Three days later, Dante stood in a reinforced subterranean training chamber deep beneath Echo's facility—his first real test staring him in the face.
The room resembled a combat maze: cold steel-plated floors, retractable walls, shifting terrain modules, and hydraulic platforms that moved without warning. A digital jungle of obstacles, like something out of a high-stakes survival game—only there were no save points here.
Harsh fluorescent lights buzzed above, casting sharp, sterile shadows. The walls bore the scuffs and scorch marks of previous trials, silent testimony to those who came before—and didn't walk away unscathed.
"Training mode: Level 3," Voss's voice crackled through the overhead speaker, crisp and commanding. "No lethal rounds. Nonlethal only… unless you screw up."
He could hear the smirk behind her words.
She stood above him in the glass-panelled observation deck with Hartman beside her, both watching intently. Their eyes weren't just on his movements—they were tracking his biometrics: heart rate, oxygen levels, cortical activity, even minor shifts in his cellular structure. Watching to see if he'd snap… or ascend.
Dante rolled his shoulders, working out the tension that had been building for hours. Every muscle was taut, alert. A low thrumming buzzed beneath his skin, like his power was stretching, yawning awake after being dormant for too long.
Adapt. Learn. Evolve.
The walls groaned as the terrain began to reconfigure. Steel plates slid back with a hiss, revealing two compartments. From them emerged his opponents.
Combat drones—tall, lean, and deadly. Each stood over six feet, humanoid in shape but eerily fluid in motion. They carried stun batons in one hand and wrist-mounted shock blasters in the other. Their photoreceptors flared red as they locked onto Dante, their AI calibrating instantly to his position.
No time to hesitate.
The first drone surged forward, baton raised. Dante stepped to the side, just a hair too slow. The baton whistled past his shoulder—but his body had already registered the arc, logged the angle, and recalibrated.
The second strike came from behind.
He ducked instinctively, twisting into a low slide. His hand caught the lead drone's ankle, and with a sharp torque, he pulled. It staggered. But its recovery was near-instantaneous—too smooth to be human. Its leg swept out in a blinding roundhouse.
Dante brought up his arm in time to block, but the impact reverberated through his ribs like a hammer to a tuning fork. Pain lanced through his side, white-hot and unforgiving.
He hissed between clenched teeth—but already he felt the change. Beneath his skin, microscopic shifts began. Nerve receptors dulled the spike of agony. Muscles realigned. Bone density subtly increased where the blow landed.
The next hit came. He didn't flinch.
Instead, he mimicked its move.
He pivoted on his heel, launching into a spinning kick, mirroring the drone's technique down to the footwork and follow-through. His boot connected with its chest, hard.
Clang!
The drone stumbled back, armour dented.
"Copy rate: 73%," Voss's voice echoed from above. "Impressive."
Before he could respond, the second drone fired a taser net—a web of crackling energy that sizzled through the air.
Dante didn't dodge.
He caught it.
The instant the electrified threads touched his skin, pain should've followed—but he focused. Willing himself to learn. His cells surged with current. Instead of short-circuiting, his body analyzed the electrical pattern and rerouted it.
He felt the charge move through him—unharmful now. Controlled.
His fingertips sparked.
He turned, raised his hands, and unleashed it.
Bolts of redirected electricity lanced from his palms in a concentrated arc. The drone had no time to adapt. The blast hit square in the chest. Circuits fried. Smoke billowed. It collapsed in a heap of flickering sparks.
Only one left.
The final drone charged with its baton raised, but this time, Dante moved first. He anticipated its trajectory before it began. His stance shifted mid-leap, hips rotating, spine aligning. He moved like it moved—but faster, sharper. He copied its combat script, then rewrote it.
His foot slammed into its chest with crushing force.
Boom.
The drone hit the far wall hard and didn't get back up.
"Training complete," Voss said flatly. "That was Level 3. You just made it look like Level 1."
Dante's chest rose and fell with heavy, steady breaths. Residual sparks crackled along his arms before fading. He looked up toward the glass deck.
"Was that a pass?"
Hartman chuckled under his breath. "You passed before you entered."
Then why did it feel like the exam just started?
Later, after a long, hot rinse in the locker room, Dante sat shirtless on a bench, towel off his hair. His ribs still ached faintly—a dull echo—but he knew they'd be reinforced by morning.
Voss entered quietly, holding a data tablet.
"You're not done," she said without preamble.
He raised a brow. "Didn't I just graduate from robot boot camp?"
She didn't laugh. "That was the warm-up. Tomorrow, you spar with a live opponent. No programming. No AI. Just instincts—and someone else with powers. I want to see how your abilities adapt to unpredictability."
He leaned back against the cool metal of the locker. "Have you ever tested people like me before?"
She nodded slowly. "A few. Some adapted too fast… lost themselves. One burned out. Another couldn't stop evolving—lost all human control. Became a threat."
He swallowed. "And me?"
Voss looked him dead in the eyes. "You're still you. That's rare."
There was a beat of silence. Her words lingered.
"I don't want to become a weapon," he said at last, voice low but steady.
"Then don't," she replied, just as calm. "But learn to fight like one. Because the world doesn't care what you want. Sooner or later, someone will try to use you. Make sure they fail."
He nodded slowly, her words digging deep, anchoring themselves in his mind like roots.
He didn't ask for this power.
But it was his now.
And if this was the beginning… then he'd master it, down to the last spark.