Humans were born to inherit the stars.
By the year 3000, generals' manifestos weren't just law—they were prophecy, engineering, and brutality rolled into one.
Humanity had come far. Technology perfected to impossible precision. Weapons that could crush mountains. Soldiers honed beyond natural limits.
Beasts from uncharted worlds. Civilizations older than humanity itself. None could stand. Every conquest, every world, a testament to mankind's relentless ambition.
Colonization had spread across the galaxy. Only twenty percent of known planets flew Earth's flag—but that was enough to cast a shadow over the stars. Behind that shadow stood soldiers: the first, the strongest, the ones meant to shape humanity's empire.
They were Generation 1 soldiers. Selected from millions. Trained from youth. Forged in fire, steel, and bioengineering. Their bodies rewritten, reflexes sharpened, senses honed beyond human limits. Each one a weapon.
Only the rarest showed true promise—enough to enter the Gen 2 Academy. The crucible where Earth's finest became conquerors of worlds. Where survival meant walking among legends. Wielding power that could decide the fate of entire civilizations.
For every prodigy, thousands failed. Broken bodies. Shattered minds. Discarded by the system. Only those who endured, adapted, and dominated could rise.
A few months ago, Alan could've sworn he was one of those who'd triumph.
The boy panted, each breath ragged, shuddering through his exhausted body. Sweat slicked his skin, dripping from his chin and temples, soaking his shirt. His chest heaved, ribs straining against the cage of his battered torso. Every step felt like carrying a ton of weight, every muscle screaming in protest.
Before him, she stood. Lyra. Calm, composed, weapon poised in her hands, eyes like shards of ice. Not a flicker of hesitation. Not a hint of fear.
"Give up now, Alan." she said, her voice soft but sharp, slicing through the roar of the arena. "You can't beat me."
Alan's eyes narrowed.
Only now did he truly understand how far behind he was. An invisible cap had been placed on his potential—unyielding, absolute. Every skill he had honed, every ounce of strength he had scraped together… it had all been a cage.
And standing before Lyra, he could feel it clearly.
The distance.
The gap.
Murmurs rippled through the stands, low at first—then cruelly loud.
"Wasn't that kid a Gen 1 prodigy?"
"What happened…? He looks broken."
"Overhyped. Typical."
Seats emptied. Heads turned away. The arena felt colder with every passing second.
Alan's legs wobbled— but he forced them still. Pain flared through his limbs. Fire in his shoulders. Cramping in his calves. Still, he refused to fall.
"I can't let you do this, Lyra," he said. His voice trembled, but steel ran beneath it. "You can't join that academy."
Lyra tilted her head. Curiosity flickered— then amusement. The weapon in her hands gleamed beneath the arena lights, reflecting quiet contempt.
For a fraction of a heartbeat, her grip loosened ever so slightly. Her eyes flicked to the sweat and bruises lining his face, a shadow of concern crossing her expression before it vanished.
Alan clenched his fists.
Then—
A pulse of heat rolled through him.
Sharp. Alien. Wrong.
His senses snapped into focus. Clarity cutting through pain. He had been beaten down. Capped. Limited. And yet—something deep inside him stirred.
SYSTEM UNLOCKED
ALIEN QUEEN PROTOCOL — INTEGRATION INITIATED
Warning: Host physiology unstable
Neural assimilation required
Lyra noticed it first.
The unnatural glow in Alan's eyes.
Strands of his short white hair began to lift, tugged upward by an unseen force. The air around him shimmered, light bending as a faint aura rippled outward.
The crowd froze. Gasps rippled through the stands.
Alan didn't understand the voice that chimed inside his mind— mechanical, yet unmistakably alive.
"Assimilation complete."
"Adaptive protocols online."
"Host potential unlocked."
Whatever this was—it was raw. Terrifying. Beyond anything he had ever felt.
And instinct told him one thing.
It was enough.
Enough to challenge the woman before him.
He had to win.
Not for glory.
Not for the academy.
He had to—
If he wanted to save her.