Herro stood in the center of the training room, acutely aware of every eye watching him.
Lyra faced him from maybe ten feet away, arms crossed, expression unreadable. The rest of Ironhide had arranged themselves along the wall like spectators at an execution. Dean looked concerned but trusting. Nate wore the expression of someone watching a car crash in slow motion. Hilda was stoic as ever. Rosa seemed way too excited. And JJ had already pulled out his phone, clearly more interested in whatever was on his screen than Herro's impending doom.
(I should probably apologize. That's the smart thing to do. Right? Say sorry for the age thing, smooth it over, maybe she'll go easier—)
"Stop," Lyra said.
Herro blinked. "What?"
"Whatever you're thinking—stop. I don't care about the age comment. You think you're the first idiot to ask? I need to see what you can do, not listen to you ....stammer." She dropped her arms, rolling her shoulders. "So. Combat experience. What've you got?"
"I... nothing? I've never been in a real fight."
"Never?"
"The incident that got me arrested was the first time I ever hit anyone." Herro's hands clenched into fists at his sides. "My dad taught me some boxing basics when I was younger, but I promised after my parents died that I'd never use it to hurt people."
Lyra's expression shifted slightly—not quite sympathy, but something adjacent to understanding. "And now you're breaking that promise."
"Seems like I don't have much choice."
"No. You don't." Lyra studied his stance with the clinical precision of someone who'd assessed thousands of fighters. "Your form's rough but the foundation's there. Box-fighting stance. Weight distribution's decent. Your dad teach you anything specific?"
Herro's mind flashed back—ten years old, maybe eleven, standing in their small living room while his father demonstrated footwork. The Gazelle Punch. His dad's signature technique, borrowed from some ancient Terran boxer whose name Herro couldn't remember. The bob-and-weave, the explosive forward momentum, the uppercut that could end a fight in one shot.
"Some," Herro said quietly. "He had a favorite technique. Called it the Gazelle Punch."
Lyra's eyebrows rose fractionally. "Interesting choice. Aggressive, high-risk, high-reward. Fits what I've seen from you so far." She cracked her knuckles. "Minor foundation, but your baseline physicals are probably up there. Good. You'll need it."
"Need it for what?"
"For this."
And then Lyra vanished.
Herro's brain had exactly enough time to register that she was gone before something slammed into his solar plexus with the force of a car crash. The air exploded out of his lungs. He doubled over, gasping, and when his vision cleared Lyra was back in her starting position like she'd never moved at all.
"What—" Herro wheezed, trying to remember how breathing worked. "How—"
From the sideline, Rosa called out cheerfully, "This is how we all got integrated! Better prepare yourself!"
Nate just sighed, the sound of a Terran being who'd seen this exact scenario play out too many times. "It's started."
Hilda's voice cut through Herro's panic. "Your cousin's gonna get destroyed."
"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Herro managed, straightening despite the screaming pain in his torso.
Lyra tilted her head. "You recovered faster than I expected. Good. Now—before I continue beating the shit out of you—let me ask something. What do you know about Terran Energy?"
Herro blinked, thrown by the sudden shift to lecture mode. "What? Why does that matter? Shouldn't we focus on my Gear?"
Lyra's expression suggested she was reevaluating his intelligence downward. "Because your Gear is flashy and limited. Terran Energy fundamentals provide versatility. You can have the most powerful Gear in Terra and still die like an idiot if you don't understand the basics."
"But—"
"Shut up. I'm not done talking." Lyra began pacing, and somehow even that movement was predatory. "Terran Energy has four basic applications that every Gear-bearer can learn regardless of their specific ability. Four. Remember that number because I'm testing you later."
Herro nodded, trying to focus despite the lingering pain.
"First: Amplification. You channel TE into your strikes to hit harder, move faster, increase output. Offensive application. Basic but essential." Lyra held up a second finger. "Second: Reinforcement. You channel TE into your body to take hits better, increase durability, reduce damage. Defensive application. Equally essential."
"Third: Healing. You channel TE into injuries to accelerate recovery. Won't fix a severed limb but it'll close cuts, mend bones faster, keep you fighting longer. Support application." A fourth finger. "Fourth: Sensing. You extend your TE outward to feel your environment, detect other Gear-bearers, predict attacks. Reconnaissance application. Dean's particularly good at this one."
Herro processed the information, mind racing. "I know Terra is a living planet, but—"
"I said shut up. I'm not done." Lyra stopped pacing, fixing him with an intense stare. "Here's what you need to understand: Gears are lottery-ticket superpowers. You get what you get. Divergent Impact is yours whether you like it or not. But these four applications? That's the skill tree everyone can access. Master them and you'll outlast Gear-bearers twice as powerful as you. Ignore them and you'll die wondering why your flashy ability wasn't enough."
The room was silent except for the hum of the overhead lights.
"Questions?" Lyra asked.
"I—"
"Too slow." Lyra's predatory grin returned. "...because you're gonna need it to keep up with me."
Before Herro could respond, she vanished again.
This time he was ready—or thought he was. He tried to track her movement, predict where she'd appear, raise his guard—
The jab caught him in the ribs. Then another to his shoulder. A third to his thigh that nearly buckled his leg. Lyra was everywhere and nowhere, striking from impossible angles at impossible speeds, and by the time Herro processed one hit she was already lining up the next.
He threw a wild punch, hoping to catch her on instinct.
She wasn't there.
A foot swept his legs out from under him. Herro crashed to the mat hard enough to rattle his teeth. Before he could recover, hands grabbed both his wrists and hauled him upright effortlessly. Lyra held him at arm's length, studying him like a scientist examining a specimen.
(She's WAY faster than Hilda. How is that even possible without a Gear?)
"You're slow," Lyra observed clinically. "But you're trying to adapt. That's good. Most people just panic."
Then she threw him.
Herro tumbled across the mat, managed to turn the fall into a roll through sheer instinct, and staggered to his feet. His entire body screamed protest. They'd been fighting for maybe two minutes and he already felt like he'd gone ten rounds with a professional.
"Ms. Lyra!" Rosa's voice cut through the room. "At least explain the rules before you traumatize him!"
Lyra paused, considering. "You're too soft, Rosa."
"I'm practical! He doesn't even know what he's supposed to be doing!"
Lyra sighed, like this was a tremendous inconvenience. "Fine. Touya—in the military, we called this a gauntlet. The rules are simple: you fight until you land a hit on your instructor. One clean hit. That's it. Until then, I'm going to systematically dismantle you."
Herro stared. "That's monumentally unfair."
"Combat is unfair. Get used to it." Lyra cracked her neck. "Besides, you said you've never been in a real fight before, right?"
"...Yeah."
"That's actually adorable." The words were almost affectionate. "Now get ready."
She moved.
Herro barely got his guard up in time. Lyra's fist crashed into his forearm with enough force to numb his entire arm. He stumbled back, tried to create distance, but she was already inside his reach. An elbow to his ribs. A knee toward his stomach that he barely managed to block. A spinning backfist that he ducked under more by luck than skill.
His training—such as it was—kicked in on autopilot. His father's voice echoed in his memory: Watch the shoulders. Weight shift tells you where the power's coming from. Don't just react—predict.
Herro saw Lyra shift her weight. Left side. High strike. He ducked, stepped inside her guard, and threw a counter-punch aimed at her midsection—
She caught his fist mid-strike.
Just... caught it. Like plucking a ball out of the air.
And that's when Herro felt it. Or more accurately, felt the absence of it.
Terran Energy was supposed to be everywhere. The life force of the planet flowing through every living thing. Herro could feel his own—a warm current running through his arms, pooling in his chest, waiting to be directed. When Hilda activated Heavy Metal, her TE signature flared like a bonfire. Rosa's felt like wind, constant and shifting. Even Dean's was present, quiet but steady.
Lyra had almost nothing.
It wasn't that her TE was controlled or suppressed. It was just... hollow. Like trying to sense water in a desert. Trace amounts, barely enough to sustain life, nothing remotely close to what a Gear-bearer should have.
(She doesn't just lack a Gear. She barely has Terran Energy at all. How is that even—)
The revelation was so shocking that Herro almost didn't notice Lyra sweeping his legs again. He hit the mat hard, the wind knocked out of him for the second time.
Hollows.
The word surfaced from some half-remembered lesson. Terrans with abnormally low TE reserves. A medical condition, genetic anomaly, evolutionary quirk—depending on who you asked and what their career prospects looked like. The trade-off was brutal but straightforward: reduced energy capacity and near-zero Gear manifestation in exchange for enhanced physical capabilities. Increased strength, speed, durability, reaction time. Senses so sharp they bordered on supernatural.
Hollows were either medically unfortunate or evolutionarily superior depending on your perspective.
Lyra Ironside had the second or third most hollowed-out body ever recorded.
Which meant, in practical terms, she was one of the most physically devastating Terrans alive.
"You figured it out," Lyra said, not even breathing hard while Herro gasped on the mat. "I can see it in your face. Good. Means you're paying attention."
Herro struggled to his feet. "You're a Hollow."
"And you're stating the obvious. Get up. We're not done."
He barely got his guard up before she was on him again. This time Herro tried to be smarter—keep distance, use his reach advantage, don't commit to strikes she could counter. It didn't matter. Lyra moved like physics didn't apply to her, closing gaps that should have been safe, punishing every mistake before Herro even realized he'd made one.
She jabbed. He blocked. She followed with a hook. He ducked. She transitioned into a knee that caught him in the ribs with enough force to lift him off the ground.
Herro crashed down, rolled, came up swinging out of pure desperation.
His fist passed through empty air.
Lyra was behind him. "Better. You're not hesitating anymore."
"What?"
"You threw that last punch without thinking about it. No hesitation about hitting a woman. No pulling your strike. Just pure survival instinct." She actually sounded approving. "Good. The hesitation would've gotten you killed."
Herro's internal conflict chose that moment to resurface. His mother had been very clear on this point: you never, ever hit a girl. It was disrespectful, cowardly, fundamentally wrong. He'd internalized that lesson so deeply it might as well have been carved into his bones.
But the problem with Herro's internal crisis about hitting women was that Lyra Ironside did not care about his internal crisis.
She kicked his legs out from under him again—apparently her favorite technique—and Herro realized with crystal clarity that social conditioning meant nothing in the face of someone who could break him like a twig.
(Sorry, Mom. I think you'd understand. Probably. Maybe. I hope.)
He tried to get up. His legs weren't cooperating. Every muscle screamed. His lungs burned. Sweat dripped into his eyes. They'd been fighting for maybe ten minutes and Herro felt like he'd been hit by a truck.
Lyra yawned.
Actually yawned, like this was boring her.
"Switch!" she called out.
Herro collapsed onto his back, staring at the ceiling, too exhausted to care about dignity. Relief flooded through him. It was over. He'd survived. Barely, but he'd—
"Wait," he croaked. "Switch? Switch to what?"
Movement from the sideline. Herro tilted his head, trying to see who was approaching.
Please be Nate. Please be his cousin who might show some mercy. Please not Hilda, who definitely wouldn't.
A cartwheel.
Herro blinked. That was... unexpected.
A flip. Then a backflip. Then some kind of aerial spin that looked like it belonged in a gymnastics routine, not a combat training session.
Rosa Tanya landed in the center of the mat with a picture-perfect pose, arms spread wide, bright smile on her face like she'd just won a competition.
"My turn!" she chirped. "Don't worry, I'll go easy on you!"
Herro stared up at her from his position on the floor, watching that cheerful expression and remembering exactly one thing Nate had told him yesterday: Rosa was the team fighter. The one they sent into actual combat situations. The mascot with a body count.
(Oh no. Oh no no no. Not Rosa. Anyone but the cheerful one.)
Rosa's smile widened, like she could read his thoughts. "You look tired! That's okay! This will be fun!"
From the sideline, Hilda's voice drifted over. "He's gonna die."
"Statistically speaking," JJ added without looking up from his phone, "yes."
Nate just covered his face with his hands.
Dean offered quiet encouragement: "You can do it, Herro."
Lyra had already claimed a spot against the wall, pulling out her flask. "Don't disappoint me, kid. You landed zero hits on me. Try to at least make Rosa work for it."
Herro struggled to his hands and knees, every muscle protesting. His vision swam. His lungs burned. His entire body felt like one giant bruise.
Rosa bounced on her toes, energy radiating from her like she'd just woken up from a full night's rest instead of watching her commander demolish their newest teammate.
"Ready?" she asked brightly.
Herro wasn't ready. Wasn't even close to ready. Would never be ready for whatever fresh hell this was about to be.
But he pushed himself to his feet anyway, raising his fists with shaking arms, and tried to remember why he'd thought joining Ironhide was a good idea.
Rosa's smile turned sharp.
And the gauntlet continued.
END OF CHAPTER 7
glossary
Terran Energy (TE) Life force flowing from Terra through all living beings.
all phenomenon of the world comes from this
Gears and can be trained into four basic combat applications.
Gears
Gears are biological energy phenmenom that manifest when Terran Energy interacts with an individual's unique genetic code, generating personalized superpowers.
Amplification
Offensive Terran Energy application. Channeling TE into strikes to increase power, speed, and damage output during combat.
Reinforcement
Defensive Terran Energy application. Channeling TE into the body to increase durability, reduce incoming damage, and withstand stronger attacks.
Hollow(s)
Terrans with abnormally low TE reserves. Trade-off: near-zero Gear manifestation for dramatically enhanced physical capabilities and senses.
The Gauntlet
Military training tradition. Trainee fights instructor until landing one clean hit then move on to the next fighter. Designed to push recruits past perceived limits.
Gazelle Punch
a powerful, leaping hook or uppercut where the boxer springs upward using strong leg momentum to close distance and strike the opponent. It is typically aimed at the chin or temple