The sword division of Neon Eden did not smell like metal.
That was the first thing Aira noticed as she crossed the threshold into Hall Nine.
It smelled like sweat—old and new, layered over itself in stubborn defiance of the city's pristine filters. Like ozone burned into the air by shields struck too often and too hard. Like blood that had been cleaned, sealed, cauterized… but never truly forgotten.
The hall was enormous.
Not wide—deep.
Platforms descended in staggered tiers, each ringed by reinforced barriers and embedded with impact-scars that no amount of system polish had been able to erase. Training drones lay dismantled along the walls, their broken frames mounted like trophies or warnings, depending on how long someone had survived here.
This was not a place for optimism.
It was a place for endurance.
Aira stepped forward slowly, boots echoing softly against the alloy floor.
Conversation died.
Not all at once. Not dramatically.
It simply… thinned.
Voices lowered. Movements slowed. People became aware that something unfamiliar had entered the space.
Ranks hovered openly above heads, faint glyphs of authority and survival.
Rank Four.
Rank Five.
A lone Rank Six leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, scarred face unreadable.
And then—
Her.
Rank One.
The contrast was absurd.
A girl who looked eighteen—exactly eighteen—standing among veterans whose bodies told stories of years spent learning how to kill efficiently and avoid dying clumsily.
Silver moon hair flowed freely down her back, long enough to brush her waist, catching the harsh training lights and scattering them into softer reflections. It glittered faintly, even here, even without moonlight—like something that did not fully belong indoors.
Someone snorted.
"You lost?" a woman said, not bothering to hide her disdain. She was sharpening her blade aggressively, sparks flying. Rank Five. Broad shoulders. Callused hands. "Hall Two takes beginners."
Aira did not answer.
She continued walking until she reached the central platform.
Stopped.
Waited.
The instructor arrived without ceremony.
He did not teleport. Did not descend dramatically. He simply appeared, as if the hall itself had produced him when needed.
Tall. Lean. His left eye was gone—not replaced, not enhanced, not hidden. Just an empty scar where something vital had once been. His remaining eye glowed faintly with system light.
Rank Seven.
Power settled around him like pressure.
"This is Hall Nine," he said, voice carrying effortlessly across the chamber. "If you're here, it's because someone believes you won't die immediately."
A few trainees smirked.
His gaze moved—and stopped on Aira.
He frowned.
Not at her rank.
At her.
"You," he said. "Name."
"Aira."
"Rank One," he said flatly. "Explain."
"I was assigned here."
"That's not an explanation."
"I didn't refuse."
A few quiet laughs rippled through the hall.
The instructor raised a hand. Silence snapped into place instantly.
"You don't belong here," he said, studying her openly now. "This hall breaks people. It grinds skill down until only instinct remains. Most who enter leave weaker than they arrived."
Aira met his gaze calmly.
"Then break me," she said.
The words were not defiant.
They were factual.
Something shifted in the instructor's posture. Not surprise—interest.
He nodded once.
"Draw."
Aira did.
The sword manifested in her hand without flare or sound. One moment, empty air—then steel existed, dark and narrow, its surface absorbing light rather than reflecting it. Faint runic lines traced the blade's edge, glowing subtly like restrained breath.
Several trainees stiffened.
"That blade—"
"It doesn't have a forge ID."
"No manufacturer signature…"
The instructor stepped closer, circling her slowly.
"You chose sword evolution," he said. "Magic-integrated."
"Yes."
"You know no one else here has."
"Yes."
"You know why."
"Yes."
He stopped in front of her.
"Tell me."
Aira did not hesitate.
"Because it's inefficient," she said. "Because it demands mastery of two disciplines at once. Because failure is punished twice."
"And?"
"Because it isolates you."
The instructor studied her for a long moment.
Then he smiled.
Not kindly.
"Partner," he barked. "Rank Five."
A man stepped forward, blade already drawn. His stance was confident, practiced, aggressive without being reckless.
"Non-lethal," the instructor added. "But do not insult this hall by holding back."
The barrier rose.
The duel began.
The Rank Five swordsman moved immediately, blade flashing forward in a clean, direct strike meant to test reflexes and confidence at the same time.
Aira stepped back.
Her sword rose smoothly, intercepting the blow with a sharp ring that echoed through the hall. The force rattled her arms—but did not overwhelm her.
The man pressed harder.
Feints followed. Pressure mounted. His strikes were layered, designed to exhaust and confuse, to punish hesitation.
Aira retreated.
One step. Two.
Not fleeing.
Measuring.
Her system spoke quietly.
> Opponent combat value assessed.
Potential level increase: Zero.
Engagement value: Skill acquisition prioritized.
No levels.
Fine.
She adjusted.
Her sword met his again, and this time something changed.
Magic seeped into the blade—not as a flare or explosion, but as density. The edge warped space subtly, altering angles by fractions too small for the eye to track consciously.
The Rank Five hesitated.
His strike slid off-target by just enough to matter.
Aira stepped inside his guard.
Her knee drove into his ribs—controlled, precise. Not enough to break bone. Enough to end the exchange.
The barrier dropped.
The man staggered back, shock written plainly across his face.
Silence fell.
The instructor laughed softly.
"Again."
And again.
The next opponent was faster.
The third, stronger.
The fourth relied on technique refined by years of repetition.
Aira did not dominate them.
She adapted.
Her silver moon hair clung briefly to her neck as sweat gathered, then fell free again, shimmering faintly under the lights. Her breathing remained steady. Her movements grew cleaner, sharper—magic and steel slowly synchronizing, no longer separate systems but expressions of the same intent.
She lost footing once.
Recovered.
She was disarmed once.
Adapted.
She was struck—hard—once.
Did not break.
By the sixth bout, the hall had gone completely silent.
Not out of fear.
Out of recalibration.
This was not a Rank One pretending to be something else.
This was a foundation being laid.
When the session finally ended, Aira stood at the center platform, shoulders rising and falling slowly. Her level had not changed. Her rank remained the same.
But something else had.
The instructor approached her.
"You're dangerous," he said quietly.
"Because I fight?" she asked.
"No," he replied. "Because you learn."
She met his gaze.
"Hall Nine accepts you."
The words carried weight.
Around them, trainees looked at her differently now. Respect was not given—but it had begun to form.
As Aira left the hall, unseen systems logged her progress.
Her trajectory flagged as unstable.
Predictive models bent.
A human who was only months old—wearing the body of someone eighteen, wielding a system she commanded rather than obeyed—was being forged in Neon Eden's harshest halls.
And somewhere deep within the city's war calculus, something shifted.
Steel had met something that refused to break.
And the city would remember that.