The week had dragged on like a rusty chain, each day a cog turning in the merciless mechanism that was training on Mount Justice. Since that morning of humiliations on the tatami, where Dinah Lance had dismantled us one by one as if we were test dummies, the pace had intensified relentlessly.
It was no longer just isolated sparring; now it was team simulations, circuits that tested not only the body, but the mind and the cohesion of the group. I, Erick Smith, had plunged into it with the determination of someone who knew that the world outside did not forgive mistakes—villains like Zsasz were not exceptions, but the norm in this universe of gods and monsters.
Each session was a lesson in survival: rescues on uneven terrain, where hydraulic blocks rose and fell like living traps, forcing us to coordinate jumps, telekinesis, and supersonic speeds to save automatons without damaging them; Urban combat simulations, with holograms of generic villains forcing us to alternate between stealth and brute force; and even infiltration drills, where we had to penetrate simulated "enemy bases" without triggering virtual alarms. Red Tornado oversaw everything with its mechanical impassivity, adjusting difficulties in real time, while Dinah forced us to reflect after each failure: "What went wrong? How can we synchronize better?"
For me, it was a precarious balance.
My body, still evolving thanks to the symbiosis with the young fire elemental anchored to my soul, absorbed impacts better than expected—regeneration that closed cuts in hours and soothed bruises as if they were scratches. But my lack of field experience made me the weakest link, and I felt the gazes of the others: Conner with his Kryptonian grumpiness, Wally with his accelerated impatience, M'gann with her hesitant empathy. They see me as dead weight , I thought during a rescue simulation, where my controlled flame jet had created a perfect distraction for Kaldur to extract an automaton, but my hesitation in a jump almost cost the "civilians." But this is temporary. Every mistake is data for Sensei to process. Robin and Artemis, the "humans" of the group, excelled in these sessions—their refined technique compensated for their lack of powers, making them the natural pivots of the strategies.
Kaldur led with Atlantean calm, creatively adapting his hydrokinesis to the dry environment, such as condensing moisture from the air to create liquid shields. Conner and M'gann, the heavyweights, struggled to contain his brute strength, frequently activating "injury" sensors in the automatons due to overpowering them. Wally? He was the wild card—insane speed for reconnaissance, but his impatience caused him to stumble into traps that demanded patience.
At the end of each day, I returned to Crest Hill exhausted, but with my mind buzzing with analysis. The zeta tube dropped me off at a discreet location, and I walked the tree-lined streets to the house, the humid Gotham air clinging to my skin like a second layer of fatigue. My basement was my refuge—a bunker where the chaos of the Mount dissolved into absolute control. There, I adjusted what I needed: the red helmet, now integrated into the surgical capsule that Doc used for procedures.
The capsule, a tall, person-sized metallic cylinder with sensor-etched surfaces and IV ports, had become my new bed. I had left the upstairs bedroom, with its ordinary bed and crumpled sheets, to sleep there every night. Why? Efficiency.
The capsule not only analyzed my body—monitoring lactate levels, bone density, elemental integration—but also administered precise medications: nutrient injections to optimize recovery, microdosed analgesics for residual pain, even hormonal stimulants to accelerate elemental maturation. And of course, it allowed me to connect the helmet directly, immersing myself in Sensei's virtual world while my body "slept."
That night, after the seventh day of intense training, I descended the creaking steps, my body protesting—leg muscles throbbing from jumping over uneven blocks, arms aching from controlled flame throws.
The basement greeted me with its fresh air, filtered by fans humming like a mechanical mantra. I approached the capsule, which emerged from the floor like a high-tech sarcophagus, its smooth surface reflecting my tired silhouette: disheveled black hair, blue eyes shadowed by dark circles, pale skin marked by dried sweat.
First, the adjustments to the helmet: I removed it from its stand on the workbench, feeling its balanced weight in the palm of my hand—deep red, spherical, with no apparent visor, just connection ports that I had refined that afternoon. Using precise tools—a microscopic soldering iron and transmuted graphene wires—I recalibrated the neural interfaces for better synchronization with the capsule.
The process took minutes: soldering a new quantum connector to reduce latency by 2 milliseconds, testing with an electrical pulse that made the helmet flash green. Satisfied, I attached it to the capsule, the cables snapping into place with smooth clicks, like pieces of a living puzzle.
While I worked, my mind calculated my weekly progress. I slept eight real hours a night in the capsule—enough time for my body to rest, but expanded virtually to 24 hours of training with Sensei, thanks to the 1:3 ratio. Multiplying by seven nights: 168 virtual hours of pure immersion, without interruptions.
That was equivalent to seven full days of uninterrupted practice, something impossible in the real world without physical collapse. 168 hours , I thought, attaching the last cable. Enough time to internalize basic redirection patterns, but not for mastery. Sensei said I improve 1 to 1.3% per session—cumulative, but slow. Geniuses absorb quickly, but this is a marathon, not a sprint. The elemental responded to my focus, a warm spark in my chest that accelerated my reasoning, but I knew: patience was the key.
During my free time that week—between simulations on the mountain, or free afternoons when Dinah let us go to "reflect"—I would meet Artemis on her rooftop. It was a tacit agreement: I provided custom gear, she taught me how to refine my technique.
The training sessions were intense, but full of a chemistry that went beyond the strikes. On Tuesday, for example, she taught me how to integrate Muay Thai with silat—a brutal clinch followed by serpentine redirections. "Don't block, newbie," she would say, sweaty and close, her athletic body brushing against mine in a demonstration. "Let the strike pass and use the flow against it." I would try, fail, fall—and in one fall, we would end up tangled again, faces close, breaths mingling. "That mistake again?" she would laugh, but not immediately pull away, her almond-shaped eyes fixed on mine.
On Thursday, we practiced throws: I'd throw her onto the mat, she'd reverse, ending up on top, her firm thighs pinching my sides. "Better," she murmured, sweat dripping from her chin onto mine. These "intense seconds"—accidental touches, lingering glances, sarcasms that masked flirting—were building something. Harem? I thought once, as I walked home. Maybe. But first, strength. She motivated me—not only with her dangerous beauty, but with a determination that mirrored my own.
Back in the basement, after adjusting my helmet, I approached the central workbench. There lay the shield blueprint—an unfinished piece that had haunted me for months, even before I joined the team. Inspired by the Captain America from my past life's memories, but adapted to my reality: a 60cm diameter circular disc, made of a metal transmuted via the alchemical circle that Morgana had helped refine.
The material was a hybrid alloy—titanium and carbon infused with runes that made it extremely hard (capable of withstanding ballistic impacts without deforming) and lightweight (less than 2kg, as if it were aluminum).
But the real challenge was the power source. I had designed a repulsor system: embedded circuits that, when activated, generated a pulsating force field on the defensive surface—not only absorbing but reflecting damage like a kinetic mirror. Physical attacks ricocheted, thermal or ballistic energies were dispersed at calculated angles. The problem? The battery — a recycled solid-state cell from League prototypes — could only last 10 minutes of continuous use before overheating and frying.
I picked up the shield, feeling its sharp edge in my palm. Months of this , I thought, twirling it in the air to test its balance. I'd tried magical components—mana-infusing rituals Morgana had unearthed from online grimoires—but nothing sustains the field without draining my life essence. The internet is limited; real grimoires are with mages like Zatanna or Constantine. With no choice, I adapted: a tactile switch on the inner cable allowed me to turn the repulsor on and off, conserving energy for short bursts. I tested it right there: I activated the field—a low hum, the air around the shield shimmering like rising heat.
I conjured a condensed fireball from my palm, hurling it against the surface. The impact exploded in orange flames, but the field repelled: the flames ricocheted off the ceiling, dissipating without damaging the metal. The shield vibrated slightly in my hand, warm but intact. I deactivated it—the battery blinked green, still 98% full after the test. 10 continuous minutes , I calculated. But in bursts, it lasts for hours. Enough for now. It wasn't supernatural yet—it lacked a ritual to infuse real mystical properties, like automatic regeneration or infinite absorption—but it was a solid defense. I need a weapon like that , I thought, remembering Conner's punches that cracked the ground. Out there, there are worse things: Bane, Darkseid. This gives me a chance.
The clock on the counter showed the time—nearing "bedtime." I stowed the shield in a magnetic holder on the wall, feeling the day's fatigue build up: leg muscles stiff from rescue drills, arms heavy from combat simulations. But sleep wasn't rest; it was war.
I approached the capsule, opening the door with a biometric touch. The interior was padded with adaptive foam, IV tubes ready for nutrients, sensors blinking a soft blue. I lay down, the material molding to my body like a living cocoon. I put on the helmet—the plates attaching to the jacket with soft clicks, the neural interface humming as it connected.
I closed my eyes. The real world dissolved: a tingling in my skull, synapses realigning, and I awoke in the virtual.
The setting materialized—not the endless white, but an open-air dojo: polished wooden floors under a starry sky, paper lanterns swaying in a night breeze that carried the scent of cherry blossoms. Sensei stood in the center, executing a fluid kata: fists cutting the air in precise arcs, feet gliding like shadows, his body a flow of perfect balance.
He paused at the sight of me, turning with a respectful bow. "So, you've returned," he said, his deep voice with a subtle Japanese accent. "I see the shield design is ready to be integrated into your arsenal."
I nodded, feeling the virtual anchor itself: the elemental pulsed here as in the real, an inner flame that warmed my "muscles." "Yes. Let's test it."
Sensei raised his hand—and materialized a shield on his left arm: Spartan, of ancient copper, large and heavy, with sharp edges and a dull sheen that evoked ancient battles. On my arm, a replica of my shield appeared: the 60cm circular disc, transmuted metal light as a feather, smooth surface ready for the repulsor. "First, understand the shield," said Sensei, assuming his guard. "It's not just an offensive weapon—it's an extension of the body. It blocks, redirects, counterattacks. Throw it: not like a disc, but with rotation to curve, returning like a boomerang."
We trained: I threw the shield, it bounced at the wrong angles, returning weakly. Sensei corrected me — "Arm extended, wrist twisted 45 degrees, use hip torque" — until I got it right: the disc cut through the air in a perfect arc, ricocheting off a simulated tree and returning to my hand. Then, defense: he attacked with his fists, I blocked — the shield absorbing impacts, the repulsor activated reflecting the force back. I switched off to conserve "energy." Hours passed in the virtual world — strikes, falls, corrections.
Then, simulations: Sensei summoned ninjas—realistic holograms, dressed in black, moving like living shadows. Ten of them, armed with katanas and shurikens. I always lost: my shield blocked one, but another flanked; I threw, hitting two, but the rest knocked me down with precise kicks. Still raw , I thought after the tenth defeat, lying in the virtual dojo, my "body" aching despite the simulation. Sensei analyzed: "1.2% improvement in this session. You absorb quickly—genius in action. Keep going."
The virtual night stretched on — 24 hours of repetitions, failures, progress. Tomorrow, another one.
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