Days turned to weeks as Rust trained under Vext’s watchful eye. The noble’s lessons were brutal, each session a test of endurance, strategy, and raw aggression. Rust found himself reveling in the combat, his body moving with newfound speed and strength. The thrill of battle ignited something deep within him—a hunger.

He was strong. Stronger than he had ever imagined. And with each fight, each kill, that strength grew.

Vext observed him closely, his usual calm gaze shifting to something more… wary. “You enjoy this,” he remarked one evening, after Rust had torn through a dozen combat drones with almost animalistic precision.

Rust wiped blood from his lip, breathing hard. “Shouldn’t I?”

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Vext tilted his head. “Enjoyment is one thing. Craving it is another.”

Rust didn’t respond. He didn’t need to. He already knew the answer.

The taste of violence, of power, was intoxicating.

The first time Vext sent him against real opponents—mercenaries, deserters, even failed experiments—Rust hesitated. But only for a moment. By the time the fight was over, he stood amidst broken bodies, his nanoblood surging, his mind clearer than it had ever been.

Vext stepped forward, placing a firm hand on his shoulder. “Control yourself,” he warned. “Or you will become just another beast.”

Rust’s lips curled into a smirk. “I am becoming something more.”

Vext narrowed his eyes. “More dangerous, perhaps.”

Rust met his gaze, unflinching. “Isn’t that what you wanted?”

Vext said nothing, but Rust could sense it—unease. The noble had forged a weapon, but now, that weapon had a will of its own.

And Rust was no longer content with just survival. He wanted war. Not just against the aristocracy, but against everything that had ever tried to contain him.

A storm was coming, and this time, Rust wasn’t going to be caught in it.

He was going to be the one to start it.