Three days until the exam.
Kay woke before dawn, his muscles screaming. He'd pushed himself to the limit yesterday—and then kept going.
0.85 wasn't enough. Not against Karl's 0.97.
He needed more.
The junkyard smelled of rust and old fuel. Ella was already at her workbench, surrounded by wires and capacitors.
"Try this." She handed him a dull grey bracelet. "Spatial folding assist. Cuts energy drain by about thirty percent."
Kay strapped it on and focused, activating a half-fold—just a flicker. The bracelet warmed. The drain felt… lighter.
"It works."
"Of course it does." She grinned. "I'll make a backup when this one explodes."
"You really think it will?"
"Probably."
Kay shook his head and headed for the makeshift combat ring Max had set up with old tires.
The former pilot didn't believe in warm-ups.
"Forget your fancy spatial tricks," Max said, cracking his knuckles. "You can't fold space with a broken nose."
He lunged.
Kay barely blocked. Max was faster than he looked—bar fights and smuggling runs had turned him into a brutal brawler.
"Wider stance! Stop telegraphing!"
Two hours later, Kay's lip was split, his ribs ached. But his footwork had improved.
"Not bad," Max admitted. "You might last thirty seconds in a real fight."
"High praise," Kay muttered, spitting blood.
The old hermit waited in a dusty clearing. No cane today.
"Your spatial talent is a crutch," he said. "What happens when you run out of energy?"
Kay had no answer.
"You die." The hermit raised his fists. "Come at me. No folding. Just your body."
It was humiliating. Kay couldn't land a single hit. The hermit moved like water—flowing around every punch, redirecting Kay's momentum into the dirt.
"Your foundation is weak," the hermit said after Kay collapsed. "You've relied on talent. That ends now."
They drilled basic stances until the sun set. Kay's legs trembled. His arms felt like lead.
But when he checked his wrist monitor, his energy had ticked up to 0.87.
Progress.
That night, Kay couldn't sleep.
He wandered to the abandoned training ground on the edge of the slums—a crumbling concrete platform where kids used to practice before the nobles took over. The Core Star glowed in the distance, mocking him.
He was practicing his punches when a voice cut through the dark.
"Your form is wrong."
Kay spun.
A figure stood at the edge of the platform. Cloaked in dark fabric, face half-hidden by a mask. But the eyes were sharp—and strangely familiar.
"Who are you?"
"Someone who doesn't want to see you die tomorrow." The figure stepped closer. "Karl fights like a spoiled child. Brute force. No technique. You can beat him—if you learn one thing."
"What?"
"The Breaking Fist."
The figure raised a fist. Simple. Unadorned. Then punched the air.
A shockwave cracked through the night. Dust exploded. When it cleared, a fist-sized crater marked the concrete.
Kay stared. "Teach me."
"Watch closely."
As the figure demonstrated the seven movements, Kay noticed something—a thin scar on the exposed wrist. Curved, like a crescent moon.
He'd seen that scar before. Somewhere. But where?
"Focus," the stranger said.
Kay shoved the thought aside and drilled the fist until his knuckles bled.
At the fifty-seventh repetition, something clicked. He punched the concrete pillar—not hard, but right. A small crack spiderwebbed across the surface.
"Better." The stranger's eyes crinkled. "Don't waste your talent."
"Why are you helping me?"
The figure was silent for a moment. Then: "Because someone should."
They turned and disappeared into the shadows.
Kay stood there, staring at the scar on that wrist, trying to place it.
Who was that?
Day Three – Morning
His energy monitor read 0.91.
Ella's bracelet was still holding. Max's bruises were fading. The Breaking Fist felt like second nature.
But as Kay walked through the slum market, buying bread for breakfast, he noticed something.
Two unfamiliar men loitering near his hut. Plain clothes. But their postures were too straight. Military.
Karl's eyes.
They didn't approach. Didn't speak. Just watched.
Kay kept walking, heart pounding. They're sending a message. We know where you live. We know where your father sleeps.
He circled back through a narrow alley and slipped into his hut through the rear window.
Kane was awake, sitting on the cot.
"Two men outside," Kay whispered.
"I saw them." Kane's voice was calm. "They've been there since dawn. Haven't moved."
"I can't stay. The bus leaves at noon."
"Then go." Kane gripped his son's wrist. "I'll be fine. The hermit checks on me."
Kay wanted to argue. But there was no time.
He pressed his mother's ring—the one Kane had given him yesterday—against his palm. For luck.
"I'll come back with that academy badge."
Kane smiled. "I know you will."
The hoverbus to the academy left at noon.
Kay sat by the window, watching the slums shrink below. The two men were still there, standing outside his hut like vultures.
He touched the crystal in his pocket. It pulsed once—warm, reassuring.
Then he looked ahead at the Core Star, growing larger with every second.
The exam starts tomorrow.
Karl will be there. Traps will be there.
But Kay had something Karl didn't.
He'd bled for every ounce of his 0.91.
And he wasn't done bleeding.
End of Chapter 9