on Elijah's hips and shoulders, making slight adjustments. His touch was clinical, instructive. "Your power comes from the ground, right? Terrakinesis. Your body is the conduit. If your body is unstable, the power has no stable path. Your physique isn't just for fighting; it's the foundation for your ability."
He guided Elijah through the most basic movements: a proper push, using leg drive and core rotation instead of arm strength. A simple sidestep. How to frame with his forearms to create space.
"Your opponent is stronger? Don't meet strength. Redirect it. Use their energy." He demonstrated on Elijah, showing how a push could be turned into a throw with the right angle and timing. "You don't have to win a contest of force. You have to win a contest of positioning."
For twenty minutes, while the rest of the class flailed, Ark conducted a private, quiet tutorial. He was patient, his instructions clear and devoid of emotion. He wasn't teaching Elijah to be a brawler; he was teaching him the ABCs of bodily autonomy, of not being a passive victim. He was building a foundation.
Elijah, sweating and red-faced, began to mimic the movements with more confidence. The light-orb girl watched, then tentatively re-engaged. This time, the exchange was less one-sided. Elijah held his ground, used a basic frame, managed to off-balance her once.
Felicia North's voice spoke from just behind Ark, making him—and only him—jump slightly. He hadn't sensed her approach at all.
"A sound lesson, Greystone," she said softly, so only he could hear. "Power without a vessel is like wine in a cracked glass. You waste effort mopping the floor." Her eyes held that deep, knowing look. "You have an intuitive grasp of kinetic efficiency that is… uncommon. Continue."
She moved away, a ghost in the training hall.
By the end of the session, Ark had "sparred" with half a dozen different partners, each time ending the engagement within seconds with a precise, effortless throw or lock. He wasn't dominating with strength; he was solving them like simple physics problems. The difference between him and the rest of the class was no longer just about power or the lack thereof; it was a chasm of skill and understanding.
The Betas watched him with a new kind of respect, tinged with awe and a little fear. Brody, who had gruffly overpowered his own partners with raw, sullen strength, glowered from the sidelines. Ark's quiet competence was a different kind of threat, one his gauntlet couldn't smash.
After they were dismissed, showered, and changed, Ark caught up with Elijah in the hallway. The smaller boy was moving with a slight stiffness, but his head was higher.
"Thank you, Ark," he said, his voice earnest. "I… I never thought about my body like that. As part of the power."
"It's all connected," Ark said. "Your core attributes—strength, agility, constitution—they're not just for taking hits. They're the control parameters for everything you do. A weak body means weak control, weak focus, weak stamina. Train it. Grind. Every day. Make the vessel strong, and the power inside will have no choice but to grow to fill it."
He was paraphrasing System logic, but it was the truth. "Start small. Push-ups, sit-ups, running. Consistency over intensity. I'll give you a regimen."
Elijah nodded vigorously, a flame of determination lit in his eyes. For the first time, he had a path that wasn't about waiting for a miracle Awakening or cowering in fear. It was about work. Hard, honest, physical work.
They met Kyle and Elster for lunch in a quieter subsection of the Alpha cafeteria, a privilege of being guests of an Alpha student. The atmosphere here was different—less frenetic, more focused. Students discussed theory, compared simulation scores, talked in hushed tones about upper-year missions.
Kyle was practically vibrating with excitement. Before they could even sit, he slammed his left hand on the table with a clack.
"Behold!" he announced.
Encasing his hand and wrist was a piece of technology. It was less brutal than Brody's gauntlet, more elegant. Made of a dark, heat-resistant ceramic composite and brushed crimson alloy, it looked like a cross between a tactical glove and a piece of arcane machinery. Intricate vents and focusing lenses ran along the knuckles and forearm.
"The 'Pyroclasm Focuser,' Mark II," Kyle said, his eyes shining. "Just got it this morning from the Tech Department. Custom order. Costs a boatload of points, but man, was it worth the family investment!"
"It's… striking," Elster said, leaning closer to examine the craftsmanship. "What does it do?"
"What doesn't it do?" Kyle grinned. "The vents increase oxygen flow, boosting combustion efficiency by like, thirty percent. The lenses on the knuckles can focus wide-area blasts into cutting beams or pinpoint incendiary rounds. It's got a mini-reservoir that stores a bit of my own plasma for instant ignition, so I'm never caught without a spark. And look!" He pointed to a small, glowing module on the wrist. "Thermal regulator. Stops me from cooking my own arm off when I go all out. It's not a crutch; it's a force multiplier!"
He demonstrated by holding up a finger. A tiny, perfect sphere of blue-white flame appeared above it, humming with intense heat before he snapped his fingers and it vanished. The control was visibly sharper, the flame more concentrated.
"This is the edge, guys," Kyle said, his tone turning uncharacteristically serious. "Brody figured it out. That gauntlet turned him from a joke into a problem. The Alphas all have family heirlooms or custom gear. We can't just rely on what we woke up with. We have to build our advantages." He looked pointedly at Elster and Ark. "You should both get something. Els, a psionic amplifier or a focus crystal. Ark…" He paused, the enthusiasm faltering for a second. "Well, I know you're going for Science, but maybe there's something… I don't know, a reflex booster? A tactical computer?"
Ark observed the Pyroclasm Focuser with his Enhanced Perception and the newly unlocked Environmental Analysis. He could see the fine machining, the quality of the energy conduits. It was well-made, but it was a product. Built for a general pyrokinetic profile, not for Kyle specifically. It was an amplifier, not an integrator.
"It's impressive, Kyle," Ark said honestly. "The thermal regulator is smart. Prevents self-inflicted attrition." His mind, however, was racing down a different path. The Tech Department. Custom orders. Fabrication.
"I've been considering a telekinetic focus array," Elster mused, tapping her chin. "Something to help with multi-target precision or extend my range. The basic models are expensive, but a simple amplifier might be within my point budget if I save."
"That's the spirit!" Kyle beamed. "We gotta gear up. The world isn't getting easier. Those Alpha pricks like Marcus? You know he's got a whole suit of kinetic-dampening weave under that uniform. We're playing catch-up."
The conversation drifted to lighter topics—a funny incident in Kyle's energy manipulation class, a new hero team that had debuted with ridiculous costumes, a rumor about a third-year who had solo'd a minor Gate incursion. It was normal, friendly banter. Ark participated minimally, listening, offering a small smile or a nod. He was there, but a part of him was elsewhere, scheming.
He watched Elster. She was engaged, laughing at Kyle's stories, but her eyes would occasionally flick to him, that same quiet, analytical worry in their emerald depths. She was sensing the gulf, the cold, strategic machinery that was increasingly governing his actions. The boy who would get lost in explaining quantum theory was still there, but he was being walled in by the Assassin.
As lunch ended, Ark made a decision.
"I'm going to the Tech Department," he announced.
"To look at gear?" Kyle asked, hopeful.
"To join it," Ark clarified. "The student workshop division. As an apprentice fabricator."
Three pairs of eyes stared at him.
"But… you're Hero Course. Provisional, but still," Elster said, confused. "The Tech Department is for Support Track students."
"Dual enrollment is allowed for exceptional cases, or with instructor permission," Ark recited, having already accessed the academy regulations via his comm. "My exam scores in the theoretical sciences were in the 99th percentile. That qualifies as exceptional. And I can get permission."
"But why?" Kyle asked, bewildered. "You just held your own against Marcus Valerius! With your fists! Why go play with wrenches and circuit boards?"
Ark met his gaze. "Knowledge is a tool. Fabrication is a skill. If I rely on store-bought solutions," he nodded at Kyle's Focuser, "I am limited by their design, their cost, their availability. If I can make solutions, I am only limited by my knowledge and materials." He paused, his thoughts crystallizing. "And it's not just for me."
He looked at Elijah, who had been quietly listening. "Elijah's power is terrakinesis. Low-yield. What does the market offer him? Nothing. There's no 'Earth-Shaper Gauntlet' for an F-rank. But what if we could design something? A seismic sensor array to enhance his perception of subterranean structures? A material resonator to help him break down rock density more efficiently? Not to replace his power, but to augment its weak points."
Elijah's eyes went as wide as saucers. The idea that someone would design something for his defective ability was alien and profoundly hopeful.
"That's… really smart," Kyle admitted, scratching his head. "But man, that's a long road. Learning to make that stuff isn't like following a recipe."
"It's a foundation," Ark said, echoing his earlier lesson. "Like physical training. You build the skill, piece by piece. And in the meantime, I have access to tools, materials, and the knowledge of the techs. It's a strategic resource."
Elster was looking at him with dawning comprehension and that familiar, troubled admiration. He wasn't rejecting the Hero path; he was building a parallel one, a shadow path where he controlled the means of production. It was cunning, deeply pragmatic, and utterly unlike the idealistic hero's journey.
"Well," Kyle sighed, slapping the table. "If anyone can bend the academy rules to their will, it's you lately. Go for it, buddy. Just promise you'll make me a cooler flamethrower attachment than this one eventually."
"It will be factored into the design philosophy," Ark said, deadpan, but a ghost of his old, dry humor touched his words.
Getting permission was, as Ark predicted, a matter of bureaucratic logic. He petitioned the Academic Oversight AI, citing his perfect written exam scores, his need for a "support-oriented track" given his Null status, and his grandfather's legacy in engineering (a carefully edited file he submitted). He requested a probationary apprenticeship in the Student Fabrication Wing of the Tech Department.
The AI processed it for twelve hours. It likely cross-referenced his file with Director Vance and the faculty. The next morning, as Ark completed his grinding regimen, permission was granted, along with a sternly worded addendum: his primary academic and physical performance in the Hero Course could not drop below a B-average, or the privilege would be revoked.
It was a leash, but a long one. He had his foot in the door.
The Hero High Tech Department was a kingdom unto itself, a sprawling complex of laboratories, clean rooms, fabrication bays, and testing chambers separate from the main academic towers. The air hummed with a different kind of power here—the whine of plasma cutters, the buzz of 3D molecular printers, the crackle of arc welders, and the constant, hushed intensity of theory being made manifest.
The Student Fabrication Wing was where Support Track students learned their craft, building everything from comms gear to non-lethal containment devices to maintenance tools for hero equipment. It was chaotic, cluttered, and smelled of ozone, hot metal, and synthetic lubricant.
Ark, in his standard grey uniform, stuck out like a sore thumb among the students in practical coveralls stained with coolant and carbon scoring. He was met by his assigned supervisor, a harried-looking senior from the Support Track named Jax.
Jax had goggles pushed up on his forehead and a perpetually skeptical expression. "Greystone, right? The Null from the Hero Course. AI says you're a genius. We'll see. Genius here means not blowing up the nano-forge or melting a million-point diamond-tipped drill." He shoved a data-slate into Ark's hands. "Start here. Safety protocols, material catalogs, basic tool licensure sims. You don't touch anything that isn't a hand spanner until you've aced these. And I mean aced. We can't afford your hero-course bravado getting someone disintegrated."
It was grunt work. Tedious. Boring. To anyone else. To Ark, with his Intelligence 15, it was data. Precious, fundamental data. He absorbed the safety protocols, understanding not just the rules but the physics behind every warning. He memorized material properties—tensile strength, thermal conductivity, energy resonance frequencies for common alloys, poly-composites, and even rare extradimensional crystals harvested from Gates. He ran through tool sims, his enhanced reflexes and perception allowing him to achieve perfect scores on virtual welding, precision cutting, and micro-circuit assembly on the first try.
Within two days, Jax was looking at him less with skepticism and more with startled curiosity. "You… actually read the supplemental metallurgy texts? Volumes 4 through 7?"
"They were relevant to crystalline lattice stability under psi-energy exposure," Ark replied, not looking up from a simulation where he was virtually calibrating a plasma torch to within a micron tolerance.
"Right…" Jax muttered. "Well, safety certs are green. You can start on actual scrap. Bay 3. Reclamation project. Take broken gear, salvage usable components. Learn what failure looks like. It's the best teacher."
Bay 3 was a graveyard of hero dreams. Piles of dented armor plates, cracked focus crystals, overheated power cores, and twisted weapon frames. It was a treasure trove.
Ark put on a pair of industrial goggles and got to work. His approach was methodical, analytical. He didn't just dismantle; he autopsied. Why did this chest plate fracture? Stress concentration at a poorly designed joint. Why did this energy lens crack? Thermal expansion coefficient mismatch with its housing. He filed each lesson away, building a mental library of engineering failures.
He saw the ghost of his grandfather's work in some of the more advanced pieces—elegant solutions to heat dispersal, clever miniaturization of force field emitters. But he also saw the compromises of mass production, the cost-cutting, the one-size-fits-all mentality that Kyle's Focuser represented.
His mind, constantly cross-referencing with the System's cold logic, began to sketch designs. Not for himself—not yet. For Elijah.
A simple start: Tectonic Grip Assist. Not a power booster, but a control aid. A pair of gloves with piezometric sensors in the palms that would feed data to a wrist-mounted display. The sensors would detect minute vibrations in the earth, map density, give Elijah real-time, tactile feedback about the structure of the ground he was trying to manipulate. It would turn his vague "feeling" into quantifiable data. A trainer for his power.
The materials were simple enough: basic sensor pads, a low-power processor, a flex-screen. All salvageable from the scrap piles. The design was elegant in its simplicity. It wouldn't require a power core link; it was pure assistive technology.
He worked in the margins of his time, between salvage duties and his Hero Course obligations. He saw Elijah every day, pushing through the basic physical regimen Ark had given him. The boy was determined, his frail body slowly accepting the new demands. Ark would offer small corrections, a quiet "good," which seemed to fuel Elijah more than any cheer.
One evening, a week after joining the Tech Department, Ark didn't go to the cafeteria. He went back to Bay 3 after hours, using his newly granted apprentice clearance. Under the cool, white light of an isolated workbench, surrounded by the silent ghosts of broken gear, he assembled the first prototype.
His hands, guided by perfect sim training and enhanced stability, were steady. He soldered micro-connections, calibrated sensors, wrote a bare-bones diagnostic firmware. It was crude, housed in a salvaged wrist-comm casing and a pair of reinforced work gloves, but it was functional.
He found Elijah later that night, studying in the common area of the Beta dorms.
"Elijah. Try this."
Elijah looked at the makeshift device, confusion on his face. "What is it?"
"Sensory feedback array. For your terrakinesis." Ark explained its function in short, technical terms. "Put it on. Focus on the floor. Don't try to move it. Just feel it."
With trembling hands, Elijah put on the gloves and wrist unit. He closed his eyes, focusing as he did when he tried to use his power. The flex-screen on his wrist lit up, displaying a chaotic, low-resolution wireframe graph, spiking with random noise.
"That's the ambient vibration of the building," Ark said, pointing. "Ignore it. Push your awareness down, like you're trying to sense the foundation."
Elijah breathed, his brow furrowed. Slowly, the chaotic graph smoothed, then began to show a rhythmic, layered pattern. Solid mass. Reinforcement bars. Pipes.
"I… I can see it," Elijah whispered, awestruck. "Not see, but… the data. It's giving shape to the feeling." He opened his eyes, looked at the concrete floor, then back at the screen. The correlation was clear. For the first time, his weak, intuitive power had a visual, quantitative representation. It was a map for a blind man.
"This is… incredible, Ark," he breathed, his eyes shining. "I can… I can practice. I can learn what different densities feel like in the data. This is a foundation."
Ark nodded. "Exactly. Train with it. Learn the correlation between the signal and the substance. When you can predict the readout before you see it, your control will have improved. Then we iterate."
It wasn't a power tool. It was a teacher. A foundation, built from scrap and knowledge.
As Ark walked back to his room, the cold, logical part of him was satisfied. A variable was being optimized. A potential asset was being developed.
But a smaller, quieter part, a remnant of the boy who had been given a key by his grandfather, felt something else. It wasn't warmth, not exactly. It was the satisfaction of a correct calculation, of seeing a system respond as predicted. Of building something that could lift someone else up, instead of just carving a path for his own survival.
He had entered the forge of heroes as a piece of metal to be shaped. Now, he was learning to become the blacksmith. He would build his own tools, shape his own destiny, and in doing so, perhaps reshape the very world that had called him Null.
The path was long. Brody was out there, his gauntlet repaired, his humiliation festering. Marcus Valerius was plotting his sanctioned revenge. The mysteries of the System and his grandfather's legacy loomed large.
But as he lay in bed that night, the schematics for a more advanced design—a structural integrity field generator based on salvaged forcefield tech—already spinning in his mind, Ark Greystone felt something he hadn't in a very long time.
He felt momentum.