All the recruits turned toward the massive stone gate as it rumbled open. From within, five men emerged. They were mountains of muscle, their eyes cold, their presence sharp enough to make the air itself feel heavier.
One look was enough for Sylar—and for everyone present—to understand that these were super-soldiers.
At the head of the group walked a giant. He stood well over two and a half meters tall, with a mane of gray hair and a beard streaked with silver. A long, jagged arc of a scar crossed his left eye, leaving the pupil milky and blind.
That was not the only mark of violence he bore. His left arm ended abruptly below the elbow, the stump sealed and protected by a metallic plate.
None of these injuries diminished him. If anything, they made him appear even more terrifying—proof that he had survived battles powerful enough to maim him, yet he still refused to die.
The giant's gaze swept over the crowd of recruits. For a single chilling moment, it felt as though some ancient predator had been unleashed among them, examining each of them one by one. Shoulders tensed. Throats tightened. A collective discomfort settled across the plateau.
After several seconds, the man gave a short nod.
"I am Captain Lancer," he said, his voice blunt and gravelly. "I'll be leading this Star Crucible. Get in."
No rousing speech. No welcoming words. Not even instructions. Just a command, sharp and unquestionable. If anyone was foolish enough to want clarification, Captain Lancer clearly had no intention of offering it.
Sylar rose and moved with the others into the stronghold. But as they crossed the threshold, confusion flickered across many faces.
Instead of a training hall or a barracks, the interior was a vast barren arena. Hundreds of stone pillars jutted from the ground at irregular intervals—some barely large enough to hide behind, others thick enough to cast heavy, imposing shadows. The atmosphere was silent, oppressive, almost ritualistic.
Captain Lancer and the super-soldiers walked to the center of the arena. When he spoke, his voice echoed clearly across the barren stone.
"The fact that you've reached this place means you have already shattered the limits of humanity," he said, his voice sharp and blunt. "But if you expect to stand equal to us… know that this is only the beginning. Scaling the mountain proved your resilience and adaptability. Now we will test your focus, instinct, and battlefield awareness."
Again, no wasted words. He flowed seamlessly into the explanation of the next phase of the Star Crucible.
"For seven days," he continued, "you will remain awake and alert."
A wave of confusion swept the recruits. Remaining awake for a week wouldn't be comfortable, but every person who survived the Omega Compound had endured worse. If that was all, it made no sense for the Star Crucible to have such a brutal reputation.
Of course, there was more.
"During those days," the captain said, lifting a red rubber ball, "my instructors and I will be shooting these at you."
Sylar frowned deeply. Captain Benjamin had made it very clear: the Star Crucible was a deadly trial, with a mortality rate high enough to be considered near-suicidal. Yet Lancer made it seem like a game of dodgeball.
It made no sense.
"What is the meaning of this?" someone snarled.
A massive recruit shoved his way to the front. His body was covered in tribal tattoos, his face scarred and twisted by past battles. He was nearly a head taller than everyone else, radiating a feral, beast-like aggression.
"I came here for a trial," he growled. "Not to play games. Now, old man, show me—"
He never finished.
The red ball vanished from Captain Lancer's hand—then appeared against the recruit's face.
"Boom."
The sound was wet, violent, final.
The recruit's head exploded like an overfilled balloon, sending shards of bone and streaks of blood across the nearest pillars. His body collapsed to the ground, headless.
For one stunned instant, the arena was silent.
Then everything erupted.
Sylar's instincts surged. He dove behind a pillar, heart hammering, senses sharpening to a razor's edge. He had seen death countless times. He had killed as well. But this—this was something else entirely.
The ball had moved silently, impossibly fast, and hit with such destructive force that even someone of Sylar's enhanced physique would not have survived a direct strike.
All around him, recruits scrambled for cover, their bodies trembling as battle stances snapped into place. Distance instantly grew between them and the super-soldiers.
Captain Lancer did not react to the panic. He simply walked forward, his aura thickening like a stormfront.
"Manners," he said coldly.
His killing intent rolled outward, suffocating, unrelenting.
"Maketh."
He reached the remains of the fallen recruit and stood above the blood.
"Man."
Sylar clenched his fists. A warning instinct whispered through him—this old man was even more dangerous than Captain Benjamin.
"Beware an old man in a profession where men usually die young." The saying burned itself into Sylar's mind. He would never forget it.
After letting the weight of the moment sink into every soul present, Captain Lancer finally nodded.
"If you have questions, raise your hands. We'll address them when the time is right. Now—stand in formation."
No one moved, as the recruits remained wary of the old man. Yet, the moment he stooped to retrieve the blood-soaked ball from the corpse's remains, every recruit rushed into a tight military formation.
"As I said," he continued calmly, "seven days awake and alert. And you will dodge these balls."
The first time they had seen the red ball, they had ignored it.
Now, it felt more dangerous than any cannon.
"Luckily for you," Captain Lancel began, his gravelly voice carrying across the stronghold, "while the Star Crucible is dangerous and meant to carve out the weak, it is not a genocidal trial."
He paused, then added under his breath, "Well… at least not the version you are taking."
A few recruits stiffened at that, unsure whether he was joking. Lancel didn't clarify. Instead, he continued, letting the unease settle into their bones.
"The power behind the rubber balls will be regulated. Most of the time, their strength will be like this."
Before anyone could react, he hurled the red ball at the wall. It smashed into the stone with a thunderous impact, making the entire structure tremble. Several recruits flinched. Others exhaled when they realized the strike, while powerful enough to crush a small vehicle, wouldn't immediately kill someone with their current physiques.
Unfortunately for them, Lancel wasn't finished.
"However," he continued, "at fixed intervals, the power behind the balls will increase. As for how strong—"
He didn't finish the sentence. He didn't need to. His eyes drifted toward the headless corpse lying beneath him, and every recruit understood.
"The stronger balls will be announced beforehand," he said. "That will be your cue to push your senses to their limit. Dodge them if you can. Endure them only if you truly believe you're capable. You lose when you're knocked unconscious… or when you die."
The silence that followed was thick, heavy, almost suffocating. Captain Lancel surveyed the group with an expression equal parts indifferent and bored.
"Questions?"
For a moment, no one dared speak. Then a scarred young man with yellow irises and blood-red eyes raised his hand. His hair was dark and pointed like quills, and old wounds carved across his face gave him a feral appearance. Lancel nodded, allowing him to speak.
"What are the rules regarding infighting?" the young man asked. "Are we allowed to kill each other?"
The mood shifted instantly. Recruits who had stood shoulder-to-shoulder moments ago suddenly eyed one another as potential threats. They had been so focused on the danger posed by Captain Lancel that they forgot the danger posed by everyone else.
Lancel regarded the scarred young man calmly before answering.
"Other than staying within the stronghold," he said, "there are no rules. Do as you wish."
A ripple of tension ran through the group. Eyes narrowed. Postures shifted. The air grew colder as caution and hostility replaced camaraderie.
Lancel showed no interest in the vigilance of the youths and turned around. "If there are no further questions, the trial begins in ten minutes."
He and the other instructors leapt to the top of the stronghold walls, rubber balls materializing in their hands and in crates beside them. The moment the instructors left the ground, the recruits' attention snapped toward the numerous stone pillars scattered across the field.
A few minutes ago, those pillars had been little more than curiosities. Now they were lifelines—the only things that could block or deflect the deadly red balls.
The formation shattered as everyone rushed toward cover.
Sylar moved quickly, weaving through the crowd with sharp precision. He spotted one of the five largest pillars—tall, wide, and isolated enough to give him room to maneuver—and sprinted toward it. He reached it within seconds.
But he wasn't alone.
One of the tallest recruits—a broad, muscular brute with predatory eyes—marched toward Sylar with clear intent. He didn't speak; he simply reached out, a cold smile twisting his lips. Whether he planned to shove Sylar aside or kill him outright, it didn't matter.
His hand never reached its target.
His eyes widened when Sylar vanished from his sight.
A heartbeat later, an explosion of pain erupted from his groin. Sylar's kick landed with such brutal efficiency that a sickening crack echoed through the arena. The giant recruit folded forward, choking on his own breath.
Sylar didn't hesitate. His second kick slammed into the man's chest, hurling him backward. The brute's body tumbled across the ground, skidding for dozens of meters before coming to a stop.
Recruits rushing toward the same pillar froze mid-step.
In that instant, every eye turned toward Sylar. His speed, precision, and ruthlessness stunned them. The black-haired, red-eyed youth was not someone they could challenge lightly.
Most backed away.
But not all.
One recruit still approached with calm, deliberate steps. He had golden hair, sharp blue eyes, and a scar on his face shaped like a wolf's bite. There was no arrogance in his expression—only confidence and an intense, unwavering focus.