Dormitory Block B was a brutalist labyrinth of exposed concrete, narrow bunks, and flickering strip lights—a stark reminder that even in the Upper Spires, wild Sleepers from the lower sectors were not afforded luxury.
Sunny didn’t mind.
The narrow room was dry, warm, and lacked sub-zero gales or bone-white scavengers trying to crack his skull open.
To him, it was a palace.
He spent his first hour storing his sparse belongings—namely, his single issued uniform and a pair of sturdy combat boots—before heading straight down to the subterranean armory for physical evaluations.
The subterranean training facility was massive, built like an underground bunker designed to withstand a direct artillery barrage.
The air was thick with the scent of ozone, polished steel, and heavy sweat.
Dozens of testing stations lined the synthetic turf floor: high-impact force pads, reaction-speed corridors, and weapon compatibility simulators.
Sunny stood near the back of Group 7, his hands tucked deep into his jacket pockets, observing the candidates ahead of him.
“Next! Sleeper Caster!” the evaluator barked.
A handsome youth with sleek golden hair and refined features stepped up to the high-impact force pad.
He wore a high-end, silver-trimmed training suit emblazoned with a subtle crest—a prominent side branch of a legacy lineage.
Caster took a relaxed stance, closed his eyes for a fraction of a second, and struck.
BOOM!
His fist blurred, hitting the center of the heavy composite pad with a dull, booming crack.
The digital display above the pad flashed instantly.
[Impact Force: 1,420 kg]
[Unenhanced Physical Output: Exceptional]
A quiet wave of gasps and murmurs rippled through the surrounding Sleepers.
“1,400 kilos without soul essence amplification?” a boy near Sunny whispered, his voice laced with envy.
“He hasn’t even activated his Aspect yet!”
“Of course,” another replied.
“That’s Caster. He’s been trained by Master-level tutors since he was six years old.”
Caster stepped back, offering a polite, effortless smile to the crowd before taking his place near the front of the line.
Sunny’s dark blue eyes narrowed, his mind running cold calculations.
‘Over fourteen hundred kilograms of raw kinetic force.
In a physical brawl, a strike like that would shatter my ribcage through my clothes before I could raise my hands.’
“Next! Sleeper Sunless!”
His posture remained slightly hunched, his eyes dull and unbothered, perfectly playing the part of a malnourished street rat who had stumbled his way out of the slums.
Master Jet was standing near the evaluator’s console, his crimson cybernetic optic humming quietly as it locked onto Sunny.
“Ah, the miracle child from Sector 25,” Jet said, his voice flat and devoid of warmth.
“Let’s see what four years of slum-dwelling and a lucky First Nightmare get you. Hit the pad, kid. Maximum effort.”
Sunny stepped up to the heavy pad.
He didn’t draw upon the cold, hidden pulse of his Shadow Core, nor did he allow his living shadow to creep up his arms to reinforce his muscles.
He kept his soul essence completely locked away, hidden behind the quiet, unawakened facade of a mortal body.
He took a simple, unrefined street-fighter stance, pulled his right fist back, and struck the center of the pad.
THUD.
The impact was solid, but dull.
The pad barely vibrated.
[Impact Force: 210 kg]
[Unenhanced Physical Output: Below Average]
The surrounding Sleepers quieted down, a few muffled snickers echoing from the back of the line.
“Two hundred?” a legacy student scoffed softly.
“Is that a joke? I hit harder than that when I was twelve.”
“What did you expect? He’s a wild Sleeper from the lower sub-levels. He probably grew up eating synthetic paste.”
Master Jet didn’t laugh.
His crimson optic zoomed in on Sunny’s knuckles, then moved up to scan his calm, unreadable face.
“Two hundred ten kilograms,” Jet read from the console, his voice unbothered.
“Adequate for a starving teenager from Sector 25. Now step into the reaction corridor.”
Sunny nodded, stepping off the pad and moving into the glass-walled corridor without a word.
‘Let them laugh,’ Sunny thought, a cold, dark smile touching the back of his mind as he flexed his fingers.
‘Let them think I’m weak, slow, and fragile.
The moment a predator thinks its prey has no teeth is the exact moment it leaves its throat wide open.’
The glass doors of the reaction corridor slid shut behind him.
“Reaction test,” the automated voice announced.
“Non-lethal rubber projectiles. Increasing speed, random vectors. Begin.”
PUNG!
PUNG!
Small, high-velocity rubber spheres began blasting out from hidden pneumatic tubes built into the walls, ceiling, and floor.
Sunny didn’t rely on his eyes.
His shadow, lying flat against the floor of the glass chamber, expanded slightly, mapping the air pressure shifts and mechanical clicks of the launcher tubes a microsecond before each projectile fired.
He moved.
His movements weren’t flashy or martial; they were fluid, minimal, and terrifyingly precise.
He twisted his shoulders by an inch to let a speed ball graze his jacket; he ducked his head half an inch to let another whistle past his ear.
He didn’t waste a single calorie of energy, dodging thirty high-speed projectiles in fifteen seconds without taking a single direct hit.
[Reaction Speed: 98.4% Evasion Rate]
[Evaluation: Elite Instincts]
Inside the observation room, the evaluator blinked in surprise, looking at the readout.
“Master Jet… his physical strength is abysmal, but his spatial awareness and evasion metrics match top-tier scouts.”
Master Jet leaned against the console, his crimson optic humming as he watched Sunny step out of the glass chamber, untouched and unbothered.
“He didn’t dodge those balls because he trained in a dojo,” Jet said quietly, a faint, dark smirk touching his scarred mouth.
“He dodged them because in the slums, if you don’t duck when something flies at your head, you die.”
Jet stood up straight, turning toward the entire assembly of Sleepers.
“Evaluations are complete!” Jet bellowed, his voice ringing across the massive hall.
“You have your baseline metrics. Tomorrow morning at 0600 hours, training begins in earnest. Weapon selection, group sparring, and formation tactics.”
He pointed toward the exit arches.
“Get food, get rest, and don’t get comfortable. Tomorrow, you learn how to bleed.”
Sunny didn’t wait for the rest of the group.
He turned on his heel, fading smoothly into the shadows of the exit corridor, heading back toward Block B.
As he walked down the quiet, metallic hallway, his shadow glided beside him, mimicking a silent, low chuckle against the concrete wall.
‘Tomorrow,’ Sunny thought, his dark blue eyes reflecting the flickering strip lights overhead.
‘Tomorrow I pick my weapon… and learn how to hunt the gods.’