Sylar glanced at the blond man approaching him and instantly sensed the strength radiating from him—far greater than the other recruits. Yet no fear stirred in his eyes.
He had killed many during his time in Arcade, but never a true human opponent. Yet, that did not cloud his mind or weaken his heart. If pushed into a corner, he would not hesitate. If necessary, he would vaporize the man's skull with his heat vision without a moment's remorse.
Thankfully, it didn't seem things would escalate that far.
"I am Vorg," the young man said with a steady, deep, disciplined voice. It wasn't bravado—it was the calm confidence of someone molded by a hardened culture. "I'll take the left flank. You take the right. We work as a team."
Sylar's eyes narrowed slightly as he analyzed the proposal. The pillar was enormous—large enough for two people to use without obstructing each other.
Splitting the flanks would reduce blind spots and help them manage incoming attacks far more efficiently. Of course, there was always the chance Vorg could strike at his back, but Sylar sensed no hostility from him, only earnest intent.
After a brief pause, Sylar accepted the teamwork. He would not lower his guard, as he was not the kind to thrust blindly, but as long as Vorng remained at a safe distance, everything should be fine.
The two silently took their positions on opposite sides of the massive stone pillar.
The remaining recruits, seeing this alliance form, lost any lingering hope of claiming the structure for themselves. Sylar alone was already dangerous; adding Vorg made challenging them outright suicidal. They could try attacking as a group, but then they would have to fight each other afterward to claim the pillar. Too much effort. Too little reward.
One by one, the recruits dispersed, each claiming whatever pillar they could reach. Sylar glanced around the stronghold and observed how the distribution naturally reflected strength: the strongest took the sturdier, larger pillars, while the weakest clung to the narrow, brittle ones.
That sight made a meaningful glint enter Sylar's eyes.
From the very first moment, the Star Crucible rewarded strength and punished weakness. Some might argue it was unfair—after all, not everyone started from the same place. But complaining wouldn't change reality.
If you expected fairness in this galaxy, you weren't paying attention to the horrors surrounding humanity. It wasn't fair that a single spore could invade your mind and twist you into a monster. It wasn't fair that a madman opened a rift to a dark universe, unleashing a calamity that swallowed billions.
Life wasn't fair.
The boy—still not even thirteen—accepted this truth completely.
"You don't survive by wishing the world were kind," he thought. "You recognize its cruelty, endure it, rise through it, and keep climbing until you have the power to change it."
His crimson eyes glowed with a maturity that didn't belong to someone his age, one born after losing everything.
Finally, the ten minutes passed.
"Begin!" Captain Lancel's voice thundered across the stronghold.
Every recruit sharpened their senses instantly, cutting off all distractions.
Well… almost every recruit.
[Quest #006: Do not let any of the rubber balls touch you
Mission Grade: +3
Status: ACTIVE
Reward: 10,000 XP / +10 Agility]
The System's voice echoed through Sylar's mind at the worst possible moment. A rubber ball was already streaking toward him, breaking the sound barrier with a sharp crack.
Sylar dodged at the last second, his eyes narrowing as the ball struck the ground with devastating force. Its angle was perfect—clean, controlled, almost inhuman. It ricocheted off the earth and shot toward another instructor on the far wall. Without hesitation, the instructor seized it and hurled it back into the arena, along with seven more.
In less than a second, the entire stronghold erupted into chaos.
There were only five instructors, yet their coordination was flawless. Their movements were sharp, precise, and impossibly fast. At any given moment, more than forty rubber balls were flying through the air, bouncing off stone pillars, walls, and even each other with lethal speed.
The pillars drastically limited the number of angles from which Sylar could be hit, but others were not so fortunate.
Cries of pain echoed across the stronghold as balls slammed into bodies with brutal force. Limbs twisted, ribs cracked, and flesh bruised with sickening speed. Some were struck in the eyes, their screams sharp and desperate as blood flowed.
There was not a single one of the super soldiers who showed pity.
If they couldn't withstand this level of pressure, they had no place entering the battlefields that awaited them beyond this trial. Out there, the enemies of humanity wouldn't hold back. Weakness didn't just kill the soldier—it killed their comrades, and sometimes millions more who depended on them.
Better for the weak to be crushed here, where the only life at stake was their own.
For a full hour, the rubber balls flashed across the stronghold in an endless storm. When they finally stopped, the shift in atmosphere was immediate.
Sylar's breathing was heavy, sweat sliding down his jawline. He was faring better than most, yet even he felt the strain of constant hyperawareness grinding at his mind.
Dozens of recruits had already collapsed. A few lay unmoving, skulls fractured, blood pooling beneath them. Whether they would survive remained uncertain.
Two instructors descended from the walls, collected the unconscious trainees, and hauled them outside the stronghold. When they returned moments later, the tension of the camp had risen even further. Nearly 7% of the participants had already been eliminated.
The reprieve didn't help. With no way to predict when the next barrage would begin, no one dared to relax.
Even resting for a single second felt like suicide.
"Only six days and twenty-three hours left." Sylar let out a dry, humorless smile.
The first challenge of the Star Crucible was already pushing him to his limit, grinding down his body and mind, testing every instinct he possessed. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, he felt a strange sense of steel forming inside him. If he managed to endure this, if he survived, he would emerge transformed—reforged like a diamond born from crushing pressure.
Keeping his senses sharp for the next barrage, Sylar sent out a pulse of Echolocation and glanced toward Vorg. The young man impressed him.
Vorg moved with remarkable speed, but what stood out even more were his reflexes and discipline—movements so precise, so refined, they could only come from years of relentless martial training. Nothing about Vorg seemed sloppy or wasted. His entire body and spirit were honed for combat.
Two hours and fifty-four minutes after the first barrage of rubber balls ended, the second one began. Once again, the recruits were forced to dodge for their lives as the projectiles screamed past them, smashing stone and tearing up the ground.
An hour later, the assault ended, granting them a short span of rest—if one could call trembling muscles and burning lungs any kind of rest.
Eventually the sun dipped below the horizon, and night rose to take its place. Although every recruit had trained their senses to function in near darkness, the absence of sunlight still made everything more perilous. Even a ten-percent reduction in visibility turned an already punishing trial into something far more terrifying.
Sylar pushed himself to the limit, evading every rubber ball that came his way. Another hour was almost up, and he allowed himself a moment of hope that the next brief period of rest was finally approaching.
Then he heard it.
"Death Ball!"
The shout ripped across the stronghold like a death omen. Every recruit understood what it meant—their expressions tightening in fear and grim readiness.
Sylar's pupils dilated instantly, swallowing almost all of his irises as he pushed his senses to their absolute peak. A heartbeat later, a chorus of sonic booms cracked through the air as the Death Balls were launched. They moved differently than the earlier projectiles—faster, heavier, crueler. The screams that followed confirmed it.
Sylar sensed one coming toward him and threw himself aside—but the sphere didn't follow a simple trajectory. It slammed into the ground, ricocheted sharply, and curved toward his stomach with monstrous force.
He reacted on pure instinct. His body twisted, barely avoiding the blow as he landed hard on the ground. But as he lifted his eyes, he saw the Death Ball continuing on its redirected path—straight toward Vorg's unprotected back.
Sylar didn't think. Golden light flared in his eyes, and a beam of searing heat erupted from them. It struck the Death Ball mid-flight, bursting it into fragments before it could hit Vorg.
But there was no time to celebrate. Another Death Ball tore through the darkness from the opposite corner of the stronghold, targeting Vorg.
And Sylar instantly realized the problem: the angle. If Vorg dodged, the ball would shoot straight toward Sylar. He wouldn't have enough time to evade, nor to fire another beam.
Just as Sylar prepared to curse his luck, something shocking happened.
Vorg didn't move.
Instead, he shifted into a grounded stance, crossing his arms in front of his chest, bracing himself. A heartbeat later, the Death Ball hit him point-blank.
The impact blasted him off his feet. He shot across the ground like a missile, crashed into a stone pillar with such force that the pillar trembled, then bounced and tumbled onto the dirt below. For a moment, Sylar thought he would collapse completely.
But Vorg didn't crumble.
He dropped to one knee, coughing blood, yet still firm.
Sylar stared in awe. Vorg could have dodged easily, yet he chose to take the hit to protect Sylar—repaying the earlier rescue without hesitation. But even more incredible was the condition of his arms. Sylar knew exactly how destructive a Death Ball was. If he had blocked one with his bare limbs, they would've been crushed to a pulp.
But Vorg's arms still held. Damaged, bleeding, torn—yet unbroken.
Sylar focused, narrowing his gaze. Beneath the shredded flesh, Vorg's exposed bones gleamed faintly, metallic and silver. Not normal bone at all. Some kind of alloy was fused into his skeleton or had replaced it.
That, Sylar realized, was the only reason Vorg survived.
The eyes of the two young men meet. A silent understanding passed between them. They exchanged a solemn nod before returning to their positions.
No words were spoken. None were needed.
Their caution toward each other had faded, replaced by a quiet trust—two warriors watching each other's backs in a trial designed to break them.