Sleep refused to come.
Kane Jr. laid rigid on his bunk, staring at the dim ceiling lights of Astra Primus as they cycled through their artificial night phase. The hum of the station was constant—gravity stabilizers, life-support, distant machinery—but tonight it felt louder, heavier, as if the station itself pressed down on his chest.
Caleb Thorne was already snoring on the opposite bunk, one arm dangling over the side, utterly at ease.
Kane Jr. envied that.
His mind would not slow down, every thought circled back to the same image: Heinrich Wynn forcing himself upright under doubled gravity and defiance in his posture. And his father's voice—cool, measured, unmistakably impressed.
"At least one of you is worthy of attention."
But not me.
The words echoed again and again.
Kane Jr. clenched his fists beneath the blanket. He knew his father's patterns. Colonel Kane did not waste incidents. He turned them into lessons, and lessons into pain. What happened yesterday was not over—it was preparation for tomorrow.
Tomorrow would be combat drills.
Team against team.
That knowledge sparked something fierce and electric in Kane Jr.'s chest. Excitement bled into anticipation and that hardened into resolve. This was where he belonged. Where hierarchy was decided not by words, but by performance.
Tomorrow, he thought, I will break him.
Reveille sounded at precisely 0600 hours.
The bunk lights snapped to full intensity, harsh and unforgiving. Kane Jr. was on his feet instantly, exhaustion forgotten, muscles already tightening as adrenaline surged. Caleb rolled out of bed a second later, cracking his neck.
"Let me guess" Caleb muttered. "Combat day your dads old tricks."
Kane Jr. didn't respond. He was already pulling on his mesh suit.
The mesh armor still felt unnatural—pressure-resistant weave hugging every contour of his body, amplifying strength while tripling perceived weight. Amazing after just one day our bodies are adjusting, it should be crushing him but he feels a little lighter but still feels like he's walking in concrete.
They moved with their unit through the corridors toward the main courtyard.
The space was vast, open beneath a transparent ceiling that revealed the distant stars. Weapons racks lined the perimeter, neatly arranged in symmetrical rows. Old designs. Kane Jr. recognized them immediately.
Twenty-first century kinetics.
Relics.
Weapons from 2025—solid projectile firearms, rugged, reliable, incapable of penetrating mesh armor. Training tools. Instruments of death once before now just practice arms for those above civilian armor.
Both teams filed in from opposite sides.
TwinBlades to the left.
Crimson Knights to the right.
Kane Jr. seen him immediately.
That bastard.
Heinrich Wynn stood roughly twenty feet away, posture perfect, mesh suit fitted tightly across his lean frame. He was speaking quietly to Arkyn Reyes, who leaned in with his usual relaxed confidence, as if this were all a game.
Something twisted in Kane Jr.'s chest.
Envy flared hot, he hated him.
Then Heinrich looked up.
Their eyes locked.
For a heartbeat, the world narrowed to that single point rivalry. Heinrich's gaze was calm, assessing—and then his mouth twitched into something close to a smile.
He raised a hand and made a subtle, unmistakable gesture.
A leash being tugged.
Bootlicking dog.
Kane Jr. felt his control fracture.
His hands trembled. His jaw clenched so hard his teeth hurt. He took a step forward before stopping himself—because suddenly, the air changed like a great weight being pressed on his neck.
The courtyard went still.
Colonel Kane stood above them, elevated on the observation platform that overlooked the entire training space. From there, he had a commanding view—bird's-eye and judgment seat. He didn't speak. He didn't need to.
His presence demanded discipline.
Kane Jr. straightened instantly.
So did everyone else.
Both captains moved to the front. Malrin's injuries were obvious—an arm cast secured against his torso, swelling visible beneath the bandages on his nose. Kane Jr. felt a brief, ugly surge of satisfaction.
It vanished the moment Malrin locked eyes with him.
His eyes showed no weakness but only restrained fury.
"Listen up," Captain Arlo barked. "Today is fundamentals under pressure."
Captain Malrin took over, voice sharp despite his injuries. "You will select one weapon from the racks. Choose based on suitability—not ego."
The command echoed.
Kane Jr. scanned the racks automatically—pistols, carbines, older assault platforms. His eyes flicked to Heinrich.
He watched Heinrich reach for an M18 pistol.
Scoped.
Minimalist.
Efficient.
Of course you would, always so boring, Kane Jr. thought bitterly.
Without hesitation, Kane Jr. stepped to the M4 carbine rack. He selected a platform with extended barrel, modular attachments, and a high-resolution optic. It felt right in his hands. Powerful. Dominant. Better.
The captains regrouped.
"First test," Arlo announced. "Weapon breakdown, reassembly, and live-fire accuracy."
A murmur rippled through the recruits.
"First contestants," Malrin said, voice hard. "Heinrich Wynn. Kane Jr."
Both stepped forward at the same time.
Kane Jr. felt the moment tighten around them like a drawn wire.
"The loser," Malrin continued, "may call for hand-to-hand combat if desired. But if you do, you will run twenty miles instead of ten."
For a fraction of a second, Kane Jr. hesitated.
Then both he and Heinrich spoke as one.
"Yes, sir."
The timer activated.
Three.
Two.
One.
Go.
Kane Jr. surged forward the instant the countdown ended, boots hammering against the deck. He reached his station first—victory already sparking in his chest..
He dropped the rifle onto the bench, hands flying.
Kane Jr. moved fast—too fast.
Attachments came off in a flurry. Scope. Extension. Grip. His fingers knew the motions, muscle memory drilled into him since childhood. But as seconds ticked by, something felt wrong.
Too many components.
Shit! He thought
He glanced sideways.
Heinrich had arrived moments later—but his weapon was already half-disassembled, movements precise, economical. No wasted motion. No flourish.
Kane Jr. cursed more and worked faster.
Heinrich finished first.
Captain Arlo inspected the components, nodded once. "Reassemble."
Heinrich complied instantly.
By the time Kane Jr. finished breaking down his rifle, Heinrich had already locked his weapon back together.
"Clear," Arlo said.
Heinrich stepped to the firing line.
Shots rang out.
BANG!
BANG!
BANG!
Kane Jr. worked frantically to reassemble his rifle, sweat beading beneath the mesh suit. Malrin loomed nearby, watching.
"About damn time," Malrin growled as Kane Jr. completed assembly.
Kane Jr. stepped to the line.
He raised his rifle and fired rapidly.
BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!
His grouping was tight—impressive under pressure—but his breathing was ragged. His mind split between the target and the elevated platform.
He looked at his father.
Colonel Kane did not react.
No approval at all. Just watching the grouping of the shots between the two.
Kane Jr.'s shots grew harsher. More aggressive. Still accurate—but strained.
When the final round was fired, silence fell.
The results flashed on the display.
Heinrich Wynn: First.
Kane Jr.: Second.
By Fucking ten points Dammit! he thought
Ten.
Fucking.
Points.
The number burned deep within him.
"COMBAT," Kane Jr. yelled immediately.
Heinrich didn't hesitate. "Combat it is."
They stripped weapons and stepped into the center of the courtyard.
"Rules," Arlo called. "No kill strikes. Hand-to-hand only."
Kane Jr. rolled his shoulders, breath steadying.
They didn't say anything about breaking. He thought.
"Begin," Colonel Kane said.
Kane Jr. exploded forward.
He led with his signature fighting style fa jin—short, explosive strikes designed to shatter structure through internal force. Precision bred from years of traditional training.
Heinrich absorbed the first blow and countered instantly.
Shit Muay Thai.
Devastating and precise.
A knee slammed into Kane Jr.'s thigh. An elbow clipped his guard. Kane Jr. struck back—sharp, angry—but Heinrich stayed grounded, balanced, punishing every overextension.
"Is that all?" Heinrich taunted calmly. "You fight like you're begging for your ass to get kicked."
Kane Jr. snarled and attacked again.
Another knee.
Another elbow.
Pain flared from his face
Cut above the eyebrow
Each time Kane Jr. glanced toward the platform using his good eye—toward his father—Heinrich struck.
Harder and harder.
"This shit is so boring" Heinrich said. "You too busy chasing your father shadow."
Kane Jr. roared and swung wildly.
Heinrich stepped inside his guard.
Strike to the left arm.
Crack! Not broken but definitely sprained.
Strike to the right leg.
Kane Collapsed leg gave out.
A kick straight into Kane Jr.'s gut, folding him to the ground.
He gasped, vision blurring.
Heinrich stood over him.
"Yield," Heinrich said quietly. " In two months, at least get better so this won't be so easy."
The courtyard was silent.
"End it wynn" Colonel Kane commanded.
And so he did a right hook to the face making Kane jr. yield.
"I…Yield" he said
Kane Jr. lay there, humiliated, chest heaving.
"Cover that eye so you don't bleed out and run Twenty miles," Colonel Kane added coldly. "And next time you challenge someone—at least make it a challenge."
The words were final.
As Kane Jr forced himself up, right leg shaking, yet still defiant as he looks to Caleb telling him to break Arkyn.
Caleb nodding.
As he started running he promised that this wasn't over not even close.