It is the sad truth of this world that the only real way to grow big and strong is to pick heavy things up... and then put them back down again.

A simple, yet brutal truth.

Unfortunately– as Fyn had come to learn – picking something up was not as simple as it first appeared.

Technique drew a harsh line in the sand between big muscles and a broken back.

Jackson stood over him, veins bulging out of his forehead as he bellowed that Fyn's form was wrong, like some sort of extremely hairless howler monkey. Fyn's grip should be tighter, his legs in a different place, his back straight, and yet also bent. The instructions were many and always followed by a heavy pat on the shoulders or head.

But, truth be told, Fyn wasn't really listening to the big man. His attention was elsewhere, drawn to Karst, who he could see grinning out of the corner of his eye. The bearded giant sat on a cheap plastic chair like it was a throne, lounging without a care in the world. His arms were crossed as he leaned back in the chair with a casual air that bordered on insulting.

"Push!!" Screamed Jackson, snapping Fyn back to the present.

"I'm pushing, Jesus. It's heavy, alright!" Fyn shouted back.

"If you can still talk to me, you aren't working hard enough! I want to see five more reps!"

Fyn groaned and kept lifting the barbell above his head. Four plates on either side added up to 180 kilograms for a shoulder press. Fyn only weighed 45 kilograms, so to be lifting four times his weight above his head, one can imagine the sheer strength in his relatively slight frame. Strength that not only bordered but climbed the wall between human and impossible.

Pound for pound, this would have been a pre-transit world record.

He felt the weight crushing down on him, the force travelling along his arms and shoulders, grounding itself through his legs like a lightning bolt. Every muscle was connected in the process, whether that be lifting or stabilising the bar.

It helped that his whole body optimised the process automatically, tinkering with little internal parts until they could handle the strain. He could feel himself growing stronger with each lift, adapting at a frightening speed.

With a grunt, Fyn completed the final rep and racked the bar, toppling backwards onto the bench. His head felt heavy as blood rushed through his ears. For the moment, Karst had been forgotten.

"Good set!" Jackson slapped him on the shoulders again and marched off to see how someone else was doing.

His poor, unsuspecting target turned out to be Kinsley. The boy had been struggling with a pair of 5-kilogram dumbbells that seemed to put the weight of the world on his uncomfortably bony shoulders. Apparently, Jackson believed that all Kinsley needed to get the weight above his head was a huge, bald man screaming in his ear.

Fyn winced as the yelling began. He felt for the kid, really. Unlike Fyn, Kinsley wouldn't recover instantly, and the boy was clearly malnourished to boot. It was a wonder he could even move after running all afternoon.

Taking the opportunity during his break, Fyn checked on how the other kids were doing. Grant was – of course – fine. He was lifting about a third of what Fyn could, despite being far larger, but what mattered was his form, which was impeccable. Clearly, he was not a stranger to this exercise or environment.

With every movement, the boy gave off a grounded, reliable feeling, as though he were in his element. He seemed infallible but in a realistic way. Fyn was glad to see this, as Grant being incredibly competent only made his job easier.

Next was Sloan, who also seemed comfortable with the weight pressed above her shoulders. The girl was focusing so intently on the lift that she probably wouldn't have noticed a breach if it opened right on top of her. It was like she had blinders on, only seeing the task directly in front of her.

Of course, this seemed to be part and parcel with Fyn's impression of the girl so far. For whatever reason, she was fanatically intense in every aspect of her life. She never complained or tried to weasel out of any of the exercises Jackson proposed, often asking him – rather bluntly – for tips on how to improve. For whatever reason, she seemed relentlessly driven to improve her abilities, bordering on masochistic.

'I can work with that,' thought Fyn. 'Better too driven than not at all.'

Finally, there was Mallory… She… was not doing so good.

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After initially refusing to lift anything at all, Mallory was berated until she cried and now sat miserably on the bench beside Kinsley. She held a pair of light dumbbells in her hands and watched nervously as Jackson forced the frail boy to lift the weights over and over again.

You could tell what she was thinking from the look on her face – 'Next, that will be me' – And there was real dread in those pale blue eyes. It was like she was the next in line to be hanged, and Jackson was the executioner.

Fyn suppressed a smile and got back to it. He already felt rested and sat up, glancing over at Karst - who looked like a mouse that had successfully gotten the cheese. Fyn ignored him and stood up, adding another two plates to either side of the bar.

For anyone else, progress at this rate would be impossible. But Fyn wasn't anyone else; he was a humanist. With every exercise he did, everything he lifted or moved, his body adapted perfectly to suit his needs. His muscles repaired and grew at a speed beyond belief, and he could feel himself getting far stronger in real-time.

If he was honest, the feeling was intoxicating.

Fyn slipped back under the bar and returned to lifting heavy things. He found it both fulfilling and mind-numbing at the same time. The progress was addicting. With each new weight he added, he felt a dizzying sense of linear growth that reflected his efforts. All he had to do was lift more and be rewarded more. The cycle was self-reinforcing.

Time passed as heavy things were picked up and put back down again.

Mallory was yelled at, as were Sloan, Grant and poor Kinsley – who had fainted twice already before being hauled over to Karst. The bearded man had force-fed the boy a bottle of his mysterious green liquid, and in minutes, Kinsley was up again – refreshed and ready to return to the cauldron of shouting, sweating and lifting.

Fyn had watched this exchange with scepticism. He had seen Karst make a weird point of touching the unconscious boy's wrist to 'check his pulse' before feeding him the liquid. If he had to guess, the real reason Kinsley recovered so fast had nothing to do with the vial of liquid and was something related to Karst's humanist abilities.

'That would explain why he's here, though,' thought Fyn. 'I thought since we only had a week to train, we would never get in the proper shape on time, but with the help of a humanist… It's certainly possible.'

Not long after he had this realisation, Jackson strode over and slapped him on the shoulders – as he loved to do.

"Good shift there, kid. Head over and get a check-up from the Doc. I reckon you could use the rest."

Fyn wanted to protest and then decided against it. He doubted the trainer would take his word for it that he was fine and was interested – despite his better judgement – in hearing what Karst had to say.

He got up from the bench and wandered through the minefield of exercise equipment, careful not to trip over Sloan, who was grimacing under a heavy ball of stone she was repeatedly picking up and putting down. The girl didn't even seem to register his presence.

On his way to the 'Doc', Fyn walked past Grant, who was resting by lying back against a colossal sandbag. His chest was heaving as he took in big breaths, and his cheeks were rosy red.

As Fyn passed, Grant raised his head a little. "You heading over to Beardy?" He asked.

"Yeah, for a check-up, apparently. Have you been yet?"

Grant nodded and rubbed his nose. "I went about ten minutes ago, I think. My advice is to hold your nose when you drink that green stuff because it tastes worse than it looks." He seemed to shudder at the memory. "I have to admit, though, I do feel far better after drinking it."

"Cheers," said Fyn. He then wondered if kids said cheers. "I'll keep that in mind."

Grant nodded again and – with some difficulty – sat upright. "Well, I should get back to it. Jackson looks like he's almost done tormenting Mallory."

Fyn glanced back and saw the girl crying again.

'For fucks sake,' he groaned inwardly. 'How am I supposed to get her to graduation?'

"Good luck, mate," said Fyn. "Better you than me, like."

"Haha, as if, dude. I'm pretty sure you can lift more weight than he can! He always gets super timid around you." Laughed Grant. "It's like he's scared or something."

Fyn thought back to how the big man had screamed in his face and doubted whether that could be placed in the same galaxy as timid. Still, he had definitely noticed that Jackson was a few notches more aggressive around the rest of his fellow trainees.

"I doubt Jackson's scared of anything," Fyn said, smiling. "Especially not me."

"Are you kidding, dude? The way you slapped away his hand earlier was incredible! I have no idea how strong you are, but that was awesome." Grant grinned.

Almost as if summoned, Jackson looked up from Mallory and noticed the two of them chatting.

"HEY! GET BACK TO WORK!" He bellowed.

"Shit, sorry for getting you in trouble," Fyn apologised.

"Ah, no worries. I was going to get yelled at either way." Grant waved a hand dismissively. "I'm just glad to know that there's at least one normal person in this thing with me. The rest of them seem nice, but…"

"Eccentric?" Fyn offered.

"Yeah, exactly. Although, I'm sure once we get to know them, they'll be pretty cool," said Grant. "And it's not like we don't have plenty of time, right?"

"How do you mean?"

"Well, we're going into the academy as a group, yeah? We were sponsored by his holiness. So apparently, we're going in as the church's representatives. It's like a scholarship, I guess… as long as we pass the exam, anyway."

Fyn frowned. This was news to him, and yet, it did make sense. Being in a group with all four of the kids would make it far easier for him to keep them safe.

'Still, I'd better ask Karst about this,' he thought.

"Oi!" Jackson roared. "I SAID GET BACK TO IT!"

Grant raised his eyebrows at Fyn and shook his head, bending down and picking up a pair of heavy dumbbells.

Taking this as his cue to leave, Fyn walked past the boy and headed straight for Karst. The big man was watching his approach eagerly, smiling all the while.

Fyn hated that smile. Almost as much as he hated the government. Which was saying something since Fyn really didn't like the government.

Who did though? No one he knew, at any rate.

Of course, it was better not to say things like that out loud. The most important thing to remember about living under tyranny, is to not let anyone know how depressed the tyrannical government makes you.

Get any funny ideas about a revolution, and suddenly you've gotten a new job offer you can't refuse in the Praxis mines.

No one retires in the Praxis mines. They get replaced.