The training sector did not welcome anyone.
It evaluated them.
Sector C unfolded like a brutal confession of Neon Eden's priorities—wide, circular platforms suspended at different heights, each surrounded by translucent barriers that hummed softly with contained force. Below them stretched a vast mechanical abyss, layers of moving infrastructure, data rails, and glowing arteries that fed the city's war machine.
Aira stood at the edge of Platform Seven.
The number appeared above the floor in pale blue light, rotating slowly as if undecided about its own relevance.
Around her, dozens of recruits waited in silence.
Some stretched. Some checked weapons. Some stared ahead with empty eyes already dulled by expectation.
Others stared at her.
She felt it without turning.
The weight of attention pressed against her back more heavily than gravity. Whispers moved through the air—not loud enough to be reprimanded, not quiet enough to disappear.
"That hair—no way that's cosmetic."
"She's Rank One. Is this a mistake?"
"Why does she look like that…?"
Aira kept her posture relaxed, hands resting loosely at her sides. Her silver moon hair fell freely down her back, unbound, glimmering faintly beneath the artificial lights. The longer she stood still, the more it seemed to draw the eye, not because it demanded attention, but because it refused to be ignored.
She did not enjoy it.
She endured it.
A chime echoed across the sector.
The barriers shimmered, then solidified.
A voice—calm, neutral, stripped of personality—filled the air.
"Preliminary Assessment Protocol initiated."
Holographic panels ignited around each platform, displaying names, ranks, and readiness indicators.
Aira's panel flickered once longer than the others before stabilizing.
Name: Aira
Rank: One
Level: One / One Hundred
Combat Path: Sword
Evolution Status: One
Anomaly Flag: Minimal Suppression Active
The anomaly flag pulsed faintly, visible only for a fraction of a second.
Several recruits noticed.
Their expressions changed.
Fear didn't come from power alone.
It came from uncertainty.
Aira exhaled slowly.
She had chosen to come here.
She had chosen to be seen.
And now, she would be measured.
"Combatants will face automated adversaries scaled to individual rank," the voice continued. "Performance will determine placement, resource allocation, and advancement eligibility."
A pause.
"Failure will result in reassignment."
Reassignment was Neon Eden's polite word for irrelevance.
The platform trembled.
From the center of Platform Seven, the floor segmented and retracted, revealing a circular deployment chamber beneath. Blue light surged upward as mechanical components unfolded with precise efficiency.
A drone rose.
It was humanoid in shape but stripped of any attempt at familiarity—smooth alloy limbs, a featureless head, and joints reinforced with kinetic dampeners. Energy lines pulsed along its frame, calibrating in real time.
Above it, a designation appeared.
Assessment Drone — Type: Vanguard
Threat Evaluation: Conditional
Reward Authority: Active
Aira's system stirred.
Not forcibly.
Not intrusively.
It waited.
She could feel it, bound to her will, restrained yet alert—like a blade resting in its sheath, aware of the hand that would draw it.
The drone tilted its head slightly.
"Target identified," it intoned. "Commencing engagement."
Aira moved.
Not forward.
Sideways.
Her body reacted before conscious thought, feet sliding across the platform as the drone's arm blurred forward, energy blade extending with a sharp hiss. The strike cut through empty air where she had been a moment before.
The movement felt… right.
Not practiced.
Not rehearsed.
Instinctive.
Her silver hair followed her motion, sweeping in a smooth arc that caught the light and scattered it in brief flashes. The effect drew eyes despite the violence unfolding.
The drone adjusted instantly, pivoting, its targeting systems recalculating trajectories.
Aira closed the distance.
She reached behind her.
The sword manifested.
It did not appear with spectacle or sound. One moment her hand was empty—then it wasn't.
The blade was long and narrow, its surface dark with a subtle inner glow tracing faint runic patterns along the edge. It hummed softly, not with energy, but with recognition.
The drone struck again.
Aira parried.
Metal met energy.
The impact rang across the platform, sending a shockwave through the barrier that caused several observers to flinch. The drone staggered back half a step—an outcome its predictive models had not favored.
Aira did not press immediately.
She watched.
Learned.
The drone's movements were efficient, stripped of wasted motion, but predictable in a way only machines could be. Every strike followed logic. Every retreat followed calculation.
It was powerful.
But it did not adapt creatively.
The system's voice surfaced—not as an order, but as information.
> Target combat value assessed.
Potential level increase: Two.
Condition: Target termination.
Aira acknowledged it silently.
Two levels.
Worth it.
She advanced.
This time, she attacked first.
Her sword cut low, forcing the drone to block, then reversed direction mid-swing in a maneuver that should not have been possible without violating balance constraints. The blade bit into the drone's forearm, severing it cleanly.
The limb hit the platform with a heavy clang.
Gasps rippled through the spectators.
The drone recalibrated instantly, rerouting power, compensating for the loss. It lunged forward, shoulder-first, attempting to overwhelm her through sheer momentum.
Aira stepped inside its guard.
Her sword pierced straight through its core.
The drone froze.
Energy flickered wildly, then collapsed inward.
The body crumpled, lifeless.
Silence followed.
Then—
"Target terminated."
A pulse of blue light washed over Aira.
She felt it—not as pleasure, not as excitement, but as confirmation.
> Level increased.
Current Level: Three / One Hundred
Two levels.
As promised.
The system did not celebrate.
Neither did she.
Around her, reactions exploded.
"That was a Vanguard drone…"
"She's Rank One—how did she—"
"Did you see her movement?"
"She didn't hesitate."
Aira dismissed the noise.
She sheathed her sword, the blade dissolving back into nothingness as if it had never existed.
The platform barrier lowered.
"Combatant Aira," the neutral voice announced. "Performance rating: Exceptional. Proceed to secondary assessment."
Other platforms were still active.
Some recruits struggled. Some fell. Some succeeded narrowly.
Aira stepped off Platform Seven and followed the illuminated path toward the inner sector.
Every step drew eyes.
Not because she had defeated the drone.
Others had done the same.
But because she had done it cleanly.
Without excess.
Without desperation.
Her beauty did not soften the violence she had displayed.
It sharpened it.
Inside the secondary chamber, the air felt heavier. More contained. Less forgiving.
A man waited there—older, scarred, his system rank displayed openly.
Rank Eight.
A veteran.
He looked at her without awe, without admiration.
Only interest.
"You're young," he said.
She met his gaze calmly.
"I look that way."
A flicker of surprise crossed his face before he smoothed it away.
"Fair enough," he said. "Your data doesn't make sense."
"Most important things don't."
A hint of a smile tugged at his mouth.
"You've evolved once," he said. "You know the rule."
"Yes."
"Two evolutions per rank increase."
"Yes."
"And your level cap is one hundred."
"Yes."
He studied her for a long moment.
"Why are you here?"
Aira didn't answer immediately.
She thought of the war.
Of the other world.
Of the years she hadn't lived.
"I don't want to be protected," she said finally. "I want to be prepared."
The veteran nodded slowly.
"Then you'll need more than beauty," he said.
Her silver hair shimmered faintly as she tilted her head.
"Good," she replied. "I don't rely on it."
He laughed softly.
"Training assignment pending," he said, tapping a panel. "Sword division. Advanced track."
The panel hesitated.
Then accepted.
Aira turned to leave.
Behind her, unseen by most, deeper systems began to take notice.
Predictive models flagged her trajectory as unstable.
Probability curves bent.
A human who was only months old—wearing the body of an eighteen-year-old, wielding a system she controlled rather than obeyed—was moving through Neon Eden's preparation for war.
And the city, for the first time in years, was no longer certain it understood its own future.