The moment Jones stepped back into the training chamber, he felt the difference.
Not in the room.
In himself.
His systems were no longer whispering suggestions or forcing corrections. They waited—silent, attentive—like tools laid out for use. For the first time since his rebirth, the machine felt secondary.
Commander Derick stood across from him, posture relaxed but alert.
"Today," Derick said, "we test control under contact."
Jones' eyes narrowed slightly. "Combat?"
"Not yet," Derick replied. "Impact."
The floor shifted, forming a wide circular platform. From the walls, mechanical arms extended—sleek, jointed, padded at the ends but heavy enough to matter.
"Your task is simple," Derick continued. "Do not strike back. Do not overpower. Absorb, redirect, remain standing."
Jones nodded once.
The first arm swung.
Fast.
Jones felt the urge to boost power—but stopped himself. Instead, he shifted his weight, turning his shoulder just enough to let the blow slide past instead of meeting it head-on.
The arm slammed into the floor behind him.
*Control,* he reminded himself.
Another strike came low.
Jones stepped back, foot placement clean, center of gravity steady. The platform vibrated faintly beneath him, but he didn't lose balance.
Derick watched closely.
A third arm struck from the side—harder this time.
Jones misjudged it.
The impact clipped his ribs and sent him skidding half a meter across the platform. His systems flared warnings, instinct screaming for power release.
He ignored it.
Jones pushed himself upright, breath steady.
"Again," Derick said.
The attacks came faster now. Less predictable.
Jones moved—not with speed, but precision. Small adjustments. Minimal force. He let momentum work for him instead of fighting it. When he failed, he corrected. When he stumbled, he recovered faster.
A direct hit slammed into his chest.
Jones slid back—but stayed on his feet.
His jaw tightened.
*I don't need to dominate,* he thought.
*I just need to endure.*
Minutes passed. Then more.
The arms finally retracted.
Jones stood alone at the center of the platform, systems warm, frame scuffed, balance intact.
Derick stepped forward. "That's enough."
Jones exhaled slowly, shoulders dropping.
"You didn't rely on raw power," Derick said. "You didn't panic."
Jones looked down at his hands. They were steady.
"I felt it," Jones said quietly. "Every time the system wanted to take over."
"And you didn't let it," Derick replied. "That's progress."
Jones lifted his head.
"So what's next?"
Derick turned toward the exit. "Next, we see what happens when you're allowed to hit back."
Jones' eyes hardened.
For the first time since his death, anticipation outweighed anger.
Not vengeance.
Readiness.