David and Philip slid into Nathan's car, a sleek Great Wall Phantom, its bulletproof frame gleaming under Frosthaven's streetlights.
In the Great Shift era, global trade had collapsed—seas and rivers ruled by monstrous fish, skies claimed by mutant birds. Aviation and shipping were relics, forcing nations to rely on domestic vehicles.
The Phantom, a northern region high-end model, cost $700,000—a fortune that left Philip wide-eyed, his fingers tracing the polished hood. For David, reborn with memories of greater wonders, it was merely a tool, though its weighty doors and armored glass impressed even him.
"Man, look at this thing!" Philip exclaimed, voice brimming with awe. "The shine, the curves—if I owned this, I'd die happy."
Nathan chuckled, sliding into the driver's seat. "Aim higher, kid. Train hard, reach advanced Warrior level, and hunt some high-grade beasts. A few kills, and this car's yours."
He glanced at David, noting his calm. "See David here? Cool as ice. That's a fighter's heart—learn from him."
Philip shot David a mock glare. "I don't compete with this guy. He's a master at playing weak, then pouncing—pretending to be a pig to eat tigers. Always has been. Kid's so strong, had me worried sick, and he just smirks. Whatever he pulls off next, I won't blink."
Nathan laughed. "Hiding your edge is a skill. Get in, let's drink."
David and Philip climbed in, the heavy doors thudding shut, a fortress sealing them in. Nathan revved the engine, the Phantom purring with power. "Fighters pick cars for bulletproofing," he said. "As your reflexes sharpen, guns become less of a threat, but a car's your shield. A stray burst hits, where do you hide? The tougher the armor, the better."
Nathan talked as he drove, his voice a steady guide through Frosthaven's neon-lit streets. David listened, his knowledge from his past life deeper than Nathan's, but he stayed silent, respecting the veteran's warmth. Philip soaked it up, eager, while David's thoughts drifted to the night ahead, the bar where past and future would collide.
The Phantom glided into Valor Street, a vibrant artery of Frosthaven's fighter culture, its bars and clubs aglow with neon. Philip pressed his face to the window, awestruck. "Amity Street! They say a night here costs a fortune!"
"For civilians, sure," Nathan said, grinning. "A meal could eat a year's wages, a night a decade's. But you're Storm Academy now, Philip. Fighters live differently. Adjust your mindset—you're not ordinary anymore."
Philip flushed, his civilian roots still clinging. David, poised and silent, earned a nod from Nathan. His calm wasn't just experience but a rebirth-forged resolve, a readiness to navigate this world without faltering.
The car stopped before a bar, its sign reading "Millennium Time." A waiter rushed over. "Brother Nathan! Been a few days!"
"Got a spot?" Nathan asked.
"Always for you," the waiter said. "Storm's Nathan gets prime seating."
Nathan tossed him $200—two crisp bills, a generous tip in a city where $100 was the largest note. The waiter beamed, hurrying to park and polish the Phantom. Fighters' wealth made them prized patrons, their tips a windfall.
David and Philip followed Nathan, pausing to read the bar's name. Millennium Time was a legend among fighters, its decor a homage to the Old Calendar's 2000s, a retro shrine to a lost era. The Great Shift had unlocked human potential, but the Old Calendar's culture—its art, music, tech—still held a mystique, its pleasures unmatched by today's survival-driven world.
Inside, the bar hummed with life. A central dance floor glowed under soft lights, surrounded by round tables packed with fighters and students. On a stage, a young woman strummed a guitar, singing "Dream Chaser," an Old Calendar hit, her voice weaving nostalgia through the crowd. The decor—vinyl booths, neon signs, checkered floors—evoked a time before beasts ruled, a fleeting escape from Frosthaven's harsh reality.
David's calm masked a rush of memories. In his past life, with Blue Horizon Academy, he'd come here on this same night, a rookie lost in the crowd. That night, Millennium Time had erupted in violence—Storm and Apex students clashing, Philip and Alex each claiming victories, their names rising in the fighter circle. But the true star was Felix Carter, a first-class Storm student, who held off two Apex fighters for five minutes, his skill undeniable. Storm, outnumbered, lost, but Felix's fame soared, earning him a Storm reward David never learned. That night, David had been a nobody, watching from the shadows. Now, he was ready to rewrite history.
"Felix Carter," David thought, stepping inside, "the guy who stole my Mutant beast, cost me $10 million. Tonight, we meet again."
Nathan led them to a prime table near the stage, the view clear, the music vibrant. "What do you boys want to eat?" he asked.
David and Philip, new to this world, shrugged, unsure. Nathan smirked, unfazed. "Alright, one magic wolf leg, two pounds of mutant beef, a fruit platter, a nut plate, and a case of Frosthaven Lager."
The order arrived in minutes, plates steaming with savory aromas. The waiter popped three beers, and Nathan handed one each to David and Philip. "To fighters," he said, raising his bottle. "You gotta learn to drink here. Beer fits this vibe. No getting drunk tonight—just enjoy."
They clinked bottles, the cold lager sharp and refreshing. As they dug into the food, the door swung open, and Nathan's eyes lit up. "Our crew, from First High's recruitment. Henry, over here!"
Henry Tate, a tall fighter, strode in, three students trailing. "Nathan, you're here too," Henry said, grinning, collapsing into a chair.
"Good haul today, Henry," Nathan said, eyeing the students. "Three recruits, one first-class. Not bad."
Henry laughed. "Just luck. Felix's the real deal. You did alright too—a second-class and third-class from Northview? That's rare."
Nathan nodded, pride flickering. "Let's get these kids acquainted. They'll be training together."
Felix, sharp-featured and coolly confident, led the trio. Victor, a second-class student, and Ethan Brooks, third-class, followed. They greeted Nathan, then introduced themselves to David and Philip, their handshakes firm, eyes sizing each other up.
Henry glanced at the crowded table. "Nathan, let's hit the private room. Some old friends are there, playing cards. You in?"
Fighters loved gambling, and Nathan's eyes sparked. "Deal. Let's go."
He turned to the students. "Have fun, order what you want—food, drinks, anything under $30,000 goes on my tab. If other academy kids start trouble, don't back down. Hit hard, don't shame Storm's name, got it?"
The five students nodded, and Nathan and Henry headed off, shoulders slung together, laughter trailing. David, Philip, Felix, Victor, and Ethan remained, the table now theirs. David's pulse quickened, his past life's memories sharp. The clash was coming.