The next morning dawned clear and bitterly cold. Wolfen was already outside when the others stumbled from the house, breath fogging in the sharp air. He stood with his back to them, looking out over the snow-draped mountains, a stark silhouette of black against endless white.
"Alright," Leo said, rubbing his hands together for warmth. "We're up. What's the plan? More running? More hiding?"
Wolfen turned slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his golden eyes gleamed with a familiar, unsettling light. "No," he said. "Today, we stop running."
Derek perked up. "We're going after the Architects?"
Jordan's analytical gaze sharpened. "An offensive maneuver would require significantly more data on—"
"Offensive?" Wolfen cut him off with a dry chuckle. "You couldn't offend a paper bag. Look at you." His gaze swept over them like a physical weight. "Leo throws a punch like he's swatting a fly. Derek braces for impact like a startled deer. Jordan… you move like you're following a flowchart. Eva's the only one with a spine, and she's still reading from the rulebook they gave her."
He began to pace in the snow, leaving deep, deliberate prints. "You have abilities. Gifts. Curses. Whatever. But you use them like children with stolen guns—loud, messy, and you'll probably shoot your own foot off. The Architects gave you powers. I'm going to give you something better."
He stopped and faced them fully. "Muscle."
Leo blinked. "Muscle. You woke us up at the ass-crack of dawn in a frozen wasteland to talk about… muscle?"
"Not talk," Wolfen said. A slow, dark smile spread across his face. "Build."
He raised a hand. From the edge of the tree line, scattered debris—chunks of frozen rock, rusted metal from the old station, thick, gnarled tree roots—ripped free of the ice and soared towards him. They didn't just hover; they melted and fused in mid-air, swirling in a vortex of dark energy. Umbralite, that impossible black material, wove through it all like liquid shadow, binding and shaping.
What settled into the snow before them wasn't a collection of weights. It was an arsenal of brutalist torture devices.
There were thick bars with uneven, knotted grips. Spheres of dense metal with handles that looked designed to strain wrists. Harnesses of interlocking plates meant to be worn on the back and legs. A single, colossal wheel with a grip on the inside.
"Attach these to your bodies," Wolfen instructed, his voice devoid of any humor now. "Lift them. Carry them. Drag them. Run with them until your lungs feel like they're full of broken glass. You don't get to learn how to fight until the simple act of moving is no longer a struggle."
They stared, stunned into silence.
Then, Wolfen walked to the center of the clearing. He didn't gesture. He simply willed it. The ground itself darkened, trembled, and then erupted upward. A slab of pure Umbralite, ten feet tall and five feet wide, thrust vertically from the frozen earth. It was perfectly smooth, perfectly black, absorbing the morning light and giving back nothing. A void given geometric form.
"This," Wolfen announced, slapping a palm against the utterly non-resonant surface, "is Mister Slab."
Jordan opened his mouth, closed it, then simply said, "The anthropomorphism is illogical."
"He doesn't care," Wolfen replied. "He's your new best friend. You will punch him. You will kick him. You will, if you're particularly stupid or dedicated, headbutt him. You will curse his name, his family, and the volcanic activity that presumably formed his constituent materials. And he," Wolfen knocked on the Umbralite again, producing no sound, "will love you back. He will not move. He will not crack. He will teach you the cost of a sloppy fist, the penalty of a weak hip rotation, the price of fear. Your knuckles will break. Your shins will scream. And you will do it until you can strike him with perfect, controlled fury."
He turned his back on the monolith and faced them, his gaze piercing.
"And while you're doing all that… you will forget the 'styles' the Architects drilled into you. The efficient kills, the optimal angles. That's their language. I want you to find your own. Leo—you're not a lightning bolt. You're a sledgehammer. Find the swing. Jordan—you're not a computer. You're a puzzle box with razor edges. Find the pattern. Derek—you're not a sensor array. You're a tripwire. Find the patience." He looked at Eva last. "And you… you're unlearning what they made you. So for now, just watch. See their mistakes. Feel the rhythm. Then… find the fire."
He began walking back towards the house. "When your bodies are no longer pathetic, and you can make Mister Slab here feel even a twinge of remorse… then I will tell you about the Architects. Their hierarchy, their facilities, their weaknesses. The good stuff. But not a second before. Knowledge is a weapon, and I don't arm the weak."
He opened the heavy door and disappeared inside, leaving them in the vast, silent clearing with their cruel new toys and the impassive black judge.
For a long moment, no one moved. Then, with a grunt, Leo stomped forward and grabbed one of the knotted bars. He heaved it onto his shoulders, his biopolymer filaments straining visibly under his skin. His knees buckled slightly, then held.
"Fine," he growled through gritted teeth. "Let's get pathetic."
One by one, they followed. Derek strapped the heavy plates to his legs, his movements instantly becoming labored. Jordan, with meticulous care, began attaching the harness, analyzing the weight distribution. Eva remained still for a moment, watching as Leo, with a roar of effort and pain, drove his first punch into the face of Mister Slab.
THWUMP.
The sound was horrifically solid. Leo hissed, shaking his hand. The Umbralite was unmarked.
Inside the house, Wolfen stood by the window, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. On the floor by the hearth, Maya stirred in her sleep, a small whimper escaping her lips. The foundation was being laid. Not with wisdom or hope, but with pain, sweat, and the relentless, unforgiving love of Mister Slab.