Vortex Flow

Later, Orion arrived at the archive hall, the automated doors parting with a hushed whisper. The air inside was cool, carrying the scent of preserved knowledge—polished interfaces, aged data crystals, and inkless manuscripts stored in reinforced glass casings. Rows of luminescent shelves stretched far into the distance, cataloging centuries of accumulated wisdom.

At the central desk stood the librarian, an older woman with silver-threaded hair woven into a tight braid. Her sharp eyes flicked up as Orion approached, scanning his ident tag with practiced efficiency. A soft chime confirmed his clearance.

"You've been granted access," she said, her voice measured yet distant. "You'll find it under restricted archives."

Orion nodded, expecting the usual reverance or disinterest, but something in her expression made him pause. There was a flicker of something—recognition, hesitation, and then… pity.

Pity?

The emotion was subtle, restrained, but unmistakable. Her gaze lingered for a moment too long before she looked away, as if unwilling to meet his eyes any further. Orion's frown deepened. He wasn't some fragile initiate who needed sympathy. Why would she look at him like that?

Still, he didn't ask. Questions would only slow him down. He accepted the sleek data tablet she handed him, its interface flashing with encrypted access. Turning away, he ignored the unease settling in his gut.

His mind churned as he moved, unable to shake the librarian's expression from his thoughts.

Why pity? What was so different about this technique?

At last, he arrived at a secluded chamber. The moment he stepped inside, the interface flared to life, presenting him with a singular file—Vortex Flow Breathing.

The description was sparse, clinical:

A high-risk respiratory method designed for rapid physiological adaptation. Utilizes cyclic hyperoxygenation and controlled metabolic strain to enhance neural responsiveness, cellular efficiency, and muscular output. Requires extensive conditioning to prevent catastrophic failure.

Beneath the text, a cautionary note blinked in amber:

Failure to properly execute this technique may result in severe physiological backlash, including systemic collapse. Clearance required for direct instruction.

Orion exhaled sharply. Now he understood the look the librarian had given him. This wasn't just any breathing technique—it was a trial by fire.

The next morning, Orion stood in the private training facility Varun had arranged for him. The chamber was vast, lined with adaptive combat surfaces and reinforced gravity dampeners. Across from him, Varun observed with an unreadable expression, arms crossed over his chest.

"You retrieved the technique?" Varun asked, his gaze sharp.

Orion nodded. ."

Varun's eyes flickered with something unreadable before he spoke. "Describe it."

Orion inhaled deeply, his breath slow and deliberate. "It operates on cyclic hyperoxygenation—deep, controlled inhales that flood the system with oxygen, followed by precise exhalations to regulate CO2 balance. The goal is to sustain an optimal metabolic state, preventing lactic acid buildup while amplifying neural response time."

"Show me," Varun commanded.

Orion closed his eyes and centered himself. He inhaled through his nose in three measured phases: first filling his lower lungs, then expanding his ribcage, and finally drawing the breath into his upper chest. He held it for exactly five seconds, allowing the oxygen to saturate his bloodstream, before releasing it in a slow, controlled exhale, forcing residual carbon dioxide out of his system.

A small, approving nod. "Good. Then your real training begins."

With a flick of his wrist, Varun activated a sequence on his wristband. Heavy metallic clamps emerged from the chamber floor, fastening a weighted vest onto Orion's torso. The moment the restraints released, Orion staggered slightly under the sudden burden—it was denser than it looked.

"Run," Varun commanded.

Orion hesitated. "Run?"

"While maintaining Vortex Flow Breathing. And if you falter—" He tapped a control, and arcs of electricity crackled along the vest's seams. "You'll feel it."

Orion clenched his jaw, inhaled deeply, and took off. The first few strides were stable, but as the pace increased, the weight strained his muscles, making every breath harder to regulate. His inhales wavered slightly—

A sharp jolt burned through his ribs.

His body seized, his step faltering for a second before he forced himself forward. The lesson was clear: stay in rhythm or suffer. But before he could fully recover, the ground beneath him shifted, and a metallic snarl echoed through the chamber.

A quadrupedal combat drone—a sleek, predatory construct armed with high-speed servos and kinetic suppression nets—emerged from the shadows, its crimson optics locking onto him. The moment Orion's breath wavered again, the drone lunged.

Instinct took over. He forced his lungs into rhythm, pushing past the pain, past the searing shocks, his legs burning under the weighted vest as he sprinted. The drone pursued relentlessly, weaving through the chamber with inhuman precision, waiting for him to falter.

Every footfall felt heavier, the weighted vest digging into his shoulders, pressing down on his diaphragm. His breath had to remain steady—inhale, hold, exhale, regulate. Any deviation, even the slightest lapse in control, would mean another shock, another chance for the drone to close in. His mind screamed at him to go faster, but the burden of the weight slowed his acceleration.

The chamber's walls blurred past him, a sterile maze of reinforced plating, every corner a potential dead end. Then, a shift in the air—subtle, but there. His instincts screamed just as the drone's servos whirred, launching it into a lunge.

Orion threw himself sideways, barely avoiding the metal beast's outstretched claws. He landed hard, rolling onto his feet, gasping for air. A mistake. His breath broke rhythm.

Electric agony tore through his body.

His vision flickered as his muscles spasmed, but he forced himself upright, staggering forward. There was no time for pain. The drone reoriented, its optics scanning for another opportunity to strike.

Orion grit his teeth and pushed forward, his focus narrowing to a single thought—if he couldn't outpace the machine, he would have to outthink it.

His mind raced as he assessed the environment. The drone was faster, relentless, and it wouldn't tire. He, on the other hand, was already at his limit, his muscles screaming in protest, his lungs burning with every breath.

His only advantage was intelligence, but thinking clearly while under constant duress was an entirely different challenge. He had to anticipate its movements, use the terrain, and most importantly, maintain the rhythm of his breathing. If he lost control again, it wouldn't just be the shocks—he'd lose precious seconds in recovery, and the drone wouldn't hesitate to exploit that opening.

He forced himself to focus, scanning the training chamber for anything he could use. The sterile walls offered no cover, but the shifting floor panels provided an opportunity. If he could predict their pattern, he might be able to force the drone into a disadvantageous position.

Another snarl of servos signaled the drone's renewed assault. Orion twisted, narrowly avoiding its strike, his feet skimming over the floor as he adjusted to a sudden dip in the terrain. He used the momentum to propel himself forward, forcing his breaths to remain steady. Inhale, hold, exhale. Regulate. The pain in his muscles became secondary, drowned beneath sheer willpower.

Easier said than done, Orion thought bitterly, but he had no choice. He feinted left, baiting the drone into lunging, then twisted his body mid-air, using the shift in gravity to propel himself over the machine. It clipped his ankle as he landed, pain flaring through his leg, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.

The rhythm of his breath faltered for a fraction of a second, and in that instant, the drone struck. A concussive force slammed into his side, sending him sprawling across the chamber floor. The weighted vest crushed the air from his lungs, his body convulsing as another surge of electricity ripped through him. His vision blurred, a sharp, splitting pain searing through his skull like white-hot iron. It was beyond agony—pure, unfiltered torment that obliterated every coherent thought.

His limbs twitched uselessly, his breathing a ragged, broken mess. He tried to rise, but his muscles refused against the overload of pain.

Orion finally understood why would the librarian look at him like that.

With a flick of his wrist, Varun dactivated the chamber's training protocols.

The training chamber was silent save for the rhythmic hum of Orion's erratic breathing. His body still ached from the first session, bruises settling deep into his muscles.

Varun stood before him, arms crossed, his expression unreadable. The man had been an enigma since the moment they met—every movement calculated, every lesson sharp-edged and direct.

"Your father's expectations are clear," Varun began, his voice cutting through the silence. "In six months, you need to be a qualified Aspirant. That means combat proficiency beyond what simulations can offer. That means refining your instincts until they are second nature."

Orion swallowed, nodding. He had anticipated this. His father didn't do half-measures.

"The kind of training you're receiving," Varun continued, "would drain smaller families' treasuries in days. Simulations, recovery methods, equipment access—your father's pouring everything into making sure you don't just qualify, but excel. But none of it matters if you don't put it to use."