Shattered Blade

"Wake up, Hwak!" His father's voice, worn but gentle like a well-used tool, pulled him from dreams filled with bloodstained streets and empty eyes.

Hwak stretched lazily in his sleeping mat, blinking away the remnants of sleep. His father's silhouette filled the doorway, backlit by the dim glow of their home's single functioning light panel. A soft beeping caught his attention. The timer display on his academy suit was counting down—five minutes remaining. Suddenly alert, he bolted upright, nearly hitting his head on the low ceiling.

"The training routine! I completely forgot!" Panic flooded his system, washing away the last cobwebs of sleep.

He scrambled into the bodysuit, its self-adjusting material clinging to his form like a second skin as he fastened the clasps with fumbling fingers. The sophisticated fabric felt alien against his skin—both impossibly smooth and oddly responsive, tightening around his muscles as if assessing his physical capabilities.

Racing downstairs, he nearly collided with his father, who was preparing breakfast. The smell of synthetic protein cakes—the best they could afford—filled their modest kitchen.

"Where are you going? The academy doesn't start for another hour," his father said, spatula in hand. Dark circles beneath his eyes testified to another night of minimal sleep after a double shift at the recycling plant.

"Training routine! The suit is programmed—I'll explain later!" Hwak called over his shoulder, already at the door. The countdown on his wrist showed less than a minute—failing before even starting wasn't an option.

His father looked bewildered, the spatula suspended mid-flip. "At least take some—"

The door slammed shut, cutting off his words.

Outside, Hwak stood uncertainly in the gray morning light, wondering what exactly he was supposed to do. The countdown reached zero with a final insistent beep, and a synthetic female voice emanated from his suit—coolly professional and utterly indifferent to his confusion.

"*Task One: Complete five-kilometer run in thirty minutes. Beginning now.*"

A glowing green path materialized before him, visible only to his eyes—some kind of holographic projection from the suit. Hwak started running, following the illuminated trail that stretched ahead like a digital river. The moment he deviated even slightly, the path flashed an angry red.

"*Error. Return to designated track.*"

The training course quickly proved far more challenging than a simple run. It led him over mountains of discarded machinery, through narrow alleyways where the smell of refuse and decay made breathing an exercise in willpower, and occasionally up the sides of buildings, forcing him to improvise parkour moves he'd never attempted. The path changed dynamically, sometimes shifting direction when he least expected, forcing him to skid and pivot with barely a moment's notice.

"This is insane," he gasped, barely avoiding a fall as he leapt between two derelict air conditioning units suspended between buildings. "How is the track changing by itself? Is it reading my movements?"

By the four-kilometer mark, his lungs burned as if he'd inhaled liquid fire, and his legs trembled with each impact. Sweat soaked through the bodysuit, which seemed to be monitoring his vitals—small displays occasionally flashed warnings about his elevated heart rate and oxygen levels. The suit tightened around his chest, either in response to his vital signs or simply to torture him further—he couldn't tell which.

At 4.7 kilometers, with the endpoint finally in sight, his body gave out. Hwak collapsed onto the hard ground, chest heaving, vision blurring into kaleidoscopic patterns. The impact knocked the air from his lungs, leaving him gasping like a fish removed from water.

"*Training incomplete. Five minutes rest allowed. Preparing Task Two.*"

He lay spread-eagled, staring at the sky as his breathing gradually steadied. The clouds above seemed to mock him, drifting lazily while he suffered below. Five minutes passed too quickly, the suit's timer counting down with merciless precision.

"*Task Two: Complete one hundred push-ups in five minutes.*"

"That's... that's actually normal," Hwak muttered, positioning himself with arms that felt like overcooked noodles. The first twenty push-ups went smoothly enough, though his arms already ached from breaking his falls during the run.

At twenty-five, something changed. His arms suddenly felt like they were made of stone, impossibly heavy as if fighting against invisible resistance. The suit had somehow increased resistance, making each push-up exponentially more difficult—like trying to lift a building with his bare hands.

"This... isn't... fair," he grunted, struggling to complete the twenty-seventh repetition. Sweat dripped from his forehead, creating small dark spots on the ground beneath him. His arms gave out, and he crashed face-first into the dirt, tasting dust and humiliation.

"*Task failed. Proceeding to Task Three: Basic martial arts practice.*"

A holographic figure materialized in front of him—a perfect physical specimen executing a series of combat stances and movements with flawless precision. Despite his exhaustion, Hwak forced himself to stand and mirror the forms, his muscles screaming in protest with each movement.

For the first few minutes, he managed to keep pace, determination temporarily overriding physical limitations. But the combined fatigue from running and push-ups soon took its toll. His movements grew sloppy, his timing off by fractions of seconds that the suit's merciless programming registered as failures.

"*Error. Rhythm disrupted. Today's training: Failure. Twenty percent completion.*"

The hologram disappeared, leaving Hwak alone, drenched in sweat and trembling with exhaustion. The message displayed on his wrist felt like a brand of inadequacy burned into his skin: 20%. A number that would follow him to the academy.

He dragged himself home, each step a negotiation between his will and his body's desire to collapse. He arrived to find his father already gone to work, the house silent except for the background hum of the settlement's power grid. A covered plate of breakfast waited on the table with a note penned in his father's careful handwriting: "*Eat well. Make me proud.*"

The simple words carried the weight of sacrifice—every credit his father had spent on this opportunity, every extra shift he'd taken, every small luxury foregone.

Despite his body's protests, Hwak showered, the lukewarm water—all they could afford—soothing his aching muscles somewhat. He ate mechanically, knowing he needed sustenance even as his stomach rebelled against the concept of food. Finally dressed in his academy uniform, he locked their modest home and set out.

The walk to Neonspire revealed a world stratified by wealth. He watched other students pass by in luxury vehicles with tinted windows or designer clothing that probably cost more than his father earned in months. Without yesterday's new clothes to mark him as an outsider, he blended in slightly better today, though the gulf between his circumstances and theirs remained vast as the distance between planets.

At the academy gates, the guards barely glanced at him. His uniform granted him passage without the scrutiny he'd faced yesterday, his status updated from "intruder" to merely "irrelevant" in their hierarchy of attention.

Checking the schedule on his wristband, he navigated the labyrinthine corridors to his first class: Weapons Training. The room numbers seemed designed to confuse outsiders, another subtle reminder that he didn't belong.

Students were already filing into the classroom when he arrived, their conversations dropping to whispers as he entered. The whispers rippled through the group like wind through tall grass, carrying snippets that weren't meant to be subtle.

"Look, it's the new toy for Gray and Leena."

"How long before he breaks? I give him three days."

"Charity case. Won't last a week."

Hwak kept his eyes forward, finding an empty seat near the front. He'd noticed the absence of two names in the whispered conversations: Gray and Leena, apparently the top first-year students whose absence was as significant as others' presence. According to the gossip flowing around him, Leena's stepmother was a trustee of the academy, while Gray's uncle held similar influence. These connections gave them freedom to attend classes at their discretion—a privilege they frequently exercised.

The classroom door slammed open with enough force to make several students jump. Mr. Thomas strode in, a tall man with a long beard, thinning hair, and a thin mustache that did nothing to soften his perpetually scowling face. Students straightened in their seats immediately, conversations dying mid-syllable.

"Someone's wife must have yelled at him again," a boy behind Hwak whispered, barely audible. "We're in for it today."

Mr. Thomas logged into the class system with quick, aggressive motions, bringing up training reports on the main display. "Let's see who bothered to take their conditioning seriously," he growled, scrolling through the data with evident dissatisfaction. "Harbin, seventy percent on Level Three. Passable. Mina, seventy-five percent. Better, but still mediocre."

His eyes stopped on Hwak's results, and a cruel smile spread across his face. The entire class fell silent, the collective intake of breath almost audible.

"What is this?" Thomas's voice dropped dangerously low, like a predator preparing to pounce. "Level One. Twenty percent completion." He looked up, fixing Hwak with a withering stare that seemed designed to strip away dignity. "Boy, this academy isn't for you. Charity cases like you waste our time and resources. The settlement should stay where it belongs—recycling our garbage, not sending it to our doorstep."

Hwak's throat tightened, a hot knot of shame forming beneath his sternum. He felt tears threatening, but blinked them back furiously. Crying would only confirm every prejudice they held against settlement kids.

"Go sit in the back," Thomas continued, gesturing dismissively. "I won't waste my energy on someone who won't last the month. Maybe you can at least learn something by watching your betters."

Head down, Hwak moved to the back row, aware of sympathetic glances from some and barely concealed snickers from others. A girl with almond eyes briefly caught his gaze, offering a small, encouraging smile before quickly looking away. Settling into his new seat, he gripped the edges of his desk until his knuckles whitened, channeling his humiliation into the pressure of his fingers against the synthetic material.

Despite his humiliation, Hwak forced himself to focus as Mr. Thomas began the actual lesson, the teacher's passion for weapons evident despite his disdain for certain students.

"Weapons are the extension of an Evolan's power," Thomas explained, his voice taking on a different quality—still harsh, but with an undercurrent of reverence. He activated a holographic display that showed various blades, staffs, and more exotic armaments, each rendered in exquisite detail. "Unlike conventional weapons, ours are crafted from hybrid cores—the same material used in human cell modifications and evolutions."

The display shifted to show a glowing crystal being processed into liquid form, the transformation mesmerizing in its fluid beauty.

"We extract liquid from these cores and transfer it to humans, causing cellular modifications that unlock Evolan abilities. Your body, if worthy," his gaze swept dismissively over Hwak, "will eventually develop its own core, producing energy that can be channeled into weapons, creating a symbiotic relationship between wielder and tool."

Thomas manipulated the display with expert gestures, showing weapons glowing with different colored energies—crimson, azure, emerald, each seemingly alive with potential.

"The stronger your internal core, the higher level of weapon you can wield. Some legendary beast and mythical beast cores contain living sprites—elemental spirits that can be summoned to fight alongside you, granting elemental skills that transform combat from mere physical confrontation to something approaching art."

The images shifted to show a warrior wielding a sword that emanated a phoenix-like creature made of flame, its wings spreading to engulf enemies in purifying fire.

"Elite Evolans can upgrade their weapons by enhancing their internal cores—a complex crafting process that only legendary weaponsmiths can perform, customizing the connection between wielder and weapon until the distinction between them blurs. The weapon becomes not merely a tool but an extension of the wielder's soul."

Hwak absorbed every word, his father's mantra echoing in his mind like a protective spell: "*Do your duty. Don't worry about the fruits of your actions.*" Despite his exhaustion and humiliation, he took detailed notes, determined to master these concepts that seemed as distant as the stars yet somehow vital to his future.

The bell eventually signaled the end of class, its tone slightly jarring after the almost reverential discussion of weapon theory. As students began filing out, Mr. Thomas called after them, "Tomorrow, bring your weapons. We'll begin basic handling techniques. Next week, we'll enter the virtual zone for hunting practice."

His gaze fell on Hwak, and his lip curled in what might have been amusement or contempt—possibly both. "You—bring whatever you can find. A steel rod, perhaps. Not those wooden toys from your settlement."

Laughter rippled through the remaining students, sharp as blade edges. Hwak kept his expression neutral, though each word cut like a knife, reopening the wounds of his morning's failure.

As the classroom emptied, Hwak remained seated, staring at his notes. The reality of his situation settled over him like a weighted cloak. He had no weapon. He had no money to buy one. And now, he had no idea how he would face tomorrow's class without becoming an even bigger target for ridicule.

Yet somewhere beneath the humiliation, a tiny spark ignited—not quite defiance, not quite hope, but something in between. Damien's words from yesterday echoed in his memory: "*I see something in you that you don't yet see in yourself.*"

Hwak gathered his notes and rose from his seat. The empty classroom seemed less intimidating without Thomas's presence, almost peaceful in its abandonment. If Neonspire wouldn't give him the tools he needed, he would find them himself—even if he had to forge them from the very scrap heaps surrounding his home, transforming rejection into opportunity through sheer determination.