Refining the Engine
Sub-level 4 smelled of ozone and scorched copper—the metallic tang of a machine pushed past its breaking point. Ren Vey sat on the oil-stained concrete, his back pressed against the cold plating of Unit Seven. Inside his chest, his qi core pulsed with a jagged, irregular rhythm, a violent echo of the Circuit-Breaker technique he had pulled from the archives. He had bypassed the Academy’s safety governors, but his body was paying the interest in increments of agony. Every time he pushed the flow, a hairline fracture of pain spider-webbed across his ribs. The technique wasn't just a power-up; it was a parasitic drain, and he was the fuel.
He checked the diagnostic screen on his wrist. His resonance signature was spiking—a beacon for the Internal Audit Board. If the Academy’s sensors caught the erratic, high-frequency hum of his core, they wouldn’t just expel him; they would strip his cultivation for parts. He needed a high-grade fuel catalyst to stabilize the output, something far beyond the standard-issue sludge the Academy rationed to low-tier students. He had already liquidated his meager savings, selling his gear and his remaining personal effects to secure a meeting with Iri Sol.
He found her in the shadows of the proving ground periphery, where the surveillance drones rarely lingered. Iri didn't waste time on pleasantries. She slid a heavy, lead-lined canister across the wet concrete toward his boot. “The catalyst,” she whispered, her eyes darting toward the upper catwalks. “But the price just went up. The Audit Board has flagged the resonance signature of your last run. Your unit is painted, Ren. If you plug this into that frame, the spike will be visible from the central spire. You’ll have five minutes before the security grid drops a containment field on your bay.”
Ren felt a sharp, stabbing ache behind his eyes, but he took the canister. “Five minutes is enough to finish the gauntlet.”
“It’s enough to get you erased,” she countered, but she didn’t pull back. She knew, just as he did, that he had no other path to the Obsidian Tier.
Back in the bay, Ren jammed the catalyst into the primary intake manifold. The mech groaned, a deep, structural protest that vibrated through his teeth. As the catalyst seated, the unit’s core flared with a blinding, violet light. Ren channeled his own qi into the machine's feedback loop, acting as the bridge between his depleted core and the runaway engine. The gain was instantaneous. The diagnostic terminal flickered, the numbers climbing with terrifying speed: output capacity tripled, pushing Unit Seven past the threshold of the mid-tier and into the Obsidian-rated bracket. It was a massive, lethal gain, but the cost was immediate. His hands began to tremble, the skin turning a bruised, necrotic gray—the early, painful signs of core burnout.
He had only seconds to calibrate before the 0600 audit. He slammed the chest panel shut, his vision blurring. At 05:47, the proving ground’s uplink stuttered. The fuel line in his hand went dead-cold, as if the entire bay had been unplugged from the Academy’s grid. The public address horn cracked to life above him: “Mid-season ladder lock begins in thirteen minutes. All ranked units are to report final status for seal verification. Obsidian Tier candidates will receive gauntlet routing upon lock completion.”
Ren hit the ignition stud. Unit Seven answered with a flat, humiliating click. The core tried to wake, caught for an instant, then sagged back into darkness. It wasn't a malfunction; the Academy had cut the line.
“Trying to brute-force a dead line?”
Ren looked up. Instructor Halden Wren stood at the bay entrance, his coat unruffled, his eyes fixed on the opened chassis with the cold, predatory curiosity of a man watching a trapped animal. The lock wasn't a safety measure—it was a cage. Ren was ranked, but he was grounded, and the gauntlet was already waiting.