Varun's Training

The air inside the training hall was sterile, filtered, and pressurized—a far cry from the simulated battlefields Orion was used to. Here, there was no comforting detachment, no safety protocols embedded in his neural link, no reset button if things went wrong.

His boots scuffed against the alloy flooring as he stepped forward, the faint vibrations of machinery humming beneath his feet. The ceiling's artificial daylight panels cast a stark white glow over the chamber, making it feel almost clinical.

His body bore the unmistakable marks of the Archon Acceleration Protocol—a genetic and neurophysiological enhancement designed to propel select individuals beyond natural developmental limits. At five years old, he had stabilized and could start training, emerging with the physique and neural plasticity of a thirteen-year-old on average.

The trade-off was well-documented. The protocol's rapid cognitive and physiological advancement bred a tendency toward hypercompetence, but also an inflated self-perception—an almost programmed arrogance. It was an unspoken truth among the Archon-blooded; raised as living paragons, few ever grasped the weight of their own limitations until the universe forced it upon them.

Orion had been here before—watched Ren's sparring sessions countless times, he often sparred with her lightly with her restricting herself to match him—but never had he set foot on the mat as a trainee.

Today was different.

Varun stood across from him, arms crossed over his broad chest. The seasoned officer's gaze was as impassive as ever, giving away nothing but quiet scrutiny. Orion met his eyes, not with fear or hesitation, but with the same assured confidence he carried in everything he did.

Something about Varun's stare triggered something primal in him—an instinctual alarm screaming that he was standing before a predator. His skin prickled and for a fleeting moment he felt like a prey.

"Get in position," Varun said, stepping forward with purpose. "I need to see what I'm working with—your instincts, your reaction time, how well your body keeps up." His tone was measured, but there was an edge of scrutiny beneath it. No pleasantries. No warm-ups.

Orion obeyed, dropping into a textbook defensive stance—feet shoulder-width apart, knees slightly bent, weight evenly distributed. He raised his arms just high enough to guard without compromising mobility, exactly as he had been taught. His body remembered the form, the angles, the execution. It was second nature.

Varun exhaled through his nose, unimpressed.

"You trained in the simulation. If I had to guess, you were trained by a ranker—two years older at best," Varun said, stepping closer. "That stance might get you through a Confederacy assessment, but in a real fight? It'll get you killed."

Orion blinked, momentarily caught off guard. He had expected criticism, but not this level of precision—from a single glance? His breath hitched, a flicker of unease surfacing before he forced it down. Varun hadn't just seen his stance—he had dissected his training history in an instant. "It's structurally sound. But it is rigid."

That word struck deeper than the rest. Rigid. The worst thing a fighter could be. A slow, unwelcome realization settled in his gut.

Varun moved faster than Orion expected, closing the gap in a single step. A sharp tap to the inside of Orion's knee sent a jolt up his leg, forcing him to shift his stance. Then, with deliberate ease, Varun hooked a foot behind Orion's heel and gave the lightest push to his shoulder.

Orion's balance crumbled. He stumbled back, catching himself just before he fell.

"Your stance and moves are fancy, I'll give you that." Varun said. "But I'm going to teach you how to fight dirty. Because out there, there are no rules—only survival."

Orion clenched his jaw, forcing himself to breathe evenly. He knew better than to argue. Instead, he adjusted, shifting into a looser stance. One more reactive, less rigid.

"Better," Varun admitted, though he didn't sound pleased. "Now let's see if your body can keep up with that brain of yours."

The first strike came without warning—a clean, straight jab aimed for Orion's center mass.

Orion dodged. He was quick. His instincts were sharp. His body twisted out of the way with precision, just like in the simulations.

But the moment he moved, Varun was already in his blind spot. A brutal palm strike slammed into Orion's ribs, knocking the air from his lungs.

Pain. Sudden, real, undeniable.

Orion staggered back, gasping. He had felt pain in VR before—high-fidelity simulations could mimic it well—but this was different. The weight behind it, the way it sank deep into his bones, the way it didn't fade with a neural command—it was _real_.

"Too slow," Varun said. "Though, it seems you're actually passionate about fighting—trying to create a fighting style before you even knew how to fight?"

Orion gritted his teeth. He barely had time to recover before Varun attacked again.

The session blurred into a relentless cycle. Attack. Dodge. Fail. Strike. Stumble. Correct. Every mistake was punished. Every error exploited. Orion's mind raced, but his body lagged behind. He saw the openings, understood the mechanics, anticipated the shifts—yet he couldn't execute fast enough.

Varun moved like a phantom. His strikes weren't just fast; they were efficient. No wasted movement, no telltale signals. Everything was calculated, precise. Compared to that, Orion felt sluggish, unwieldy.

By the twentieth exchange, his arms ached from deflecting blows. His breath came in sharp, uneven gasps. Sweat dampened the back of his training suit, sticking it to his skin.

And yet—he didn't complain. Not once.

That was what caught Varun's attention. Most recruits—especially those from privileged bloodlines—would have voiced their frustrations by now. Excuses, protests, demands for rest. Orion did none of that. He took the hits, absorbed the pain, and got back up.

That didn't make him strong.

But it made him _worth training_.

"Again," Varun ordered.

Orion nodded, setting his feet. His legs trembled, but he willed them to hold steady. His lungs burned, but he forced the air through them. He had no choice.

Cassian's voice echoed in the back of his mind. _I will take the Void._

He still hadn't fully processed the weight of those words. Conquering the Void was more than a declaration of defiance. It wasn't just a challenge to the Confederacy—it was a challenge to the Dominion as well.

The Void was neutral ground, a graveyard of old wars and unclaimed power. It was the one thing that kept the two factions locked in a careful, uneasy stalemate. No single force had ever claimed it. No single force _could_ claim it.

And yet, his father had stood before them all and declared it his.

To the Confederacy, it was treason. To the Dominion, it was provocation.

Orion knew what it meant. His father wasn't just planning to break from the Confederacy—he was dismantling the very foundation of its authority. This wasn't a rebellion confined to politics or power struggles within the ranks. It was something far more dangerous: an outright rejection of the established order, a declaration that the old ways were obsolete.

There would be no peaceful transition, no negotiations. The moment Cassian made his intentions clear, he had severed any hope of reconciliation. The Confederacy would see it as betrayal; the Dominion would see it as opportunity. And Orion, caught in the midst of it all, had no choice but to become stronger. Because hesitation meant death. And weakness? Weakness meant irrelevance.

I am weak.

Useless.

No. He refused to be useless.

Varun moved again. This time, Orion didn't overthink. He reacted.

The next exchange was sharper. He adjusted faster, corrected quicker. When Varun feinted a left hook, Orion didn't just flinch—he countered, stepping in and throwing a strike of his own. It didn't land, but it forced Varun to shift his weight. A small victory.

Varun nodded once. Not approval, but acknowledgment.

Orion could barely stand by the time they stopped. His muscles screamed in protest. He wiped the sweat from his brow, blinking rapidly to keep his vision clear. His breath was uneven, but he didn't let it show.

Varun studied him, silent. Then, finally:

"You'll need to control your breathing to last longer." he said. "Get the book about a technique called Vortex Flow from the library—you should have access to it now."

Orion said nothing. He already knew that.

Varun stepped past him. "Same time tomorrow."

Orion exhaled, steadying himself. His body ached, but his mind was clear. He had no illusions about where he stood. He wasn't strong enough. Not yet.

But he would be.

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