Councilor Valois laughed nervously from inside his cobalt-blue "Kinetic Shield." The thick energy bubble surrounded him perfectly. He believed he was entirely safe. "Strike it all you want," Valois sneered, raising his hidden pistol. "Your fists will shatter before this energy even flickers." Silas stood still. He did not punch. He used his overclocked brain to match the shield’s frequency. 14,000 Hertz. He vibrated his right hand until it blurred like a shadow. Silas pushed his vibrating hand forward. Because his hand perfectly matched the shield's frequency, the barrier treated his flesh as part of its own wave equation. His iron-grey fingers passed slowly, smoothly through the invincible wall of blue light without a single spark of resistance. Valois’s green eyes widened in sheer disbelief. The handsome Councilor gasped as Silas’s hand materialized inside the protective bubble, mere inches from his throat. Silas did not hesitate. He gripped Valois's windpipe with his Grade 1 T

Forty minutes after Silas slipped out of the Obsidian Suite, the Luminescence Gala was still loud. The music played. The elites danced in their glowing dresses. But then, a high-born socialite named Lady Vania decided she was bored with the party. She wanted to rest in private. She walked toward the heavy, dark glass doors of the VIP lounge suites. She reached out and pushed the door to Councilor Valois’s suite. It did not open. It was locked from the inside. Lady Vania frowned. She pressed her face against the thick titanium-glass, trying to look inside the soundproof room. She let out a piercing, terrible scream. Through the glass, she saw Councilor Valois slumped over his private bar, face down, completely motionless. The music stopped. Panic erupted instantly. Automated security drones, shaped like floating silver disks, dropped from the ceiling. They surrounded the door, projecting red warning lasers into the crowd. "Please stand back. Medical emergency," the robotic voices

Late that night, after the emergency broadcast ended, General Krov summoned Silas back to the Sanctum of Ages. The large, restricted library at the top of the Spire was quiet. The heavy wooden doors were locked. Soft, warm yellow candlelight flickered on the large, round wooden table in the center of the room. General Krov sat at the table. He wore his simple, elegant black suit. He held a delicate crystal glass filled with dark, real wine. He looked relaxed and incredibly pleased. Silas stood on the other side of the table. He was barefoot, wearing a plain grey shirt. His solid black eyes watched Krov carefully. "Drink with me, Silas," Krov offered, pushing a second crystal glass across the table. "We should celebrate." "I do not drink poison," Silas said softly. His voice was a flat, deep hum. Krov laughed, a rough, genuine sound. He took a slow sip of his wine. "You are too careful, Ash-King," Krov smiled. He leaned back in his wooden chair, looking at Silas with deep respec

Three days had passed since Councilor Valois died of a silent heart attack at the Luminescence Gala. The Citadel was tense. The emergency broadcast had blamed faulty cybernetics for his death, but the rich elites knew the truth. Rumors spread like wildfire through the shiny white hallways. They whispered about a ghost. They whispered about an un-augmented threat, a boy from the mud who walked through heavy armor and pure energy shields without leaving a mark. For the first time in three hundred years, the elite students of the Academy felt their absolute supremacy slipping. They felt fear. Deep inside the Academy’s main training facility, the air was loud with the sound of grinding metal and firing lasers. This was where the elites trained. Enter Xerxes. Xerxes was the Academy’s Rank 1 Cadet. He was the most powerful, expensive student in the entire Citadel. He did not look human. His body was 80% combat-grade titanium. He was a towering, heavy mass of shiny silver metal. Thi

The hidden dojo deep in the Dead Zone was dark. Silas stood around the glowing blue tactical table with his twelve recruits. He had just laid out the holographic blueprint of the Sector-4 Arena. The projection showed a chaotic mess of ruined concrete buildings, rusted metal towers, and deep trenches. "The match is tomorrow," Silas announced softly. His 30-beats-per-minute heart held the room steady. "I need a 5-man strike team," Silas said, looking at the twelve faces. They were bruised and tired, but their skin was tough and slate-grey. "I will be the fifth. But I am not going to fight for you. I am going to watch." The recruits murmured nervously. Silas pointed his iron-grey finger at Marcus. "Marcus. You are first." Marcus nodded sharply. He touched his back. Silas had realigned his spine, removing the terrible pain of the cybernetic machine. Because of that, Marcus had developed brutal striking power. His right hand was heavy and incredibly dense from the iron-pillar trainin