Blue Earth, July 2, 2081, 1:50 PM
Dark clouds loomed over Oceanview City, the busiest metropolis in the country. Thunder rumbled as summer rain began pelting the windows of Star Combat Club’s top-floor training room.
"Summer storms never wait," muttered Ethan Gray, watching lightning fork across the sky. The 28-year-old pressed his palms to the floor, slowly lifting into a one-handed handstand. His muscles trembled under the strain, sweat dripping onto the mat.
Right arm – five minutes. Left arm – five minutes.
Ethan’s daily ritual, taught by his father decades ago. At sixty, Dad’s chronic back pain had worsened yesterday. I should visit after this training gig, Ethan thought, switching arms as his right palm screamed in protest.
His gaze drifted to the jagged scar running down his right leg – the souvenir that ended his World Martial Championship dreams. Even daily rehab couldn’t erase the dull ache, especially in damp weather.
"Beep-beep!" The hologram projector activated without warning. A bear-sized man materialized in the air, grinning from the backseat of a self-driving van.
"Ethan! We’re twenty minutes out!" bellowed Lucas "Bear" Dawson, Ethan’s childhood friend turned state sports coordinator. "These rookies want to see if the 'Spear Demon' still bites!"
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Ethan chuckled, rain streaking the window behind him. "Reserve your applause till they survive my drills."
**Two floors below...**
Eleven teenagers gawked at the weapon racks lining Star Combat Club’s armory. Training spears stood regimented like soldiers – polymer cores wrapped in impact foam, sensors embedded in each tip.
"Doesn’t look so scary now," muttered Jake, the state team’s rising star. At 6’1”, he towered over Ethan’s listed 5’10” frame. "He’s what? 180 pounds? I could bench press him."
"Video archives show him at 205 during his prime," snapped Coach Bear, materializing in the doorway. The mountain of a man tapped his prosthetic eye – a relic from his own combat days. "Mind your tongues. That ‘has-been’ made two World Championship quarterfinals before most of you stopped wetting beds."
Training Arena, Third Floor
Ethan stood centered on the hexagonal combat pad, its shock-absorbent tiles humming with readiness. The rookies filed in, their poorly concealed smirks fading when he spun a practice spear overhead – whoosh-CRACK – striking the mat hard enough to dent memory foam.
"First drill," Ethan announced, tossing aside his cane. "Attack me. All at once."
Jake lunged first, telegraphing his thrust like a billboard. Ethan’s spear blurred – tap-tap-tap – disarming three boys before their weapons cleared hip holsters. A fourth recruit yelped as his own staff flipped midair to bonk his skull.
"Pathetic," Ethan growled, decades of frustration boiling over. His weapon became a silver blur, poking pressure points and tripping feet with surgical precision. Within ninety seconds, eleven recruits lay sprawled like overturned turtles.
"Lesson one," he said, breathing harder than he’d admit. "This isn’t your VR dojo."
From the observation deck, Bear grinned. The old fire still burned – maybe enough to reignite a career.