Location: Sparring Deck, Legacy Operations Command – Neo-Maynila

  The lights dimmed across the coliseum-scale sparring deck. Sparks still crackled from the shattered remnants of Project X’s final technomantic barrage—charred grooves clawed deep into the floor, glassy burns scorched into the walls like claw marks of some ancient titan. The deck pulsed with the remnants of war.

  Above, behind a wall of transparent reinforced glass in the command booth, President Malvaron stood with arms clasped behind his back, flanked by Colonel Reyes, his eyes scanning every corner of the deck below.

  “Project X set the bar,” Reyes muttered, voice low. “Let’s see if the fire in Bonifacio's blood still burns.”

  Colonel Reyes nodded but did not smile. “Andro Bonifacio. You’re up.”

  President Malvaron said nothing. But his gaze narrowed as the next figure stepped forward onto the platform.

  Andro Bonifacio.

  He wore the black cadet combat uniform, but it was the Gauntlet of Revolution that made him look like a living relic reborn—his right arm encased in obsidian nanosteel, etched with glowing Baybayin script, the crimson light pulsing like a heartbeat. At his wrist, a circular pulse core spun slowly, its rhythm syncing with his breath.

  This was not just technology. It was memory. Defiance. Fire.

  The arena shimmered.

  The hologrid activated, and from it emerged a full battalion of General Malvado’s Shadowborn army. Twisted by biotech corruption, these soldiers were monstrous—half-machine, half-corpse, with red optics burning like molten coals. Warborn brutes with mechanized limbs, cloaked assassins with plasma blades, even aerial drones shaped like obsidian hornets—all materialized as the system simulated one of Malvado’s known strike forces.

  The horn blared.

  They came.

  Andro inhaled once. Then ran straight into them.

  The gauntlet thrummed with each motion. Every sprint, every dodge, every impact—stored kinetic force fed into the core. He ducked under a blade swipe, vaulted over a berserker’s shoulder, then slammed his fist into a shadow-trooper’s gut.

  Boom.

  The pulse core discharged.

  The enemy flew ten feet backward, crashing into a wall of steel. Another enemy lunged—Andro grabbed its wrist. Flames erupted from his gauntlet, melting armor and cybernetics in seconds. The soldier’s scream was simulated, but the fear behind it felt real.

  He turned, fire dancing along his fingers.

  Everything the gauntlet touched began to melt—weapons, armor, metal limbs. Even the corrupted concrete beneath his steps hissed and bubbled with each footfall. He was becoming fire incarnate.

  But it wasn’t clean.

  Andro grunted, staggering slightly as a jolt of heat surged up his shoulder. His breath came heavier. The power pulsed wildly, a storm barely held back. He slammed the gauntlet against the floor, trying to vent excess heat.

  Ignite Pulse.

  Crimson energy exploded outward. Shockwaves hurled dozens of enemies into the air. The ground caught fire—not natural fire, but ancestral, burning only what was born of tyranny. The flames ignored the floor, but clung to every Shadowborn enemy like judgment given form.

  From above, Colonel Reyes leaned in. “He’s struggling to control it.”

  Malvaron’s voice remained steady. “That’s not struggle. That’s growth.”

  Down below, Andro’s eyes sharpened.

  The next wave came—this one smarter. Coordinated. Plasma shots came from every direction. Blades shimmered with corruption. A tank-like mech stomped forward, the arena trembling with each step.

  Bayani’s Instinct.

  Time dilated.

  Andro could see it—the micro-flicker of energy before each shot, the flex of tendons before a blade swung. He moved like water through flame. Slipping, spinning, countering. One punch broke a drone into flaming shards. Another melted a shock-trooper’s blade mid-swing.

  He leapt, turned midair, and slammed his gauntlet down.

  Second Ignite Pulse.

  The floor lit up like sunrise.

  Corrupted metal shrieked. Fire chased shadow-tech like a predator unleashed. One enemy clawed toward him—he caught it by the face.

  “Oppression,” he growled, “melts in the hands of rebellion.”

  With a hiss, the head dissolved in fire.

  But the flames inside him surged higher.

  He winced, dropping to one knee, the gauntlet steaming. His skin beneath it burned, sweat beading down his neck. The power wanted more. Demanded more.

  He gritted his teeth.

  “No. I’m still in charge.”

  He rose.

  The final enemy emerged through the fog—a monstrous chimera of tech and shadow, its limbs a writhing blend of blades and wires, its maw screaming silently. It was a nightmare made flesh.

  Andro stood his ground.

  The floor beneath him pulsed.

  Voice of the Forgotten.

  The arena trembled with ancestral resonance. Whispers not heard but felt stirred the air. Andro roared and charged, the gauntlet blazing like a comet.

  One final punch.

  All the energy. All the fire. All the fury.

  He drove it into the creature’s core.

  An explosion of light swallowed the arena. The chimera shattered.

  Silence followed.

  Andro stood, chest heaving, flames flickering off his gauntlet like dying stars.

  Above, Colonel Reyes let out a low breath. “He melted an entire war division. On instinct.”

  President Malvaron watched in silence, then finally spoke.

  “He doesn’t just wield fire. He is the spark.

  And one spark... can start a revolution.”

  The sparring deck went silent.

  The fire had died, but its ghost lingered. Faint scorch marks traced the path Andro Bonifacio had carved through the simulated army—shattered limbs, melted steel, and pulsing crimson remnants where once stood a vision of Malvado’s war machines.

  Andro stood still below, his breathing heavy, the Gauntlet of Revolution smoking at his side. Even from behind the reinforced observation glass, they could feel the heat—residual, humming, like the pulse of something ancient still roaring in the walls.

  High above, the other Legacy Descendants had watched it all unfold.

  None of them spoke at first.

  Basti Lapu-Lapu had been halfway through peeling a packet of calamansi candy when Andro’s first kinetic burst had torn through the simulation’s front line. The wrapper now crinkled in his palm, forgotten. “Damn,” he finally said, low and breathless. “He turned those bots into tinapa.”

  Kai Aguinaldo’s eyes hadn’t moved from the arena once. Her storm-colored gaze tracked every inch of melted steel. “He didn’t just destroy them,” she said quietly. “He punished them.”

  Sani Dulag, leaning on the edge of the console railing, exhaled slowly, like he’d been holding his breath since the gauntlet first ignited. “That was more than fire, man. That was ancestral rage. Did you hear the way the floor resonated? Like it was vibrating with—drums or something.”

  “I saw it,” said Ika Rizal. She adjusted her glasses with trembling fingers, eyes wide behind the lenses. “When he stood his ground, the ground responded. Like his conviction pulled something from the earth. From memory. That gauntlet… it's not just a weapon. It’s a story that burns.”

  Kai’s brow furrowed. “He could barely control it. Did you see the way his arm shook when he vented the heat?”

  “Like he was fighting the gauntlet,” Ika whispered. “Or himself.”

  “Or both,” added Sani.

  Basti let out a soft laugh—not mocking, but amazed. “If that’s what Andro’s holding in, what the hell are the rest of us about to awaken?”

  No one answered.

  The mood had shifted now. It wasn’t just awe. It was a realization. That their trials weren’t just tests. That the legacies they carried might burn just as brightly—or just as painfully.

  Down below, Andro looked up at the observation glass. His gaze was sharp, focused. But there was something in it too. A flicker of uncertainty behind the fire.

  Not fear.

  Not regret.

  Just the weight of knowing that this was only the beginning.

  And one by one, the others straightened their backs.

  They would be next.

  And the fire was waiting for them, too.

  The lights above flickered, recalibrating after the searing display of Andro Bonifacio’s trial. Faint smoke still curled around the edges of the arena, the scent of scorched alloy and burning corruption lingering in the air like ghostly echoes. A hushed silence settled over the remaining Legacy Descendants as they watched Andro descend the platform, his breath still heavy, the Gauntlet of Revolution dimming at last.

  Kai Aguinaldo sat forward, her sharp eyes narrowed.

  "That was... intense," she muttered, her voice wind-carried and soft.

  Basti Lapu-Lapu gave a low whistle, eyes wide.

  “Man, he literally melted that mech’s chest like lechon skin. I felt that in my soul.”

  Sani Dulag nodded slowly. “He’s got fire, literal and otherwise.”

  Above them, Colonel Reyes stepped forward from the command rail. His voice echoed through the observation deck.

  "Next… Ika Rizal."

  There was a pause before Ika rose, her movement deliberate. She adjusted her coat, her fingers brushing the inkwell pendant at her chest—the Pen of Spirit, already in hand. The tip glowed faintly, pulsing with soft golden light. Her hazel eyes, framed by gold-rimmed glasses, focused—not with fire, but with quiet determination.

  With each step toward the sparring deck, her boots echoed against the silence, swallowed by the low hum of the arena resetting behind her.

  President Malvaron leaned forward, his voice barely above a whisper. “She’s the one with the memory spellwork, correct?”

  Colonel Reyes nodded. “She channels ancestral force through written word… but her fight won’t be one of brute strength. It’s her legacy that will define this battle.”

  The simulation grid flickered, loading the enemies—twisted echoes of colonial invaders. Corrupted friars with skeletal faces, mechanical conquistadors mounted on spectral beasts. Their armor bore runes of domination, movements stiff with cruelty.

  Ika stood calm, the Pen of Spirit held steadily in her hand, poised and ready.

  The horn blared.

  Ika didn’t move.

  Instead, she wrote.

  Her wrist swept forward, Baybayin letters flowing in a steady, controlled motion—each stroke deliberate, carving through the air like whispers of an ancient language. The ink glowed softly in the air as she wrote:

  “Kaligtasan.” (Protection.)

  The word pulsed before it exploded outward into a translucent dome—just in time for a spear to slam down against it. The impact rang out, the spear bouncing harmlessly off the shield.

  But Ika felt it—an ache in her chest. Her breath hitched as she lowered her arm, gathering her energy for the next strike. Her fingers trembled as she reached again for the pen, her thoughts momentarily lost.

  The enemy charged.

  Ika sidestepped, her body fluid and graceful, but the next words didn’t come as easily. Her wrist shook. The ink seemed to drag through the air like mud. She raised her pen again and managed to write:

  “Alon.” (Wave.)

  A ribbon of spiritual energy surged forward—but it wasn’t as clean, as powerful as she intended. The wave hit the soldiers, scattering them, but it lacked the force she expected. One enemy dodged and swung a bladed spear, forcing her to roll back in a desperate move.

  Ika’s breath quickened. Sweat dotted her brow. She had to focus. She wrote again, this time scrawling on the ground beneath her:

  “Gabay.” (Guidance.)

  A spirit began to manifest behind her—a shimmering figure dressed in traditional Filipiniana, glowing faintly. But before it fully materialized, the air around her seemed to vibrate, like the threads of her power were stretched too thin.

  The spirit flickered, wavering as though it might vanish.

  Ika’s heart raced. She blinked, frustration mounting. Not now.

  The corrupted friar raised a relic, sending out a wave of spectral fire. Panic surged through Ika as the flames hurtled toward her. She leapt backward, narrowly avoiding the blaze, her hand trembling as she wrote:

  “Alaala.” (Memory.)

  The letters appeared, but they wavered. Her pen didn’t hold the same strength. The vision—an image of revolt—was half-formed, incomplete. One of the soldiers lunged toward her, but before the vision could fully materialize, Ika's shield flickered and faltered.

  The soldier hesitated, but then his spear thrust forward. She sidestepped at the last second, feeling the sting of the blade graze her coat, a shallow cut to her shoulder.

  Pain shot through her.

  Still, she stood tall.

  Ika fought to steady her shaking hand. She needed more. Focus. Focus.

  Through gritted teeth, she wrote one last word:

  “Tapang.” (Courage.)

  But the letters didn’t form a shield. They didn’t form a perfect weapon either. Instead, the words twisted in the air, not fully materializing into the blade she had envisioned.

  Yet, as the corrupted beast charged, Ika moved—her arm a blur, her pen cutting through the air in a desperate arc. The ink swirled, clinging to her will.

  And with the final stroke, a spiritual sword emerged. Not as perfect as she’d hoped, but enough.

  The blade cleaved through the beast's corrupted side, sending it crashing to the ground with a final roar.

  Ika fell to one knee, breathing hard, sweat dripping from her brow. The Pen of Spirit flickered faintly, the glow dimming. The last remnants of her energy ebbed away, but she remained focused. She didn’t have the strength to summon another shield, another strike.

  But she had enough.

  The air around her stilled, the faint scent of ink and memory lingering. The battlefield grew silent.

  Above, the other Legacy Descendants watched in silence, stunned by the weight of what they’d just witnessed.

  Kai Aguinaldo was the first to speak, her voice hushed, filled with reverence. “She didn’t just fight them… she unraveled them.”

  Her eyes were wide, a new understanding lighting up her expression. “She showed them who we were—who we are. That’s not just combat. That’s history as a weapon.”

  Sani Dulag, usually so full of energy, drummed his fingers nervously on the railing. “I felt the spirits when she summoned them... The air got cold, but it wasn’t scary. It felt like they were watching us too… judging.”

  Basti Lapu-Lapu blinked, rubbing the back of his neck. “I was ready to throw some trident moves and call it a day, but she…” He laughed softly, shaking his head. “She’s over here binding souls with poetry and flashbacks. How do you even train for that?”

  Andro Bonifacio, silent up until then, wiped the sweat from his brow. His Gauntlet of Revolution dimmed but still felt warm. He looked at Ika, not just with respect—but with an understanding that went deeper. “She didn’t let rage fuel her. She let story do the burning.”

  The team’s eyes returned to Ika.

  There she stood—shoulders straight despite the exhaustion, her coat torn at the shoulder where the spear had grazed her. The cut was already mending, spiritual thread weaving through the fabric.

  Her glasses were slightly askew, but Ika didn’t adjust them. She didn’t need to.

  The Pen of Spirit rested gently in her palm, dimmed but still holding the power of centuries in its quiet form.

  From above, President Malvaron’s voice broke the silence. “You see now, don’t you?” He turned to Reyes. “Each of them wields more than power. They wield legacy.”

  Colonel Reyes didn’t nod. His gaze remained on Ika, the weight of his words hanging in the air.

  “She writes with it.”

  The last remnants of Ika Rizal’s ancestral light had barely faded when the air shifted again—subtle at first, like the still hush before a storm.

  A breeze swept through the observation deck.

  “Next,” Colonel Reyes called, his voice cutting clean through the air. “Kai Aguinaldo.”

  Down on the sparring deck, Kai stepped forward, her cadet uniform rippling slightly from the wind gathering around her. Slung across her back was the Skyblade Lance—gleaming with sky-steel, its silvered edges humming with latent wind energy.

  The digital terrain of the simulation shifted. The once-flat training platform warped and transformed, rising into the jagged edge of a cliff face—an open sky simulation high above a ravaged Neo-Maynila skyline. The wind howled as it loaded, sharp and cold, laced with the scent of ozone and battle.

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  Then came the enemy: simulated Shadowborn fliers, bat-like drones twisted by dark tech, and elite soldiers strapped with wingpacks and plasma rifles. Aerial division.

  Perfect.

  Kai gripped her Skyblade Lance, her stance firm, but the tension in her shoulders betrayed her uncertainty. The wind, usually an ally, felt restless. She could feel the air swirling around her, threatening to slip beyond her control.

  President Malvaron leaned in with interest. “She’s not just a pilot anymore.”

  “No,” Colonel Reyes said. “She’s about to become the storm.”

  Trial of the Skies

  The horn blared.

  The sky exploded with movement.

  Shadowborn fliers screamed through the simulated wind. Twin plasma shots hissed toward her. Kai spun her lance, planting it on the ground—then leapt high, a gust of wind bursting beneath her boots, sending her into the sky.

  Air Control.

  The wind obeyed, but as soon as she left the ground, it felt like she was no longer in command. Her body swayed in the air, unbalanced. The breeze that should have lifted her up threatened to whip her around in uncontrolled spirals. Her grip on the Skyblade Lance tightened.

  She twisted in the air, redirecting the wind to stabilize herself—but it wasn’t enough. She wasn’t just flying. She was struggling against the wind, as if it had its own agenda. Kai tried to push through it, but she was at the mercy of the turbulent currents.

  Another drone closed in. She whirled midair, a cutting arc of compressed air shooting from her lance—Wind Strike—but it lacked the precision she was used to. The drone barely dodged.

  Focus, Kai. Focus.

  The wind howled, tearing at her.

  The ground below seemed far too distant. She felt a surge of fear in her chest—a deep, gnawing unease.

  “No,” she whispered, shaking her head. “I can control this.”

  But the wind wasn’t listening.

  She crashed down onto a ledge. Her boots hit hard. Breathless, she staggered to her feet. Her heart pounded against her chest. The enemies were closing in. The Shadowborn fliers regrouped, launching a coordinated attack from above.

  Kai narrowed her eyes. She could feel the wind. It was just a matter of listening. She took a deep breath, steadying herself.

  Wind Sensing.

  She closed her eyes for half a second, feeling the air currents, sensing the shifts in pressure, and the movement of her enemies. They were coming from all angles. She could dodge. She could move.

  Kai steadied her lance and leapt again—but this time, the wind felt different. The gusts weren’t as smooth. The pressure fought her as she soared, dragging her off course. She twisted midair, using her lance as a balance point, but it wasn’t enough. The storm-tech in the simulation intensified.

  Wind Shield.

  She summoned a swirling wall of air around her, hoping it would hold against the incoming barrage. Plasma bolts hit it with a violent hiss, but it was uneven. The shield flickered, flaring out of control as the wind twisted it into unstable shapes.

  She gritted her teeth, trying to push the pressure back down, but the wind responded to her fear. The power slipped further from her grasp.

  The Skyblade Lance pulsed with energy. She couldn’t stop. She couldn’t let it win.

  With a cry, she swung the lance wide, gathering the storm around her. The sky screamed in answer, clouds swirling violently above.

  “Legacy winds, guide me!” she shouted, desperate, as if pleading for her own strength to return.

  She fought against the winds, against her own power, and with one final surge, she thrust the Skyblade Lance into the heart of the synthetic storm.

  For a brief moment, the world went still. The wind paused, as though holding its breath.

  Then, an explosion of energy—the simulation’s storm-tech shattered under her blow, and the sky cleared in an instant.

  The screen went dark.

  When it flickered back, Kai stood tall, her cape fluttering in the windless air. The enemies had been eradicated, the sky had cleared, but Kai stood there—breathing heavily, her body trembling.

  She had won.

  The descendants watched in stunned silence from the observation deck.

  “…Okay,” Basti said, finally breaking the silence. “I take back everything I said about pilots just pushing buttons.”

  Sani clapped once. “That was beautiful. Deadly and beautiful.”

  Victor remained quiet, watching her, but something about his gaze had shifted. He had seen that moment of struggle—heard it in the way the wind had fought her. She wasn’t just a soldier. She was learning how to be a storm.

  Ika adjusted her glasses. “She feels the wind, but today... she battled it.”

  Reyes crossed his arms, a rare smile playing at the edge of his lips.

  “Air Command just got a new storm.”

  The air inside the Sparring Deck was already scorched from the previous trials, but when the lights dimmed again, a tense charge began to build. Not from the room—but from the one who was about to enter it.

  Colonel Reyes turned to the group. “Sani Dulag. You’re next.”

  Sani hesitated for a breath. He clenched his fists. Sparks leapt off his fingertips without his consent.

  “Let’s go, kid,” Andro whispered with a grin, but there was concern in his eyes.

  Sani stepped forward. He was lean, strong, built like a sprinter but coiled with energy like a lightning rod about to be struck. His combat suit had tribal motifs stitched in gleaming silver-blue thread—but even that shimmered with unstable currents now. Electricity danced across his arms like living tattoos, flickering with every heartbeat.

  Inside, Sani’s pulse raced.

  Don’t lose it. Just focus. Like we practiced.

  But the storm within him was already stirring.

  As the simulation flickered to life, the deck transformed—this time into a crumbling hydroelectric facility surrounded by steep cliffs and stormy skies. Shadows moved within the broken structures. Shadowborn mechs emerged—drones and beasts of metal and cursed data, crawling across walls and floors.

  Sani raised his hand.

  The Lightning Wave Bow erupted into existence, forming with a boom of thunder and a blaze of sparks. The string snapped taut with pure energy, alive, trembling.

  But his grip faltered slightly. The bow surged brighter than usual. Too bright.

  Then came the first wave of enemies.

  He loosed an arrow—CRACK!—it shattered mid-air into a chain of electric spears that fried the front line. A second and third came quickly—each arrow more powerful, more unstable than the last.

  The others watched from the side.

  “He’s strong,” Kai said, shielding her face from the glare. “But his charge is climbing too fast.”

  “He’s not syncing,” Ika murmured, worried. “He’s bleeding voltage.”

  Sani gritted his teeth as more mechs swarmed. He summoned multiple arrows at once, rapid-firing with wild accuracy. One curved midair and split into five, electrocuting an entire flank.

  He sprinted across the ruined platforms, launching bolts into enemies while dodging return fire. Arcs of blue trailed behind him with each step.

  But with every shot, the bow resisted, overloading. Sparks danced up his arm, burning through fabric. His breathing quickened.

  “Why—won’t—you—calm down?!”

  A heavy Shadowborn mech leapt from above. Sani reacted too late. It slammed into him, pinning him.

  BOOM! A thunderclap exploded as Sani panicked, releasing a pulse of pure lightning that disintegrated the mech—and half the platform.

  He dropped to a knee, gasping. His hand trembled. Sparks erupted from his fingers uncontrolled.

  Behind the glass, Reyes turned to Malvaron. “He’s losing grip. If he lets the storm consume him—”

  But then came a new threat: a titan-class simulation—a colossal Shadowborn golem with thunder-dampening armor. A test of power and restraint.

  The golem launched spiked cables toward Sani.

  He rolled, dodged, then stood—his hair lifting as wind gathered around him. He roared and raised the bow high.

  Storm Surge: Lightning Wave.

  A river of lightning burst outward, a torrent crashing over the golem, splitting the floor with every pulse. The wave twisted into arcs, geysers, and tendrils, electrocuting everything it touched.

  But it wasn’t stopping.

  The energy surged, crawling up the walls, flickering dangerously near the viewing deck.

  Sani screamed through clenched teeth, trying to pull the power back.

  “No—no—CONTROL it!”

  He slammed the butt of the bow into the ground. Thunderstrike Impact launched skyward and dropped into the golem’s chest with a deafening crash, splitting its armor in half.

  But the recoil hurled Sani across the deck, smoke rising from his arms.

  He coughed, groaning. The bow flickered, unstable. His eyes burned with tears and ozone.

  “I’m… not a weapon,” he whispered. “I’m more than this.”

  He looked up at the final group of Shadowborn units charging toward him. No bow. No tricks. Just him.

  Sani planted both hands on the deck. Lightning erupted from him—Bolt Conduits like whips lashing out, grabbing the machines and dragging them into the ground. He surged up, forcing the power to obey, commanding it with sheer will.

  The bow returned to his hand, steady this time—sparking but not screaming.

  One final arrow.

  He drew it slow.

  A breath.

  And released.

  It soared—quiet, focused—and pierced the core of the final enemy. The deck went silent.

  Sani stood alone in the fading blue glow of his lightning. Chest heaving. Alive.

  The storm had not broken him. This time.

  From the observation bench:

  Andro clapped once. “That. Was. Electric.”

  Kai frowned. “He almost lost control.”

  Ika nodded slowly. “But he found himself at the edge. That’s what matters.”

  President Malvaron spoke quietly. “He will either master the storm… or become it.”

  Sani walked back toward them. His steps slow, heavy. Shoulders scorched. But his eyes?

  Clear skies.

  The hum of the simulation floor kicked into gear as the arena shimmered with the impending challenge. The Legacy Descendants watched intently from the observation deck, their attention drawn to the next participant.

  “Next... Basti Lapu-Lapu.”

  The Legacy Descendants stared in surprise as Basti walked into the sparring deck, his usual grin in full force. His trident gleamed in his hand, but it wasn’t just the weapon that drew attention—it was his outfit. Instead of the standard combat gear everyone else had worn, Basti was shirtless, his torso gleaming with water magic as tattoos of swirling waves and deep-sea creatures danced across his skin. His lower half was clad in Hawaiian-style shorts adorned with vibrant patterns of crashing waves and tropical flowers. There was a faint smell of saltwater in the air, as if he’d just stepped out of the ocean.

  “Basti,” Ika called out, raising an eyebrow. “Did you forget we’re in a simulation, not a beach party?”

  Basti flashed a playful grin. “Hey, why not bring a little island vibe to the battlefield? The sea’s never been my enemy.”

  Sani snorted. “Yeah, and I’m sure that’s exactly what the Shadowborn are thinking.”

  “Yoo-hoo! Look out, world—Basti Lapu-Lapu is here to make some waves!” he called out, throwing up his arms with dramatic flair. But as he took his first step onto the platform, he slipped slightly on a wet patch of ground. He flailed for a moment, tripping over his own feet before regaining his balance.

  The audience above exchanged amused glances.

  “I swear he’s trying to drown himself before he even starts,” Kai muttered, though a grin tugged at the corner of her mouth.

  Basti chuckled to himself, brushing off the slip. “That was just a test of the arena’s stability,” he said, shooting a wink at the others. He steadied his trident, his usual confidence coming back.

  Basti gave a mock salute, then turned to face the simulation that was already loading. The hologrid shimmered, and in a flash, the terrain morphed into a rocky coast, waves crashing in the distance.

  Then the simulation started. Enemies materialized—an unholy army of mechanical conquistadors, corrupted warriors, and spectral beasts, all bearing the symbols of domination. They began to charge forward, their weapons raised in preparation.

  Basti paused, eyes narrowing. His trident gleamed, ready for action. He was about to strike—when suddenly, the ground trembled beneath him, and a surge of water shot up uncontrollably around him. He had intended to summon a small wave, but it was more like the beginning of a tsunami.

  “Oops, uh…” Basti sputtered, scrambling to regain control. The water whipped around him, crashing into the enemies, but also knocking him off balance. He gritted his teeth as he fought to hold his ground, feeling the surge of the oceanic power within him.

  He swung the trident again, more carefully this time, and the water calmed just enough to respond to his will.

  “Abyssal Surge!” Basti shouted, slamming the trident into the ground with renewed focus.

  This time, the wave that rose from the ground was more controlled—still massive, but with purpose. It swept across the field, crashing into the mechanical soldiers and scattering them in all directions. The surge continued, flooding the digital floor with an overwhelming tide, but Basti wasn’t done. He tightened his grip on the trident, eyes scanning for the next threat.

  A mechanical beast lunged at him, claws raised, but Basti’s focus was momentarily distracted as the power surged in his hand. Water sprayed from his trident in an uncontrolled burst. It swirled wildly around him, creating a cyclone that nearly sent him flying.

  “No, no—come on,” Basti muttered, struggling to regain control. He felt the wave’s chaotic energy pulse through him, fighting against his intentions, but he pushed back, channeling his emotions and the memory of his legacy. He slammed the trident into the ground again.

  “Tidebreaker Shock!”

  A massive burst of shockwaves surged from the trident, sending a powerful radial wave of water outward. It knocked back enemies, disorienting them—but Basti had also sent a few unintended waves crashing into nearby pillars, which shuddered under the strain.

  He took a deep breath, sweat starting to bead on his forehead. “Okay, I need to focus,” he muttered, wiping his brow.

  The mechanical creatures kept coming, and Basti’s gaze flickered with frustration. He couldn’t seem to hold his power in check for long before it started to get out of hand.

  One of the mechanical beasts advanced, its spiked claws aimed directly at him. Basti didn’t have time to prepare properly; he spun, swinging the trident defensively, and just as the beast lunged—he lost his footing again. His legs slipped out from under him, and he hit the deck with a loud splat.

  The beast barreled toward him, its claws inches from his chest—but just as it was about to strike, Basti shot his hand out in desperation, creating a whirlpool of water with the trident. It wasn’t perfect, but it was enough to slam into the creature and knock it off course, sending it tumbling backward. Basti rolled out of the way just in time.

  “Whew, that was close!” Basti gasped, getting back to his feet, but his arms were shaking.

  The audience above was silent. Basti’s struggle was evident—but his resilience was equally clear.

  “Hydroform Whirl!” he shouted, twirling the trident around his body. Water spun like a barrier of sharp, slicing currents, fending off an incoming barrage of attacks. For a moment, he was covered by the wall of water—until it wavered, flickering under his unsteady control.

  A corrupted friar raised its relic and unleashed a blast of dark energy. The beam connected with the water shield, and for a split second, Basti’s form faltered. The barrier shimmered, cracking under the force.

  “Come on, come on...” Basti groaned, pouring all his focus into the trident. With a grunt, he pushed through the strain, finally stabilizing the barrier just in time. The dark beam fizzled out.

  "Yeah, not today," he muttered, exhaling in relief.

  But there was no time to rest. A massive mechanical beast, larger than the others, approached from behind, its gears whirring loudly.

  Without thinking, Basti swung the trident in a wide arc. “Sea’s Judgment!”

  A high-pressure beam of spiraling water shot out, striking the beast dead-on. It wasn’t as clean or focused as he wanted—part of the beam arced away, missing its mark—but it still hit the creature hard, creating an explosion of sparks as its mechanical body groaned under the force.

  The beast stumbled but kept coming. Basti cursed under his breath, his trident feeling heavier than ever. The power inside him was surging again, and it was getting harder to control.

  "I need to finish this," he grunted.

  With all his remaining focus, Basti drove the trident into the ground. The floor cracked beneath him, and water surged upward in a great burst, drowning the last of the mechanical enemies. The arena trembled as the massive wave of water surged over the platform, sweeping away the final threats.

  As the water receded, Basti stood panting, drenched and exhausted. His trident hummed softly in his hands, now calm, as if responding to his own breath.

  From above, there was a collective exhale. Ika let out a small sigh, a look of quiet relief on her face. "That was... too close," she muttered.

  Kai let out a low whistle. “That was a hell of a ride. You really do have a way of making things explosive, Basti.”

  Basti, dripping wet but still with a grin, shot back a wink. “Yeah, but I’m still working on keeping my cool.” He looked down at his trident, giving it an apologetic glance. “Sorry about the slip-ups, buddy. Guess we’re still figuring each other out.”

  The audience above exchanged glances, impressed not just by his power, but by his struggle to control it—and the fact that he pushed through it all, still standing strong at the end.

  Reyes turned to President Malvaron, a thoughtful look in his eyes. “He may not have the control of the others, but there's heart in that struggle. And sometimes, that's what you need.”

  Malvaron nodded, a slight smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Exactly. The storm may be wild, but in the end, he’s the one who holds the waves.”

  The lights hummed softly as the simulation chamber cooled, the floor still steaming from the final strike.

  Colonel Reyes stepped forward, hands behind his back, his voice firm.

  “That concludes your initial assessment.”

  He let his gaze linger on each descendant—Kai, Andro, Ika, Sani, and Basti. Sweat glistened on their brows, their expressions a mix of awe, confusion, and pride. But none of them spoke. Not yet.

  “Consider yourselves lucky,” Reyes said. “You’ve seen what it takes. You’ve seen what’s coming. You’ve seen what survival looks like.”

  He turned slightly, nodding toward the shadows at the edge of the deck.

  “Project X. “Escort the Legacy Descendants to their quarters.”

  Without a word, Project X turned and began walking. The team followed in silence at first, feet echoing in the long hallway.

  Then—

  Basti sped up to walk beside him.

  “So… do we call you ‘Project’? Or just X? Or do you prefer... Mr. X? Like the boss battle type?”

  “No,” Project X said flatly.

  Basti winced. “Tough crowd.”

  Sani nudged him. “You’re wasting your jokes. He’s clearly built without a sense of humor.”

  “I possess tactical humor subroutines,” Project X replied, still walking. “They are deactivated by default.”

  Kai raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

  “No.”

  That actually got a laugh from the group.

  Ika adjusted her glasses, looking curious. “Your moves in the simulation… they weren’t just tech. You anticipate. You adapt. That’s not just programming.”

  “I am designed to calculate and eliminate threats with maximum efficiency,” Project X replied.

  Andro crossed his arms behind them. “But do you know how to relax?”

  “Relaxation is inefficient.”

  Basti gasped dramatically. “Bro. No karaoke? No halo-halo nights? No memes?”

  “I have archived over 900,000 memes. Their combat value is negligible.”

  Basti spun around in front of him, walking backward. “Okay but seriously—how do you not want to vibe with us? We’re like the coolest new squad in Neo-Maynila.”

  “You lack formation discipline,” Project X answered, stepping around him.

  “Ruthless,” Kai muttered. “I kind of respect it.”

  They reached the dormitory wing—six rooms lit up, doors sliding open with each descendant’s name.

  Project X stopped.

  “These are your assigned quarters. Curfew is now in effect. Training resumes at 0500 hours. Do not be late.”

  He turned sharply to leave, footsteps echoing down the steel corridor.

  But Basti, lounging casually against his doorframe, called out:

  “Yo, X!”

  Project X stopped in mid-step.

  “If you ever wanna hang out later,” Basti said, grinning, “we got snacks. Maybe some stories. Sani’s building a blanket fort the size of a small nation.”

  “I am not,” Sani muttered behind him. “…Maybe.”

  Project X didn’t answer right away.

  Instead, for the first time…

  He paused.

  Slowly, his head tilted back toward them—barely—but enough.

  Then, in a soft mechanical hiss, his helmet retracted.

  The Legacy Descendants blinked, caught off-guard.

  For the first time, they saw his face.

  He was… young.

  No older than them.

  His skin was pale from lack of sunlight, hair short and obsidian-black. There were faint neural implant lines tracing from behind his ears toward the base of his neck—like quiet battle scars.

  But what stood out most was his expression.

  Still, unreadable.

  Almost cold.

  But then—

  A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.

  Not quite a smile.

  Not fully human warmth.

  But not machine either.

  Just… something.

  A flicker. Of curiosity? Of something forgotten?

  “I will… consider the offer,” he said, voice lower, almost human.

  Then the helmet snapped back into place, covering his face once more. His visor flickered red.

  He turned and walked off, vanishing back into the dim corridors of Legacy Operations.

  The group was left frozen in silence.

  Until Sani whispered:

  “…Did he just almost-smile?”

  Kai blinked. “Do robots do that?”

  Andro chuckled. “He’s not a robot.”

  Ika adjusted her glasses, voice calm. “No. He’s someone who forgot how to be human… and maybe just remembered.”

  Basti grinned, proud.

  “Told you. Blanket fort diplomacy works every time.”