Logan sat on his haunches against the cold wall of the training sector, drawing in heavy, but already even breaths. His muscles ached, his body still throbbed with a pain like burns, but it had already become familiar – a well-known signal that he was alive. Sweat streamed down his temples, slowly trickling down his collar, but the feeling of victory, however strange, was in no hurry to leave him. Victory not over someone else – over himself. Over the system. Over weakness.
Fragments of the recent race flashed through his memory: the deafening shot near his ear, which had ripped through the silence like a whip; the blur of sweaty faces of other cadets, contorted with strain, clinging to his pace as if to a lifeline, but falling behind one by one; the hoarse breathing of the girl from C-class, who had stumbled at the finish line and come in last, her eyes full of terror. And, like a nail in the heart – Michigan's icy, impenetrable face, watching them without a trace of emotion, as if they were a herd of cattle.
He had come in first. Not out of a desire to prove his superiority, not out of pride. He was driven by a primal instinct for survival, the fury of humiliation, a raging anger at this system, and the animal fear of being weak, of being last. Because the last one is dead. Because the weak here are not corrected – they are written off. He had understood that immediately. As soon as he heard the shot. As soon as he felt another's back momentarily ahead of him.
Being first is uncomfortable. The first one is the target. The first one is the one who pulls the others along and gets the knife in the back first. But he didn't want to stand behind anyone. Never. Not then, not now. Not in the old world, where he had been a captain, respected and hated. Not in this one, where respect didn't exist at all.
Before his eyes, on the display built into the wall, a dry, emotionless line glowed:
"Mission: Complete the distance.
Status: Completed.
Result: 1st place.
Reward: +1 agility."
No praise, no recognition. Just a statement. Cold, like a medical autopsy protocol. And a meager increase in his stats – non-obligatory, but already felt by his body: his movements had become slightly faster, slightly more precise. That was enough to understand – the system worked. And it would keep working. Until you broke. Or until it broke down.
The door to the training complex opened, and two other instructors entered. One was a tall, statuesque woman with a straight back and a reserved expression. He immediately remembered her name: Elael. The second was a lean figure in dark armor, his cloak just touching the floor, and his gaze was sharp as a needle. Il'Ravel. They silently scanned the cadets with their eyes, as if sorting tools – not people.
The distribution was quick. Without explanations. Without shouts. Just gestures. Logan, having finished first and apparently showing signs corresponding to B-class, was directed towards Elael. He wasn't called. Just a look – and he was already walking. Inside, everything clenched into a tight knot of tension, but on the outside, he remained who he had been his whole life: calm, collected, ready to tear.
Elael's first reaction was cold, even disappointed. She looked him up and down, not hiding her assessment. As if examining a combat prototype obtained at a sale.
"You are weaker than expected," she said in an even voice. "But your form is acceptable. Potential – permissible."
Logan felt his jaw clench. Permissible? If only you had seen me carry three others when the trainer said it was impossible. Permissible, you motherfucker? He squeezed his fists. His knuckles cracked. He tried not to betray the fury boiling inside him. Here we go again. Again. As if he were merchandise. As if he were meat. As if he weren't Logan Carter.
But he said nothing. He just looked into her eyes. Like a predator. Not growling. Not yet.
"What is your strength?" Elael asked, without taking her eyes off him.
There was no interest in her voice. Only protocol. Function. An assessment of the object before use.
Logan hesitated for just a moment. Not out of doubt – out of irritation. Out of the powerlessness to say something that would make her look at him differently. Something that would sound like a challenge.
"Super strength," he said in a low voice. Without embellishment, without fanfare. Just a fact. But tension rang in his voice, as if a threat was already lurking in every letter.
Elael nodded almost imperceptibly. Her face didn't change, only her pupils narrowed slightly. Confirmation.
"Classic combat body structure," she said. "Straightforward. Effective. But with a nuance."
She took a step closer, and a metallic edge entered her voice.
"Your physical characteristics are amplified proportionally to the internal pressure of energy. The more you want to tear something apart – the more it tears you apart."
A pause. Her gaze – as steely as a scalpel.
"Internal organs are the weak link. Heart. Vessels. Lungs. Liver. Mucous membranes. Everything soft. Everything vulnerable. You try to punch a wall – and you'll tear yourself apart from the inside. You get hit – and all the force that passes through your bones will boil you inside. Without a single scratch on the outside. But with a dead heart."
"Strength without support is not strength. It's suicide."
She came closer and, without asking permission, touched his chest with two fingers.
At that very moment, a thin, golden needle seemed to pierce his body. Energy. It penetrated his skin, through his ribcage, and a sharp wave surged through him. The sensation wasn't… pain. Worse. It felt like molten metal had been poured into every cell, and it had instantly solidified. His muscles tensed like ropes. His body weight tripled. His lungs wouldn't obey. His heart pounded as if trying to break free.
He bent over, not falling. Just to draw in a breath, short and sharp. The floor seemed to sag beneath his feet.
"Get used to it," Elael said, without even looking. "This is one percent of what's to come. If you survive it."
Lines flashed on his status display:
«Forcible introduction of external energy: active»
«Body weighting: +300%»
«Circulation of foreign energy: unstable»
"Automaton, mode 'Fight + Form', maximum load," Elael tossed out, not even waiting for him to recover.
One of the training droids stepped forward. It had no face – only a black glass screen. Its movements were precise, economical. It resembled a scalpel on legs. A soulless, calibrated death mechanism.
The program started without a countdown.
Logan stood up. His body trembled. The first push-up came with a crack in his elbow. The second – with a whimper from his ligaments. The jump – with a dull thud of his soles on the floor, as if a wardrobe had jumped.
Every ten minutes, a sharp signal sounded. And the automaton entered the fight.
It didn't strike immediately. It studied. Scanned. And then it delivered blows – as precise as a surgeon's. Logan barely dodged, his breath catching, finding the rhythm. His fists were no longer weapons – they became a test for his own bones.
But he continued. Because he couldn't not continue.
Logan sank his teeth into this hellish rhythm like a beast trapped in a cage. His body no longer obeyed, every muscle screamed, but he didn't stop. He couldn't. He didn't know how.
His fingers cracked on the fifth set – not from a blow, but simply because they couldn't withstand the pressure and weight of his own body anymore. The ligaments in his elbows stretched like strings, threatening to snap. His breathing became ragged, convulsive, as if the air resisted entering his lungs.
In one of the rounds, the automaton delivered a blow – not strong, but precise. Logan barely managed to turn, and the fist landed on his shoulder. The whole world swayed. He spun around, growled, and furiously slammed his fist into the machine's chest compartment. The metal shuddered, but the automaton didn't even falter. In response – a grab. Iron fingers closed on his arm, and the next second turned into a fall: Logan was slammed into the floor like a garbage bag.
The impact shot through his muscles to his spine. His ears rang. But he didn't groan. Didn't scream. He just spat out the blood that instantly filled his mouth and smirked, looking into the machine's faceless screen. Through the wheezing, through the pain – like a challenge.
The automaton, without pausing, released a stream of regenerative aerosol onto his body. A disgustingly sticky veil enveloped his torn skin, healing micro-tears. But it didn't heal his battered will.
His muscles burned. His ligaments trembled as if on the verge of tearing. His spine responded with a dull, throbbing pain with every movement. The energy he spent on amplification was melting away. Not decreasing – disappearing. Drying up like water poured onto ashes. But he continued. Because there was no other way.
Somewhere to the side, a voice rang out, nasal, lazily mocking:
"Look at our champion here. Will you just look at that – licking the floor again. Don't you get tired of rolling around, Carter?"
He didn't immediately understand where it was coming from. He turned his head. Behind a transparent partition, watching the training like a gladiatorial combat, stood Tyler. Hands behind his back, a grin from ear to ear.
"Hope you don't splatter the arena with guts," Tyler continued. "Otherwise, we'll all have to clean up your mess later. Although…"
He leaned a little closer to the glass, looking directly into Logan's eyes.
"I thought captains were supposed to be something. But you're like cheap protein: lots of advertising, zero results."
Logan didn't answer. He didn't move. He just lay there. Memorizing the face. The smile. The intonation. The attention. The weight of those words. He wasn't going to shout back.
He was going to break Tyler. In the old world, he hadn't been able to do it. But this upstart had long since filled the cup of his patience. So he was doomed. But not now. Not in this hall. Not under the cameras.
For now – he trains.
One thought pulsed in his head – like a war drum in a solo attack:
I'm not just going to survive. I'm going to tear this world apart if it doesn't give me what I deserve. I will be first. Even if no one sees me rise – I will still rise. Because this is me. Because I am Carter. They took away my career in the old world, but they gave me a chance in this one. And I won't miss it. Not for anything.
Hours passed. He didn't know how many. The world narrowed down to movements, pain, and an iron rhythm. But at some point – in one of the pauses between sets – he felt it. Not a flash. Not power. But… a touch. Warmth. Something inside him that didn't belong to the automaton, or Elael, or this damned system. Something that was his.
For the first time, he felt his own energy – not just as a tool, but as a part of himself. It didn't obey. But it responded. It circulated through his body – in his veins, in his nerves, in his heart. Not under control. But nearby. Living. Hostile. Or just wild.
Elael stood in the shadows. She didn't say anything. But her eyes, those same cold and empty ones, lingered on him for a moment longer than usual.
When the final signal broke the silence, she tossed out:
"Tomorrow will be more painful. But you will survive. Probably."
Logan didn't answer. He lay sprawled out, as if after a fight with himself. He breathed as if after a blow to the ribs that hadn't quite landed. But there was no fear in his eyes.
Only one emotion burned there.
Thirst.
To become stronger. Stronger. Stronger. Until he stopped feeling the pain. Until he became that very wall against which everyone breaks. Even if he had to die along the way. Even if the world didn't pay attention to him again. He would carve his name himself. With his fist.
Because he is Carter. Who always was the first.