The Kinetic Emperor: Reborn in a World of Iron

Chapter 6

The silence in the arena was absolute.

Five minutes ago, five thousand students had been screaming for blood. They wanted to see the "Dreg" crushed by the machine. Now, they sat in their seats, frozen. The air conditioning hummed, a low, electric buzz that sounded like a giant insect.

In the center of the Ring, Torian lay face down. He wasn't moving. The massive hydraulic exoskeleton on his leg, usually a symbol of power, now looked like a trap. It was dead weight.

A medical drone hovered down from the ceiling. It was a sleek, white disc with mechanical arms. It scanned Torian with a blue laser grid.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

The drone’s synthesized voice echoed over the loudspeakers.

"Subject: Torian. Status: Incapacitated. Vital signs: Stable. Diagnosis: Neuro-muscular shutdown due to precise trauma to the femoral nerve cluster. Lower body paralysis: Temporary."

The students blinked.

He wasn't dead? He wasn't broken? He was simply... turned off.

Someone in the crowd whispered, "He just poked him."

"No," another student whispered back, terror in his voice. "He didn't poke him. He switched him off like a light."

Silas didn't wait for the applause that would never come. He didn't look back at the confused referee. He walked toward the dark tunnel of the exit, his boots making a soft, rhythmic tap, tap, tap on the concrete.

He was calm on the outside. But inside, his body was screaming.

The locker room was empty. The lights flickered overhead. As soon as the heavy metal door clicked shut, Silas collapsed.

He didn't fall gracefully. He crashed into a bench, sliding down to the cold tiled floor. His breath came in ragged, wet gasps.

"Ghhhuugh..."

He coughed violently into his hand. When he pulled it away, his palm was wet with bright red blood.

The fight had lasted less than two minutes. To the audience, it looked effortless. But to Kian’s body, it was a catastrophe.

Silas gripped his right thigh. The muscle was twitching uncontrollably. When he had dodged Torian’s first charge, he had forced his legs to move faster than the muscle fibers could handle. He had torn the quadriceps.

"Weak," Silas hissed through his teeth. "This vessel is too weak."

The adrenaline dump was fading now. The pain hit him like a tidal wave. His vision blurred. His hands shook so hard he couldn't unclench his fist.

This was the cost of using "God-level" techniques in a malnourished, drug-addicted body. It was like putting jet fuel into a lawnmower. The engine was tearing itself apart.

He needed protein. He needed high-grade bio-gel. He needed sleep. But mostly, he needed calories. If he didn't eat soon, his body would start cannibalizing its own muscle for energy.

He dragged himself up, using the bench for support. He wiped the blood from his mouth with his sleeve.

"One step," he ordered his legs. "Move."

He limped toward the showers. He had to wash off the sand and the sweat. He had to look strong. If anyone saw him trembling like this, the fear he had instilled in them would vanish.

High above the arena, in a room made of glass and black steel, General Krov sat in his chair.

The room was dark, lit only by the glow of a massive holographic screen. Krov was the Headmaster of Valhalla Academy. He was a man of iron, with a scar running from his left eye to his jaw. He didn't blink often.

"Replay," Krov commanded. His voice was deep, like grinding stones.

The screen showed the fight again.

"Speed: 10%."

The video slowed to a crawl. Krov watched Silas throw the sand. He watched the precise moment the gears jammed. He watched the fingertip strike.

"Pause."

The image froze. The camera was zoomed in on Silas’s face just as he delivered the final blow.

Krov stood up and walked to the screen. He studied the boy’s face.

Kian was supposed to be a coward. His file said he was a crybaby, a victim, a failure.

But the eyes on the screen were not the eyes of a victim.

They were flat. They were focused. There was no panic, no adrenaline-fueled fear. They were the eyes of a soldier who had killed a thousand men and felt nothing. They were the eyes of a veteran.

"Impossible," Krov muttered.

He tapped a button on his desk. "Computer, analyze combat pattern."

The computer’s voice responded instantly. "Style: Unknown. Technique: Ancient Martial Arts. Probability of a Dreg executing this move: 0.0001%."

Krov narrowed his eyes. "He isn't lucky. He's trained."

He pressed an intercom button. "Security Chief."

"Yes, General?" a voice crackled back.

"Initiate Level 4 Surveillance on Cadet Kian. I want to know where he goes, what he eats, and who he talks to. If he sneaks out of the Academy, I want to know."

"Understood, General. Is he a threat?"

Krov looked at the frozen image of Silas’s cold eyes.

"No," Krov said softly. "He is an asset. But first, we must find out who is piloting that body."

Silas left the locker room thirty minutes later. He had washed his face and tightened his bootlaces. He walked with a slight limp, but he hid it well.

He needed to get to the cafeteria before it closed. He had credits now—the winnings from the betting pool that Ren had placed for him. He could buy real meat.

He turned a corner into a narrow service hallway.

"Hold it right there, hero."

Three figures stepped out of the shadows, blocking his path.

Silas stopped. He sighed. He was tired. He didn't want this.

The leader of the group was Bront. Bront was a "Grappler"—a cadet bred for size. He was nearly seven feet tall, with a neck as thick as a tree trunk. He didn't use exoskeletons; he used steroids and mass.

Behind him were two smaller, mean-looking cadets holding stun batons.

"You cost us a lot of money today, Kian," Bront rumbled. He cracked his knuckles. It sounded like gunshots. "The Syndicate had big bets on Torian. You weren't supposed to win."

Silas looked at them. "Gambling is a game of chance. You played. You lost. Move."

Bront laughed. It was a wet, ugly sound. "You think because you beat Torian, you're tough? Torian relies on toys. I rely on these." He held up his massive, fleshy fists.

"We have a proposition," Bront said, stepping closer. The smell of stale tobacco and sweat wafted off him. "You’re going to work for us. Next week, you fight a rookie. You’re going to dive. You’re going to lose in the third round. We’ll make our money back."

"No," Silas said. He tried to walk past them.

Bront grabbed Silas’s shoulder. His hand was the size of a dinner plate. He squeezed. Silas felt his bruised muscles scream in protest.

"I wasn't asking," Bront growled. "You do what we say. Or maybe we pay a visit to the Infirmary."

Silas froze.

"The Infirmary?" Silas asked quietly.

"Yeah," Bront grinned, thinking he had found the weak spot. "That little nurse. Elara. She’s the only one who talks to you, right? Pretty girl. Accidents happen in the Academy all the time. Maybe she trips down the stairs. Maybe she breaks her hands so she can’t fix anyone ever again."

The air in the hallway changed.

The temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.

Silas slowly reached up and took Bront’s hand off his shoulder. He didn't squeeze back. He just removed it, like removing a dead leaf.

He looked up at the giant.

The exhaustion in Silas’s face vanished. The pain in his leg was forgotten. The look he gave Bront was not human. It was the look of a butcher staring at a pig.

"You made a mistake," Silas whispered.

"What?" Bront frowned, confused by the sudden shift.

Silas took a step closer. He was so close he was almost touching Bront’s chest.

"You threatened a non-combatant," Silas said. His voice was very soft, very clear, and absolutely terrifying. "That is a violation of the Rules of Engagement."

"I don't care about rules." Bront started.

"Listen to me carefully," Silas cut him off. "If you touch her... if you even look at her... I will find you while you sleep."

Silas’s eyes bored into Bront’s soul.

"I will not kill you," Silas continued, describing the horror with the tone of a grocery list. "I will use a rusty scalpel. I will peel the skin off your forearms. Then, I will hook your tendons with a fishing line and pull them out, one by one, while you are awake to watch your fingers curl backward."

Bront flinched. He actually took a step back. The image was too specific. Too graphic.

"You're crazy," Bront stammered. The sweat on his forehead was suddenly cold.

"I am not crazy," Silas said. "I am efficient. Do we have an understanding?"

Bront looked at his two goons. They looked terrified. No one spoke like that. Students threatened to beat each other up. They didn't threaten... harvesting.

"We... we're watching you," Bront muttered, trying to save face. "Let's go."

They backed away. They didn't turn their backs on him until they were far down the hall. They ran.

Silas watched them go.

He leaned against the wall, his energy finally gone. He needed food. But now he knew something else.

He had enemies in the shadows. And he had a weakness—Elara.

"I need to get stronger," Silas whispered to the empty hall. "Faster."