The warehouse smelled of rust, sweat, and broken promises.
Kaien stood in the center of a wide training circle painted into the concrete, shirtless under the dim orange lights that buzzed overhead. His fists were taped, his ribs still aching from the morning's sparring session, but his eyes—they burned.
"You're not fighting like someone who wants to win," said a voice from the sidelines. Coach Reina leaned against a steel pillar, arms crossed, black tank top soaked with sweat. "You're fighting like someone who wants to bleed."
Kaien spit blood onto the cracked floor, then raised his fists again. "Same thing where I'm from."
"No. It's not." Reina walked into the circle, barefoot and fast. Her calloused hand jabbed his solar plexus with precision. "You're angry. But anger without form is just noise."
He staggered back, breath caught. "Then teach me the form."
She tilted her head. "Alright then. You asked for it."
Reina lunged.
Kaien barely saw the knee coming. He twisted, deflected the impact with his forearm, stepped in with a jab—but her palm crashed into his chest and sent him skidding back.
"Your stance is sloppy," she said. "Again."
They trained for an hour. No words, just pain and rhythm. The rhythm of learning. Kaien fell. Got up. Bled. Got up again.
By the end, he was on his knees, sweat dripping into his eyes, vision doubling.
"Why push yourself like this?" Reina finally asked, tossing him a towel.
He didn't answer at first.
Then: "Because I saw what happens when you're weak."
Reina's gaze softened for half a second. "That fire... It'll either forge you or burn you alive."
Kaien wiped his face. "Let's see which it is."
---
Outside, the city pulsed with neon veins and murmuring chaos. Drones flew overhead, trailing blue light through the dusk sky. People walked fast in this part of Zone 6—nobody wanted to linger near the abandoned rail yards where Kaien trained.
Waiting for him by the gate was Zaira. Black hoodie, combat boots, and a glare that could pierce metal.
"Your knuckles are split again."
Kaien grinned. "You noticed."
"You're reckless," she said, but her voice held no malice. Just worry.
He tilted his head. "You're always here after."
Zaira didn't reply. She started walking, so he followed.
The sky was bleeding sunset when they reached the edge of the district. Beyond it, the upper tiers loomed—floating spires where the powerful watched from their artificial heavens. Kaien paused, staring up at them.
"You think someone like me can punch through all that?" he asked.
Zaira smirked. "Only if you stop swinging wild and start aiming higher."
They both laughed, but something in Kaien's smile faded fast. Because deep down, he knew—he'd have to break rules, maybe even bones, to rise.
And soon… much sooner than he thought, the storm would begin.
---
That night, a whisper moved through the underbelly of the city.
Something had been stolen from the Capitol Labs—a sealed artifact, ancient and pulsing with unknown energy. Surveillance footage erased. Vault locks melted. Security guards unconscious with burned veins.
And in the shadows of that chaos, a symbol had been painted in blood.
A spiral. With a single eye at its center.
The world would ignore it. Dismiss it.
But in hidden places, those who knew—they felt it.
The Furies were moving again.
---
Elsewhere, under a flickering lantern in a cold tunnel of Sector D, a man with silver hair and a crooked smile knelt beside a chained beast.
"Poor thing," he whispered, tracing the edge of a metallic rune embedded in the creature's skull. "They caged your rage."
The beast growled. Its eyes were glowing crimson.
"But don't worry. Soon, the Ascendant will awaken—and you'll be free to burn."
---
Kaien dreamt of fire.
Not the kind that crackled. The kind that roared. That devoured. In the dream, he stood in a wasteland of ash, surrounded by figures in cloaks, their eyes blank white, their hands raised in worship. Above him hung a black sun, and at its core—his own face, smiling with teeth too sharp to be human.
He woke up with a gasp, heart punching his ribs.
It wasn't the first time he had that dream.
But tonight, something felt different.
Because when he looked at his hand—his right palm—there was a faint red mark pulsing beneath the skin.
Like a brand.
A curse.
A beginning.
--