Derek Vance sat in a cracked vinyl booth and stared at the plate in front of him.
The neon sign of the Neon Grid Diner flickered with a dull buzzing hum and cast a synthetic pink glow over the rain-slicked streets of Sector 4.
It was a real beef steak. Not soy paste. Not textured insect protein stamped into a grey cube. It was actual undeniable meat seared on a grill with a side of actual potatoes.
He took a bite and swallowed hard.
The rich savory juices exploded across his taste buds. His malnourished stomach gave a violent flutter before eagerly accepting it.
He chewed slowly and let his eyes drift to the digital datapad resting on the table.
His bank balance glowed in crisp green numerals. 47,014 Midland Credits.
He had already transferred three thousand credits to his scumbag landlord. The eviction notice hovering over his head was instantly vaporized.
He was safe. For the first time in his eighteen years of miserable existence, he wasn't living meal to meal. The crushing weight of extreme poverty had vanished overnight.
However, it was replaced by a completely different kind of terror.
Above the counter, a holographic news anchor droned on with a manufactured look of concern on her perfectly symmetrical face.
"Authorities are still investigating the series of gas main explosions in Sector 7." The anchor reported smoothly. "Furthermore, the Midland Republic Police Department has issued a statement regarding the sudden spike in mass disappearances across the lower sectors. Officials urge citizens to remain indoors after curfew and report any suspicious activity."
Derek scoffed quietly and washed down his steak with a swig of cold water.
Gas leaks. Cult activity. It was a blatant sweeping cover-up.
The government wasn't looking for missing people. They knew exactly where those people went. They had been ripped from reality and dragged kicking and screaming into the Zenith Trials. The system was harvesting humanity and the authorities were just mopping up the blood to prevent mass panic.
He looked down at his right hand. The violent purple bruising had faded to a sickly yellow. His fractured knuckles were slowly knitting back together.
The system's baseline healing combined with his recently consumed Agility Boost Scroll had accelerated his recovery. But a dull throbbing ache remained deep in his bones.
The steak suddenly tasted like ash. What good was fifty thousand credits if he died in the next trial?
His mind replayed the desperate fight in the wasteland. He remembered the intoxicating rush of power when he triggered the 10,000x Multiplier.
But the golden text of the system warning burned brightly in his memory. The human body is subject to the laws of physics.
He couldn't afford to be arrogant. His unique talent was an engine of god-like proportions but it was strapped into a rusted fragile chassis.
If he threw a punch with ten thousand times the force of a normal human, the kinetic recoil wouldn't just break his hand. It would travel up his arm, shatter his elbow, dislocate his shoulder, and snap his spine.
It was a suicide button if used without a perfect foundation.
He needed to understand body mechanics. He needed to learn how to punch and how to fall without turning his own skeletal structure into shrapnel.
Finishing his meal, Derek left a generous tip and stepped out into the smog-choked air of Sector 4.
He pulled up his datapad and searched for local martial arts gyms. He didn't need a place that taught flashy spinning kicks. He needed brutal pragmatic biomechanics.
Twenty minutes later, he pushed open the heavy iron doors of Steel Will Combat Arts.
The gym smelled heavily of old sweat and antiseptic. Heavy leather bags hung from the ceiling by thick chains and the padded mats were worn down to the threading.
A massive scarred man with a cauliflower ear was wiping down a bench press. He looked up and narrowed his eyes at Derek's lean frame.
"We don't do free trials, kid." The man rumbled. "And you look like a stiff breeze would snap you in half."
"I have money," Derek said with a dead serious tone. "I don't want to spar. I don't want to learn point-scoring."
Derek stepped forward and continued.
"I need to learn structural alignment. I need to know exactly how to align my knuckles, wrist, elbow, and shoulder so that when I hit something incredibly hard, the recoil travels down into the floor instead of shattering my arm. I need weight distribution and shock absorption."
The man raised an eyebrow. He was clearly taken aback by the specific nature of the request.
"You planning on punching a brick wall, kid?"
"Something like that," Derek replied. "I will pay you two thousand credits for a week of intense one-on-one private coaching. Starting right now."
The man's eyes widened slightly at the sum. He tossed his rag aside and crossed his massive arms.
"Name is Coach Miller. Wrap your hands, kid. We are going to see how bad your foundation really is."
The next few days were agonizing. Coach Miller didn't hold back at all.
He stripped away every instinct Derek had learned from dirty street fighting. He forced Derek to stand in front of a heavy bag for hours to throw single deliberate strikes.
"Lock the wrist!" Miller barked as he slapped Derek's arm with a padded stick. "If your wrist is bent even a fraction of a millimeter upon impact, the kinetic force will snap it like a dry twig! Drive from the heel, rotate the hip, align the shoulder, and follow through!"
Derek absorbed the information completely. Because his life literally depended on it, his focus was absolute.
He practiced his footwork until his soles bled. He learned how to bend his knees to absorb downward kinetic shock. He learned how to tense his core at the exact millisecond of impact to create a solid bridge of muscle and bone.
He valued his second life too much to throw it away on a botched multiplier. He was going to build a vessel capable of holding the power of a god.
He just had to survive long enough to finish the construction.