CYCLE 04.00 – Sector 7: Dormitory Block B

  The red light flared, piercing the hollow silence of the dormitory with a soul-crushing radiance. A high-frequency siren wailed, clawing at the consciousness of the half-awake cadets, dragging their frail bodies back to a bitter reality. There was no gentle transition between dream and wakefulness; only a sickening jolt of adrenaline.

  "WAKE UP, TRASH! FALL IN AT THE HALLWAY!"

  In an instant, the concrete labyrinth was swarmed by rows of cadets in tactical black uniforms, looking gaunt and weary. Varkas inspected every piece of gear before the true torment began. Every crooked button or messy fold was rewarded with a sharp strike from the cold handle of his whip.

  The ten units were marched toward a vast concrete courtyard encircled by electrified barbed wire. The wires hissed, spitting high-voltage sparks that seemed to mock their very existence.

  In the center of the field, Varkas stood tall. His mechanical arm creaked with every clench of his fist—a heavy, coarse, and sharp hydraulic whine. The screech of metal tore through the air, a visceral reminder that under the banner of PETERUMMAN, humans were mere screws—easily replaced, easily discarded.

  "Today, you will learn one absolute law: Only the fastest earn their keep!" Varkas roared. His eyes, cold as ice, swept across the shivering ranks as their breath froze in the air. "Run! Ten laps! If even one of you stops, the entire unit pays!"

  The drill began. Boots slammed against concrete in a chaotic rhythm.

  Third Lap. Their breath turned into a thin, painful mist as it scraped through their throats. While other units struggled to breathe without their lungs shattering in the frigid air, Unit 001 showcased their dominance. They ran with a terrifying synchronicity, as if their nervous systems had merged into a single predatory entity. With sheer physical superiority, they surged forward, lapping the others twice over.

  Fifth Lap. Sweat began to freeze at their temples, but Unit 001 only moved faster, like shadows of death. Drog (001) glanced at Varkas. A slight nod from the instructor was the green light. Drog signaled his team—004, 007, 022, and 041. Their target was clear: crush Unit 009.

  Seventh Lap. Fatigue turned into poison. Unit 001 swarmed Unit 009, narrowing their path until every step became a gamble. Zilla sensed the danger. "Heads up! Keep your distance!" she shouted, her breath coming in ragged gasps.

  Suddenly, Nobo (004) leaned toward Zilla with a repulsive grin. "Hey, Gorgeous! I'm Nobo. If you're tired, let me carry you!" Zilla didn't flinch; she pushed ahead, leaving him behind. In her eyes, Nobo looked more like a wild boar than a human.

  Ed (007) flanked Meyra. "Hello, Little Miss... that short hair is quite sweet," he whispered. Meyra didn't hesitate. She cut his path, meeting him with a gaze so cold and clinical it felt as though she were dissecting his mind with a scalpel. Ed recoiled, his nerve crumbling instantly. Meanwhile, Jack (041) approached Reyna (018) with a stiff, glitch-like smile that terrified the timid girl.

  The climax hit Amae. As the most fragile, she was the easiest prey. Drog deliberately swerved, slamming his massive shoulder into her with full force.

  CRACK!

  Amae was sent flying. The sound of her body hitting the concrete echoed, her bones screaming as the rough surface tore the skin off her knees. "Why me? I hate this place!" her mind screamed through tear-filled eyes.

  "Amae..." Meyra muttered. Her pace faltered, nearly stopping. But the rule of Sector 7 was the law of the jungle; stopping meant dragging the whole unit into ruin. Meyra clenched her fists until her knuckles turned white and forced herself to accelerate, ignoring the ache in her chest.

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  Zilla, leading the front, remained stoic. She didn't look back, reading the chaos behind her only through the sound of scuffing boots and whimpers. To Zilla, looking back was an admission of weakness.

  Amae struggled to rise, her knees trembling violently as blood began to clot against her skin. She dragged her feet, stumbling at the very back of the line. Drog looked unsatisfied, wanting to strike again, but his unit had finished their laps. With a disappointed grunt, he was forced to leave the field, leaving the other units to their final, torturous laps.

  Varkas’s whistle pierced the air—the signal for the end. The units returned to their ranks, chests heaving in ragged gasps.

  "Unit 009, stay on the field!" Varkas bellowed, a cruel smirk playing on his lips. "Rule Three: One fails, all pay! Subject 021 fell—that means you failed. Forty more laps! The rest of you, enjoy your break!"

  Meyra glared at Drog, who continued to mock her with a disgusting sneer. Her rage peaked, seemingly scorching the air around her as her eyes burned with vengeance. Zilla quickly gripped Meyra’s shoulder. "Not now, Meyra. Hold it," Zilla whispered, her gaze unshakeable.

  They began to run again. Every footfall sent a jolt of pain deep into their marrow. "We can do this!" Zilla encouraged calmly.

  "One day... I... I will pay them back!" Amae rasped.

  "Just worry about your knees for the next lap," Meyra snapped back, though her tone had softened.

  Lap after lap, Unit 009 reached their breaking point. Amae fought for oxygen, her face as pale as a corpse. Meyra ran with her jaw locked tight, while Zilla kept a skeptical eye on Varkas. Their bodies were drenched; every drop of sweat was a silent testament to their suffering, rage, and survival.

  ***

  Far from the pollution and dust, the breath of Unit 009 never truly reached this place. Central Zero, the seat of government. In the highest spire, the temperature was perfectly tuned—a luxury that felt like an insult to those dying below.

  Lord Vier sipped his red wine in silence. At the center of the table, a hologram of the Azure Heart spun—as if screaming as its energy was ruthlessly violated by the extraction machines. Beside him, Harlin sat motionless, like an ancient statue.

  SLAM!

  "ENOUGH WITH THIS NONSENSE, VIER!"

  Scarlett stood, her crimson hair seemingly ablaze. She slammed a digital tablet onto the table. "You are slaughtering the people we were meant to protect! You kidnap children and forge them into your blades! You are raping this world for your blind ambition, Vier!"

  Vier looked at her with sheer boredom. "Humanity? This frozen world doesn't need tears, Scarlett. It needs heat. And I have just provided it."

  Vier turned to Harlin. "Chairman, look at the numbers. Are you going to throw away this future just to save a few 'parasite villages'?"

  Harlin remained silent. "The results... are undeniable, Scarlett," he whispered faintly, unable to look up.

  Vier smirked. "You hear that? Project Executioner proceeds. And you, Scarlett... don't let your archaic morality stand in the way of progress. Or you will end up as rubble, just like those villages."

  Vier flicked the hologram off with a casual touch, as if snuffed out thousands of lives. But below, behind the concrete walls untouched by luxury, the 'progress' he boasted of was crawling on the edge of death.

  ***

  Back on the field, Amae’s endurance finally shattered on the 45th lap. Once again, the concrete claimed her knees, dragging down Reyna who was also at her limit.

  "TRASH! If one falls, you all fail!" Varkas roared. His mechanical arm whined harshly, spitting blue sparks as he raised his prized whip, ready to lash out at Amae.

  Suddenly, Reyna crawled forward, shielding Amae’s body with her own trembling frame. "Please... stop..." she sobbed into the freezing air. Zilla and Meyra held their breath.

  Nugia snapped. The blue glow in his eyes channeled an energy that forced his body to move on its own—stepping forward, standing tall directly in front of Varkas’s plasma whip. Under the desolate stadium lights, the blue radiance in Nugia’s eyes faded into a dull hum, yet it emitted a cold aura so potent that Varkas’s breath froze instantly in mid-air.

  Varkas froze. His rage was locked. Reflexively, his left hand clutched his mechanical shoulder. An old wound there seemed to throb with phantom pain. His memory was dragged back to a bloody night years ago—the night a sorcerer with the exact same eyes tore through his flesh.

  "Those eyes again..." Varkas hissed, his voice trembling with trauma. "You challenged me last night, and now you do it again."

  However, Lion's orders to protect the "assets" stayed his hand. "Finish the last five laps while carrying your crippled friend!" Varkas barked, hiding his shaking hand.

  Nugia hoisted Amae onto his back. The weight was heavy, his knees shaking as if he were carrying the weight of the world's suffering. He stepped forward, his boots making the concrete groan.

  "You want to be a hero again?" Meyra asked, unable to find the strength to scold the boy who was still wrapped in bandages from his previous heroics.

  The laps ended. They collapsed in the middle of the field, greeted by the distant clatter of silverware from units who had already begun their meal—a symphony of hunger for Unit 009.

  "Thank you, Nugia! Because of you... I'm still alive," Amae whimpered. "Everyone... I'm so sorry!" she added, head bowed toward the concrete, her breath still ragged.

  "What's with them!" Meyra cut in sharply to hide the awkward tension. "If this wasn't a drill, I'd have thrashed them all!" she panted.

  Zilla pulled them all toward the mess hall.

  Cycle 07.00.

  The siren wailed again. Unit 009, having barely rested with scraps of dry bread and bland protein, froze as they looked at the sky where the sound echoed. With one question in mind: What comes next?

  In the distance, the elite spire stood tall and arrogant. Nugia knew nothing of the debate high above; he only knew one thing: his eyes had marked an enemy, and this symphony had only just begun.