The next morning, Dante stood once more at the center of the training chamber—but it might as well have been a different world.
The sterile glow of overhead lights remained the same, the polished metal flooring still gleamed with that clinical shine, and the reinforced walls loomed as ever. But the air was heavier now, taut with anticipation instead of simulated precision. Gone were the mechanical drones, the predictable patterns, and the synthetic programming. This time, Dante's opponent wasn't a line of code or a machine bound by preset instructions.
This time, he was human. Or close enough.
Across from Dante stood a man built like a slab of granite. He was tall and broad-shouldered and wore a simple black tank top that exposed burn-scarred forearms—red, rough, and calloused from trauma that hadn't fully healed. His head was shaved down to the scalp, and his expression was neutral—too neutral. His eyes were sunken, ringed with fatigue or something deeper, but they held a quiet stillness, the kind only earned through pain endured, not avoided.
"That's Marcus," Hartman's voice crackled through the intercom from the observation deck above. He sounded calm, but there was something cautious in his tone, like even he wasn't fully comfortable". Codename: Pulse. Emits kinetic shockwaves through his limbs. Think of him as a walking concussion grenade. We found him two years ago in Cleveland. Panic attack in a bank vault. Vaporised the walls, foundation, and the armoured car outside before we got him sedated."
Dante didn't respond. His eyes never left Pulse.
He cracked his knuckles once, slowly. The sound echoed through the chamber like a challenge.
Then he spoke, his voice rough and low, like gravel being ground underfoot. "Don't worry," he said, a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth. "I'll try not to break anything you use."
Dante offered a thin, calm smile in return. "Thanks. I'll return the favour."
Overhead, Voss's voice echoed over the speakers. Clear. Cold. Commanding.
"Begin."
Pulse moved like a cannon shot.
One second he was standing still; the next, he twisted, slammed his foot into the floor, and a pulse of energy exploded outward in a concussive blast. The shockwave cracked the metal plating beneath Dante and rippled through his legs, threatening to throw him off balance.
But Dante reacted on instinct. His body moved before his brain caught up. He flipped back, landing lightly on his feet, even as the aftershocks rattled his bones. His vision swam momentarily, but the tremors were less intense than expected. His muscles were already adjusting, recalibrating, and bracing against the reverberations. Somewhere deep in his system, something was learning.
The next shockwave came faster; this time it was a punch—a hook laced with raw kinetic energy. Dante ducked under it, and as he did, he watched him. Studied him. Not just the motion, but the how.
His hips rotated before the strike. His stance shifted subtly, weight transferring, heel lifted. There was a rhythm to it—physics made flesh.
Dante mimicked the movement, adjusted it, and refined it.
And then—struck.
His fist crashed into Pulse's ribs with that same explosive torque. He grunted, stumbling back a half step, and to Dante's surprise, he grinned.
"Oh," he rasped. "You learn."
Dante did more than that.
He remembered.
His fingers tingled.
It wasn't from Pulse's ability. It was something else—something older.
The taser net. The electricity from three days ago. Dante had absorbed it in the moment, letting it pass through him. But it hadn't fully left. It lingered. Buried. Dormant. Like it had been waiting.
He called it forward now.
Static danced across his skin, surging to his fingertips. His hand crackled with arcing blue light as the stored electricity coiled around his knuckles. Not expelled. Not discharged. Worn. It wrapped his fist like armour forged from lightning.
Pulse lowered his shoulder and charged.
Dante didn't move.
He met him head-on, electrified arm slamming into his chest like a hammer from Olympus.
The collision was a thunderclap. Light flashed violently, momentarily painting the chamber in stark white.
Pulse was launched off his feet and hit the ground hard, sliding several feet across the floor with a groan, smoke rising faintly from his chest.
Dante stood over him, breathing heavily, his pulse syncing with the electric hum still lingering in his fingers.
Overhead, Voss's voice came through again, crisp and composed. "Match paused."
Hartman's voice followed, less clinical, now tinged with intrigue. "You stored energy. First time we've seen that."
Dante looked down at his hand as the final sparks faded from his skin. "It's not just mimicry," he said, voice low. "It's memory. My body doesn't just copy—it remembers."
There was a beat of silence before Voss spoke again.
"Then you'd better start managing your library," she said, tone sharpening. "Because you just stepped into a much larger game."
Dante looked up at the observation deck. Something in her words struck a chord—not a warning, but a truth.
His abilities weren't just reactive. They were cumulative. Every encounter, every impact, every fragment of power was now part of him, embedded like a growing archive of pain, strength, and adaptation.
And unlike a machine, his memory wasn't erased.
It evolved.
Pulse sat up slowly, wincing, but laughing—a dry, rasping sound. "You're dangerous," he muttered. "They're not ready for you."
Dante glanced at him. "Neither are you."
He nodded once, not in anger, but in acknowledgement.
From the observation deck, Hartman leaned into the mic again, his voice quieter this time. "We'll be increasing your combat simulations moving forward. Real opponents. Real pressure. This isn't about training anymore."
Dante didn't answer. He didn't need to.
Because in that moment, he wasn't the same person who had first walked into this chamber.
He was something else now.
And the world would have to catch up.