12 YEARS AGO

Sweat dripped from Vylaas's brow as he circled his opponent in the sparring square. The morning sun beat down mercilessly on the packed dirt, creating shimmering waves of heat that distorted the air. His opponent, a boy no more than fifteen, gripped his training sword with white-knuckled intensity. The weapon trembled slightly in his inexperienced hands.

Vylaas recognized the fear in the boy's stance—shoulders too tense, weight shifted too far back, eyes darting everywhere except where they should be. He had looked that same way on countless mornings just like this one. The Empire's training program started them young, throwing them into combat before their voices had even finished breaking.

"Strike, Cadet!" Instructor Renault's voice cracked like a whip across the courtyard. "Or do you need me to hold your hand through basic forms?"

The boy—Taren, if Vylaas remembered correctly—flinched at the harsh command. He lunged forward, the movement telegraphed so clearly that Vylaas thought he could have taken a sip from his canteen and still had time to parry the blow. Instead of countering with the brutal takedown that protocol demanded, Vylaas simply sidestepped and tapped Taren's ribs with the flat of his blade.

"Dead," Vylaas said quietly. "But your footwork is improving."

"Prince Vylaas!" Renault's boots crunched across the gravel as he stormed toward them. "That was pathetic. Instructions were clear: this is full-contact, and all strikes should be delivered at full force. You're not here to coddle these whelps."

Vylaas turned to face the instructor, keeping his expression neutral despite the anger simmering beneath. "With respect, sir, breaking his ribs won't teach him proper technique, just how dull convalescence is. He needs to understand the movements before—"

"The battlefield won't give him time to understand." Renault spat the word like it was poison. "Pain is the greatest teacher. Or have you forgotten your own lessons?"

How could I forget? Vylaas thought, his hand unconsciously rising to touch the collar at his throat. The memories surfaced unbidden: the "special training sessions" that his father arranged, the ones that left him unable to move for days. All in the name of building strength, of purging weakness.

"No, sir," Vylaas said aloud. "I haven't forgotten."

"Then prove it. Again!" Renault backed away, his eyes hard. "And this time, I want to hear bones crack."

Taren's face went pale, but he raised his sword again, trying to mask his trembling. Vylaas settled into a ready stance, his mind racing. He could follow orders, could break this boy the way they'd tried to break him. It would be easy—almost too easy. But the thought made his stomach turn.

The boy attacked again, this time with desperate energy born of fear. His blade whistled through the air in a wild arc. Vylaas parried easily, then tapped him again, lighter than before.

"Better angle on the swing," he said. "Watch your elbow next time."

"ENOUGH!" Renault's face had turned an alarming shade of purple. "Recruit Vylaas, you will report to the armory immediately. Since you seem so unwilling to actually use a weapon, you can at least help your brothers and sisters in arms by doing maintenance. Alone."

Vylaas bowed slightly, not trusting himself to speak. As he walked away, he caught Taren's eye and gave him a quick wink. The boy's shoulders relaxed fractionally, and something like gratitude flickered across his face.

+++

The armory was cool and dim compared to the courtyard, the stone walls providing blessed relief from the heat. Rows of weapons lined the walls—swords, spears, axes, and more exotic implements of death that Vylaas preferred not to dwell on. The air smelled of oil and steel, with undertones of leather and sweat.

He had just finished cleaning his third rack of weapons when the door slammed open with enough force to rattle the walls. Kaelen stood in the doorway, his cybernetic leg whirring softly as he stalked forward. His face was a mask of barely contained fury.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" Kaelen's voice was low and dangerous.

Vylaas continued polishing the blade in his hands, refusing to be baited by his brother's anger. "Cleaning weapons, obviously. Is there an issue with those new eyes the General paid for?"

"Don't play games with me." Kaelen snatched the weapon from Vylaas's hands and threw it aside. It clattered against the stone floor, the sound echoing in the enclosed space. "I just read Renault's report. Coddling recruits? Refusing direct orders? Have you completely lost your mind?"

"Ah, so that's what this is about." Vylaas stood slowly, meeting his brother's gaze. "Tell me, Kaelen, when did effective teaching become coddling? When did basic human decency become a sign of weakness?"

"When we're preparing for war!" Kaelen's cybernetic hand clenched, servos whining in protest. "These recruits need to be ready for real combat, not your gentle instructions and pat on the back encouragement."

"And you think breaking them will make them stronger?" Vylaas felt his own anger rising now. "How well has that been working for you?"

Kaelen's face twisted. "I've come away stronger. Every lesson, every punishment—it all has a purpose. Your heart has always been soft, but I didn't realize your head was as well."

"Me? Soft in the head?" Vylaas laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Because I think a few days of productive training will see better results than that same amount of time spent mending broken bones?"

Kaelen opened his mouth to speak, but Vylaas cut him off.

"I see what the empire's 'lessons' are doing to you, brother. I'm watching you become harder, colder, more like the old guard with each passing year. Men like Father and Valerius—men who would throw either of us to the dogs if it suited their agendas." Vylaas sighed and moved to retrieve the thrown weapon. He turned to Kaelen after picking it up.

"Marashahala teaches that we don't have to pass down our pain like an inheritance. The chains placed upon us by our forefathers need not bind our descendants."

Whatever Vylaas had hoped to achieve by quoting philosophy, it didn't come to pass. Kaelen's hand shot out, grabbing him by the collar. The metal knuckles dug into his flesh, right above where the mana suppression collar sat. "You have no idea what it takes to lead. To protect. The world isn't kind, Vylaas. It's brutal and merciless, and if we don't prepare these soldiers for that reality, we're sending them to their deaths."

Vylaas didn't struggle against his brother's grip, but his eyes blazed with defiance. "And what about their spirits? Their decency? What good are soldiers who've had every shred of compassion beaten out of them?"

"Compassion?" Kaelen's lip curled in disgust. "Compassion gets you killed in war. It makes you hesitate when you should strike, makes you weak when you need to be strong."

"Then I choose weakness," Vylaas said quietly. "I'd rather die as myself, unbroken, than live as the monster they want me to become."

Kaelen released him with a shove, his cybernetic eye glowing with barely contained rage. "Then you'll die alright. And worse, you'll get others killed with your mercy." He turned toward the door, his footsteps heavy on the stone floor. "You're a disappointment, brother. To me, to Father, to the Empire itself."

"Better a disappointment than a willing executioner," Vylaas called after him.

Kaelen paused in the doorway, his silhouette dark against the light beyond. "We'll see how long that philosophy keeps you alive when the real fighting starts." Then he was gone, leaving only the echo of his footsteps and the lingering scent of ozone from his cybernetics.

Vylaas stood alone in the armory, surrounded by the tools of war. He picked up the sword Kaelen had thrown, examining its edge in the dim light. His reflection stared back at him, distorted by the curved metal.

I might be forced to bend, he pondered, but I will not break.

----------------------------------------

The Iron Chamber roared.

Hydraulic pistons shrieked as a wall of blackened steel slammed toward Kaelen. He sidestepped, the metal grinding past his ear with inches to spare. Sparks showered down. The air reeked of ozone and burning lubricant. He coughed, spitting into the gloom.

Focus.

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The cybernetics in his left leg screamed, protesting the sudden acceleration. He ignored the pain, channeling his focus through his [Cybernetic Revenant] secondary class and into the [Flash Maintenance] skill, burning mana to stabilize the failing augmentation.

A wave of heat washed over him. He whirled, his vision blurring with sweat, and saw the flame-screener jutting from a nearby turret. The nozzle spat a cone of burning gas, engulfing the space where he'd stood scant seconds before. Kaelen cursed and sprinted, dodging the licks of flame.

He saw them a moment too late. Mine drones, like metallic spiders, scuttled from the shadows, their proximity sensors glowing menacingly. He had no time to change direction. One misstep and he was going to be leaving the training hall in a stretcher.

Perfect, he thought. This was the sort of realistically dangerous training he needed if he were going to master his new primary class.

> Class: Spiritflame Vanguard

>

> Channel the power of your emotion into flame, bringing your entire being to bear against any that stand before you.

Kaelen drew from the heat of his raw, sweaty skin, letting the stinging pain feed his power. He martialled his annoyance and irritation and used [Ignition].

The irritation crystallized into power as Kaelen ignited it. Orange flame burst to life an inch above the back of his hand, hovering over his fist. Suddenly relieved of much of those distracting feelings, Kaelen slipped into the zone. The world narrowed to a tunnel of light and motion as his feet ghosted across the obstacles.

He closed on the lead drone in heartbeats, punching towards the construct and unleashing the Spiritflame.

[ Detonate Spiritflame: Irritation ]

The blast of annoyance manifested as crackling arcs of orange static, a field of disruption that ripped through the air toward the drones. Its steel frame shivered and warped under the assault, circuits frying as phantom irritation wormed through its programming. The machine's death cry came as a shower of sparks and twisted metal.

In turn, the remaining four drones also failed. The explosion knocked Kaelen back, but the blast was undirected and relatively weak. Muscle memory took over. He rolled with the impact, the flame hovering over his fist flickering and going out.

Around and around the maze he went.

Valerius, as always, said nothing. He merely watched with burning eyes from high above.

Another turret rotated, locking onto his position. This one wasn’t dispensing fire. A heavy-gauge las-cannon extended, and was already charging.

This won't be good.

Acting fast, Kaelen channeled his energy, and focused again on the feeling of the blows he had taken. It felt impossible to ignore all the bruises and contusions, but he couldn't dwell on them for too long—he needed to move!

Frustration.

He focused, consumed the frustration, and once again, he ignited the emotion in his fist.

[ Consolidate Spiritflame: Frustration ]

The flame shield coiled around Kaelen's body, wrapping him in a cocoon of spiritual fire the color of spent charcoal. His frustrations manifested themselves in order to frustrate his attackers instead. The cannon's blast hammered against his defense, its force dispersing across the barrier in rippling waves. For one precious heartbeat, he stood untouchable—then the protection crumbled away like ash in the wind.

He charged into the turret itself, delivering a powerful blow to its core, disabling its ability to bring his defenses low. The tower groaned, collapsing. The metal falling on him was almost enough to push him past the breaking point.

His leg sparked visibly, its movements becoming less fluid. He burned more mana on [Flash Maintenance], the skill was struggling to compensate for the ever-increasing pressure.

The lights flickered. Alarms blared, growing louder. The Iron Chamber was beginning to simulate its own failure. Good—it meant he was winning.

A section of the floor dropped away, revealing a pit filled with spinning blades. Kaelen leaped across, his cybernetic leg lagging, almost failing to propel him far enough. He landed on the opposite edge, his fingers scraping against the metal. He hauled himself up, ignoring the pain as the rough surface tore at his skin.

Valerius' image materialized beside the pit, his face like a granite mask in the crimson glow of the emergency lights.

“Hesitation,” he said, his voice devoid of warmth. "You allow doubt to poison your movements."

The words were subtle, a mere whisper, but they struck Kaelen like a physical blow and a memory. Doubts of never being good enough, of being forever shamed by the failed ritual. The image of the King turning away, his father's face a mask of disappointment, flashed through his mind.

Something snapped.

Rage. White-hot, blinding rage. It surged through him, eclipsing the pain, eclipsing the exhaustion. He could feel his mana core thrumming, the energy building to a fever pitch. Valerius sought to control this power, but he was wrong. Kaelen knew, instinctively, that he was the only one with control.

He turned toward Valerius, his eyes burning with raw power. "You want more?" he snarled, his voice a guttural rasp. "I'll show you more."

He channeled the rage, the burning, furious, vengeful, rage, and with that he ignited.

[ Consolidate Spiritflame: Rage ]

The mana ignited, birthing black and crimson flames that writhed like tortured souls before collapsing inward. In their place hung a sphere of raw potential, pulsing with barely contained violence. Kaelen flexed his Intent and the sphere drove itself into his chest. The orb seared his flesh as it passed, but in return it also flooding his veins with liquid fury. His body, moments ago on the edge of collapse, now thrummed with dark purpose. He was, quite literally, fueled by his own anger—and it suited him.

The cybernetics in his left leg spasmed, the metal groaning under the strain. He flooded it with violent power until it quieted.

He moved with a speed he didn’t know he possessed, a whirlwind of destruction. The remaining turrets, the mine drones, the shifting walls – they were all just targets for his fury. He smashed, he kicked, he tore, each blow fueled by a desperate need to prove himself, to obliterate any vestige of weakness. He fought until there was nothing left to fight, and he stood screaming at the ceiling, demanding further outlet for his fury.

And then the fire in his veins guttered and died.

A silent darkness followed.

+++

He came to with a gasp, the taste of blood in his mouth, and the ringing in his ears. He saw a sight.

The chamber was in ruins. Walls were collapsed concrete, and the earth had been torn open. Metal hung everywhere, melted and ruined. But he lived. He still lived. That was all that mattered.

He tried to stand, but his left leg refused to cooperate. He looked down and saw the problem.

His cybernetic leg had buckled at the knee, the synthetic muscle fibers torn and frayed. The metal casing was cracked, the internal mechanisms exposed and sparking feebly. It was completely useless.

He was completely useless.

Valerius knelt beside Kaelen, his hand resting on the prince's shoulder. The touch felt warm, almost paternal. Kaelen's chest tightened at the gesture.

"You've done well today." Valerius' voice held a note of pride that made Kaelen's heart leap. "The Spiritflame responds to you naturally. For most, learning to use the class' granted affinities takes months."

Kaelen's breath came in ragged gasps. Sweat and blood mingled on his face, but he couldn't look away from Valerius' approving gaze. If the General saw fit to commend him…

"The leg can be replaced," Valerius said. "What matters is your spirit—your willingness to push beyond mortal limits. That fire inside you burns brighter than any machinery."

"I failed again," Kaelen whispered, gesturing at his ruined cybernetics.

"No." Valerius gripped his shoulder tighter. "You succeeded. Look around you. This destruction? This is what true power looks like. The cost means nothing if the result serves our purpose."

Something unclenched in Kaelen's chest. The shame of his broken body faded under Valerius' words. Here was someone who understood, who saw past his weaknesses to the strength within.

"You have the makings of greatness in you, my prince. I saw it in the way you struggled after your father abandoned you. All you needed was someone to help you embrace your true nature."

Kaelen straightened, despite the pain. "Thank you, General."

"Come." Valerius smiled. "Let's get that leg repaired. We have much more to accomplish together."

"Go on without me, sir," Kaelen said, smiling. "I'd like to take a few moments to rest and consolidate my gains. I learned much today."

"I understand," the general responded, smiling down at the prince. "I'll have the barracks prepare to receive you and work on that leg. Can you make it there?"

"Of course, General," Kaelen replied. Valerius nodded at him again and strode away, leaving Kaelen to his thoughts.

He felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. The pain was still there, a dull throb that permeated every fiber of his being. But it no longer mattered. The old Kaelen, the one who craved his father's approval, the one who feared failure, was gone—dead. He was pathetic. The gnosis he gained as he accepted that was what unlocked the [Cybernetic Revenenant] class.

Now, with the added might of his [Spiritflame Vanguard] class, he knew he could go further. His limits could be shattered as easily as the rest of him, after all. His strength was forged in pain, and every failure was an opportunity to build back better.

I will break, and I will rebuild. A thousand times if necessary.

The declaration reverberated in his spirit, and he felt the oncoming rush of gnosis. He embraced it fully, letting the rejuvenating fires of the heavens burn away his weakness. He basked in the feeling until, eventually, it subsided.

With a grunt, Kaelen began to crawl toward one of the few remaining exits. His ruined leg dragged uselessly behind him, scraping along the metal floor. Each movement sent a jolt of pain through his body, but he pressed on, smiling grimly.

For the first time in years, he was certain about his Path.