Within the barracks, twenty-two bodies fought their own war against exhaustion. Some surrendered to sleep quickly, the day's physical toll dragging them under. Others shifted, restless, their minds too loud for rest.

  I was one of the latter.

  I lay on my back, eyes shut, trying to will myself to sleep. The harder I tried, the more elusive it remained. If I couldn't get the rest I needed, I may as well be productive. Remembering the lectures: focus on the crown, generate pressure, imagine Ether drawn in, push it downward to let it strengthen body and mind. I went through the motions.

  Crown to cortex, pressure builds, push downward, draw in Ether.

  It came slowly, but it came. I could feel it gathering at the top of my skull, a cold pressure that sat behind my eyes. For one breath, maybe two, it was exactly as Kael described. A weight building, ready to be pushed downward, ready to flow through the brain stem, the spine, into the body.

  Now push down.

  I pushed.

  Nothing.

  The pressure vanished. One moment, it was there, full and promising. The next, gone.

  I tried again. Drew the Ether in. Felt the gathering. Pushed—

  Gone.

  Again. Ether. Pressure. Push. Nothing. Repeat.

  What the fuck?!

  Behind my eyelids, cold text flickered.

  The number had changed. Yesterday, it read 0.001%. Now 0.002%.

  Where is it going? What does connection even mean?

  The Ether wasn't building my body. It wasn't reinforcing bone or repairing muscle or doing any of the things it was supposed to do. It was just… leaving. Draining into whatever sat on the other side of the interface. The True-Noosphere was drinking its fill and offered nothing in return.

  0.5x cultivation rate... That's what the system said. But 0.5x implied something was happening, just slowly. This wasn't slow. It was damn nonexistent, like I was pouring water into a bucket that had a giant hole in the bottom.

  When the other recruits awaken and the Ether hits them, they'll cycle it. They'll grow. They'll start climbing ranks. Me on the otherhand...

  Anger coiled in my chest, hot and tight. Not the explosive kind from the rooftop. Something quieter. The kind that settles into your jaw and stays.

  Fine. If Ether wouldn't make me stronger, I'll do it the hard way. I'll work harder, fight smarter, kill more. I am Marcus, and I'm still not fucking done.

  Sleep didn't come for a long time.

  [0500]

  The siren. The lights. Vance's boots on the concrete.

  "Rise, Greenies! On your feet! The Buggers don't hit snooze!"

  I was already dressed when the first kids hit the floor. The advantage of the door bunk was that it forced discipline. Every inspection, every entrance—I was the first thing they saw.

  We stumbled outside into the pre-dawn cold. The formation was slightly better than yesterday. Still ragged, still sloppy, but at least most of them remembered where to stand.

  "Same drill!" Vance barked. "Six miles. North wall and back. Tiernan is the Rabbit. Pack finishes within five minutes of the Rabbit, or the Pack doesn't eat. Step off!"

  Same rules. Same structure.

  I took off, boots hitting concrete. The cold air bit at my lungs. My body protested; the previous day's antics had left my arms heavy and my core sore. Behind me, I could hear the pack shuffling into motion.

  A lone wolf is just a dead wolf.

  I eased off the pace. Not dramatically. Not enough that Vance would see me jogging. But enough to keep myself from leaving the rest in the dust. I settled into a rhythm that was fast, but sustainable.

  The first mile passed. I could hear the pack behind me—closer than yesterday. Much closer.

  Good. Stay together.

  By the second mile, I could hear individual footfalls. Someone was breathing hard just twenty meters back. I held my pace.

  The turnaround came. I touched the wall and pivoted. The pack was strung out, but not nearly as badly as before. The front-runners were maybe two minutes behind me. The stragglers, another five behind them. Miller was in the middle, face red but moving.

  I passed them without a word and kept going. Held the pace.

  When I crossed the finish line, I stopped my count. Forty-four minutes. Eleven minutes slower than my record yesterday.

  The first of the pack crossed ninety seconds later. Then a flood. Within four minutes, most of the squad had finished. The stragglers limped in just under the five-minute window.

  The pack had finished within the limit.

  Vance checked his chronometer. He looked at the squad, then at me. Something passed across his face, too fast to read.

  "Pack passes," he said. "Mess hall."

  The squad, gasping and bent double, began to shuffle toward the mess. Relief was palpable in the air. Some exchanged glances—surprised, almost.

  "Tiernan."

  I stopped.

  "Sergeant?"

  "Forty-four minutes." His voice was flat. "Yesterday you ran thirty-three."

  "I—"

  "Eleven minutes slower. That's a hefty performance drop there," He stepped closer. "Are you injured, Recruit?"

  Careful.

  "No, Sergeant."

  "Then explain to me," He sucked in a deep breath of air. "WHY MY RABBIT JUST RAN LIKE A GRANDMA WITH HAEMORRHOIDS!"

  I met his eyes as spittle flicked against my cheek.

  Tell the truth, I was admitting I deliberately undermined my own performance. Lie, claim fatigue, and I was admitting weakness.

  There was no right answer.

  "Legs were heavy, Sergeant. Won't happen again."

  Vance stared at me for a long, stretching moment. I could feel the trap closing, but couldn't see its shape.

  "Legs were heavy," he repeated, the words drained of everything. "Miller!"

  Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.

  Miller stopped at the edge of the mess hall entrance, still catching his breath. He turned.

  "Sergeant?"

  "Take Tiernan's rations from the mess. He won't be needing them."

  A flash of surprise crossed Miller's face. He looked at me, and I saw something there for a brief moment. It vanished quickly, replaced by indifference as he nodded and headed off.

  "Come on Tiernan, we're taking a trip," Vance commanded.

  With a nod, I began to follow the man. We passed several familiar buildings, and I realised we were heading to the mess hall. Just as we were about to enter, he pointed to the ground infront of the doors, about 10 meters away.

  "Front leaning rest position. Now."

  I dropped into the push-up position. Palms flat on the cold dirt, I could see clearly into the mess hall through the main entrance.

  "Begin."

  Down. Up. Down. Up.

  Through the mess hall's doors, I could see the squad eating. Grey paste, protein blocks, recycled water. They ate slowly, deliberately, as if the food might be taken away at any moment. A few glanced through the doors toward me. Their faces were blank, not a hint of sympathy or guilt. Just the flat recognition that the Rabbit was being punished, and this time, it wasn't their problem.

  Down. Up.

  Yesterday, I ran quickly. The squad was punished.

  Down. Up.

  Today, I ran slowly. I was punished.

  Down. Up.

  Yesterday, the speed was wrong. Today, restraint was wrong.

  My arms burned. My shoulders screamed. I could feel my muscles beginning to fail, each repetition slower and shakier.

  The rules changed overnight. That's not discipline. That's—

  "Did I say stop, Tiernan?" Vance barked from somewhere behind me.

  Down. Up. Down. Up.

  What is he looking for?

  The question surfaced between push-ups. I didn't have enough strength to think clearly, but the edges of the thought pressed in regardless.

  Vance had watched me yesterday. Made his notes. Saw the Rabbit run ahead, saw the pack fail, saw me eat alone while they dug. Today, different input. Same observation. His eyes never changed. The anger in his voice had the same measured quality—loud enough to intimidate, controlled enough to feel rehearsed.

  Down. Up.

  My arms gave out. I collapsed into the dirt, face-first. Grit pressed into my cheek. I could taste earth and something else, something chemical—residue from whatever they used to treat the ground.

  "Back up."

  I pushed myself up. My arms trembled violently.

  "Continue."

  Down. Up. Down.

  I couldn't complete the rep. My chest hit the ground.

  "Did I say stop?"

  Down. I tried. My body wouldn't lift. From the dirt, my eyes found Vance's boots. They stood perfectly still.

  He's just watching.

  I looked up and saw his datapad in hand. His thumb moved once.

  He's making a note. Why?

  "Recover," Vance said. "Water's by the fence post. You have ten minutes."

  I crawled to my knees, then my feet. My arms hung like dead weight at my sides. The walk to the fence post took longer than it should have. The water was lukewarm and metallic, but I drank until my stomach hurt.

  The mess hall had begun to empty as I drank. Recruits shuffled out in small groups, heading toward the training yard for combat drills. Some looked over at me. One kid—small, dark-haired, bunk near the middle—held my gaze for a second longer than the others.

  I looked away first.

  —

  Combat drills blurred. Vance ran us through basic grappling — mount escapes, guard passes, and submissions. I was paired with a girl named Hsu, who was quiet and compact. She fought with a reckless abandon that had caught me off guard several times, managing to pin me on occasion.

  I didn't win cleanly, too exhausted and too hungry. I blocked what I could, escaped what I had to, and avoided ending up on my back for longer than a few seconds.

  Vance watched from the edge, arms folded.

  During one of the rotations, the kid who'd stared at me earlier—the dark-haired one—was grappling with a boy twice his size. The bigger kid had mount and was raining down sloppy hammer fists while the small one turtled, covering his head.

  The drill wasn't supposed to include strikes from mount. Just positional work. Yet Vance didn't intervene; nobody did.

  I watched, my jaw tightening.

  Not your problem. You're the Rabbit. Nobody wants your help.

  The kid took another hit. His guard was slipping.

  Don't.

  Another hit. Blood sprayed onto the mat.

  I exhaled through my teeth and stepped toward them. "Hips," I said loudly. Not to the big kid. To the small one. "Bridge your hips. Hard."

  The kid looked at me through his guard, eyes wide. The bigger recruit paused, confused by the interruption.

  "Just do it!" I said.

  He bridged. Sloppy, panicked, but enough. The bigger kid rolled sideways. The small one scrambled free and recovered to his knees, breathing hard.

  "Better," I said, and stepped back to my own mat.

  Vance's expression didn't change. But his eyes moved to his datapad.

  There it is again.

  Academics with Graves was shorter. A continuation of yesterday's doctrine, focused on screening formations and retreat denial. I kept my mouth shut, answering only when asked, and kept my answers as short as possible.

  It helped. The sneers came less often. I was just… there. The Rabbit, sitting at his desk, offering nothing to resent.

  Graves's lesson ended with a single detail that lodged itself in my head for the rest of the day.

  "In the last five years," he said, almost as an afterthought, "screening elements in the Outer Colonies have seen a nine per cent increase in engagement frequency. Command attributes it to the Buggers adapting their swarm patterns." His synthetic eye clicked. "You lot will be meeting the enemy sooner than last year's intake."

  The room went silent.

  "Dismissed."

  Cultivation with Kael was group work. Theory review, meditation positioning, and breathing exercises. The unawakened recruits sat in rigid postures, eyes closed, practising for when it finally came.

  I sat among them, going through the motions.

  Drawing Ether.

  Losing it.

  Drawing more.

  Losing it again.

  Around me, twenty-two kids prepared to receive something that I'd already been given and couldn't use. Their fear was palpable, thick enough to choke the room. By week's end, Ether would flood their nervous systems, and those who couldn't channel it would wash out. If I couldn't figure something out, I'd be in trouble.

  The session ended, and Kael dismissed us without comment.

  Lights out.

  Darkness swallowed the barracks. The chorus of groans was smaller tonight. Fatigue had won the war on complaints.

  I lay on my mattress. My arms still barely functioned from the morning's punishment. My stomach had moved past hunger into a dull numbness.

  I closed my eyes and reached inward.

  The Ether came. Faint, familiar. It gathered at my crown. And for the fourth time today, I pushed it downward.

  It drained. All of it. Pulled into the Noosphere like sand through an hourglass.

  But I tried again, again, and again.

  It wasn't hope driving the repetition. This was something else: the refusal to let a failed outcome be the final one.

  Eventually, even the Ether stopped coming. My reserves, already thin, were empty. I lay there, spent in every sense. Muscles wrecked. Mind raw. The barracks settled into the rhythm of sleep around me.

  I called up the interface, expecting the same impenetrable text.

  I blinked. 0.004%. Yesterday it was 0.001%. This morning it was 0.002%. The number had doubled since then.

  Why?

  I'd done the same thing. Drawn Ether, lost it, repeated. Nothing different in the process. Yet today's growth was larger than yesterday's.

  The only difference between today and yesterday was that today had been worse in every conceivable way.

  That didn't make sense. Why would worse results produce better numbers?

  I stared at the digits, trying to force them into a pattern. Nothing came.

  My eyes drifted to the stat block below.

  One point. Unassigned. Waiting.

  Where did it come from?

  I'd spent the day doing push-ups until my arms collapsed. If anything, strength made sense. Or willpower, given that I'd kept going long past the point my body quit. Vitality was the stat of baseline health and endurance. I hadn't done anything to—

  Actually, had I? My body had been pushed to failure, denied food, and forced to continue functioning regardless. Maybe…

  No. Don't guess. Observe.

  I assigned the point to Vitality. It was already my highest physical stat, and if I couldn't cultivate Ether to reinforce my body, then keeping my baseline health as high as possible was the pragmatic choice.

  A faint warmth spread through my core. Subtle, brief. Like a sip of hot tea on a cold morning. Then it faded, and I felt the same as before.

  Five days. Twenty hours.

  I closed the interface and stared at the darkness above my bunk.

  Nothing made sense.

  But I was still here.

  The mattress springs dug into my back. Somewhere in the barracks, someone muttered in their sleep—a name I couldn't catch. Outside, a distant shuttle passed overhead, its engines a low hum that rattled the windows.

  I closed my eyes.

  Five days...