Tony Mark learned early that time itself was a weapon.
Days passed slowly in the Mark household, measured by feeding schedules, naps, and the quiet rhythm of two ordinary adults preparing for work. To his parents, their son was still an infant—fragile, dependent, and barely aware of the world around him.
To Tony, each passing hour was an opportunity.
By the time he reached four months of age, his body had already adapted far beyond normal limits. Unlimited Evolution worked silently, refining muscle fibers, accelerating neural connections, and optimizing balance. He never pushed recklessly. Every movement was calculated, restrained just enough to appear natural.
The first time he stood upright, it happened by accident—or so it seemed.
Mrs. Mark had placed him on a soft mat in the living room, colorful shapes projected above to keep him entertained. Tony rolled once, twice, then paused. His small hands pressed against the floor. His legs trembled slightly.
Then he stood.
For a fraction of a second, his center of gravity aligned perfectly. His spine straightened, his feet adjusted minutely, toes gripping the surface for stability. He wobbled—on purpose—then collapsed back down with a soft thump.
Mrs. Mark gasped.
"Did you see that?"
Mr. Mark looked up from his terminal. "Probably reflex. Babies do strange things."
Tony lay on his back, staring at the ceiling, heart calm.
Balance confirmed. Coordination stable.
From that moment on, walking was no longer a mystery—only a matter of refinement.
Tony practiced when no one was watching.
During moments when his parents were distracted or asleep, he pulled himself up using furniture edges, adjusting foot placement, correcting posture. Unlimited Evolution absorbed every mistake, every micro-adjustment, turning them into permanent improvements.
Within days, walking became effortless.
But Tony did not walk openly.
He limited himself—one step here, two steps there—always stumbling, always falling just before success became obvious. To outside eyes, it was nothing more than early development.
To Tony, it was mastery restrained.
By the end of his fourth month, he could traverse the living room smoothly if he wished. His balance rivaled that of trained adults. His coordination adjusted automatically to uneven surfaces.
Yet he crawled instead.
Because crawling was expected.
And expected meant safe.
Language came next.
Tony had already mastered comprehension weeks ago. Now he turned his attention to speech mechanics—tongue movement, breath control, resonance. Using Unlimited Evolution, he experimented silently, shaping sounds within his mouth without releasing them.
He listened carefully to his parents.
Blue Heaven's dialects varied subtly by district, profession, and education level. Tony didn't just copy words—he copied intonation, emphasis, and cultural rhythm.
At five months old, he spoke his first word.
"Ma."
Mrs. Mark nearly dropped the cup she was holding.
"He—he said something!"
Mr. Mark blinked. "Already?"
Tony smiled innocently and babbled nonsense immediately after, masking precision beneath chaos. Over the following days, more syllables emerged—simple, spaced apart, just frequent enough to astonish but not alarm.
What his parents didn't know was that Tony could already form full sentences internally.
He simply chose not to.
Crawling became Tony's laboratory for agility.
At first glance, he moved like any energetic child—hands slapping the floor, knees sliding across soft padding. But beneath that childish chaos lay precise muscle control.
He adjusted limb timing. Optimized joint angles. Reduced wasted motion.
Unlimited Evolution responded instantly.
Soon, Tony could cross rooms in seconds, his small body a blur of coordinated movement. He practiced turning sharply, accelerating suddenly, stopping on command. He learned how friction affected speed on different surfaces.
And when his parents watched?
He slowed down.
Always just slow enough.
Tony's observation skills sharpened daily.
He watched his parents prepare for work—how they dressed, how they spoke differently to colleagues through communicators, how stress altered posture and tone. He watched neighbors in shared corridors, noting who carried themselves confidently and who avoided eye contact.
Strength mattered on Blue Heaven.
Status followed it naturally.
Even at this age, Tony recognized the hierarchy embedded into society:
Ordinary citizens formed the majority.
Advanced-level individuals occupied leadership, military, and elite corporate roles.
Transcendent beings were rare—spoken of with reverence, distance, and awe.
Children from powerful families trained early. Ordinary families trained late—if at all.
Tony was born ordinary.
But he would not remain so.
One afternoon, Mrs. Mark placed a digital toddler book in front of him—bright pictures, simple words, basic logic puzzles meant for developing minds.
Tony touched the screen.
The system reacted instantly.
He read.
Not slowly. Not hesitantly. He understood.
Grammar. Meaning. Cause and effect.
He completed puzzles designed for three-year-olds without hesitation, then deliberately failed a few to maintain appearances.
Inside his mind, Tony smiled.
Literacy confirmed. Comprehension unrestricted.
Tony began creating mental checkpoints.
Not numbers—his Blue Heaven System did not yet display stats—but sensations, reactions, and benchmarks.
How long he could maintain balance.
How fast his muscles responded.
How quickly fatigue appeared—and disappeared.
Unlimited Evolution erased exhaustion almost as soon as it formed. His body adapted to stress rather than accumulating it.
Every day, he grew stronger.
Every day, he hid it.
Running Before He Should
By six months, Tony could no longer ignore it.
Walking felt slow.
Crawling felt inefficient.
So he ran.
Late at night, when the apartment lights dimmed and his parents slept, Tony moved.
Short strides at first. Controlled breathing. Arms swinging naturally. His gait adjusted rapidly, stride length increasing, foot placement precise.
He mimicked adults he had observed—how they shifted weight, how their torsos leaned slightly forward. Within days, his running mechanics were flawless.
Endurance followed.
He ran circles around the nursery, heart steady, muscles responsive, lungs efficient beyond belief.
By morning, he returned to crawling.
Because monsters that revealed themselves early were hunted.
Mr. and Mrs. Mark often discussed their son with quiet pride.
"He's fast," Mr. Mark said once. "Faster than other kids."
"Just talented," Mrs. Mark replied. "Nothing wrong with that."
Tony listened, calm and expressionless.
They saw brilliance.
They did not see danger.
And that was exactly how Tony wanted it.
As he lay in his crib, staring at the ceiling, his thoughts turned toward the future.
Strength must come first.
Visibility must come last.
On Blue Heaven, survival favored those who planned ahead.
Tony Mark had already begun.