A Furnace of Wrath

Two PlasmaPlatters. Two MorphoMugs. Empty. One PlasmaPlatter. One MorphoMug. Full.

The penthouse was a cathedral of silence, but not the sacred kind. It was the silence of a battlefield after the last soldier has fallen, a hush so thick it felt like the air itself was mourning. Steam curled from the untouched PlasmaPlatter, ephemeral ghosts rising only to vanish into nothing. A cruel, mocking illusion. A meal made for the dead.

Art stood motionless at the threshold of the dining area. His gaze flicked from the table to the closed door down the hall. He did not sigh. He did not speak. Instead, his voice came clipped, measured, the weight of unspoken things pressing against each syllable. "Come on. I'll show you around."

Kal seized the distraction like a man pulling himself from quicksand. Anything to escape the gaping void in his chest.

A Home Without History

The penthouse unfolded around them in an architectural ballet of light and technology. The walls shifted transparency with their movements, revealing panoramic views of a city that never truly slept. The ceiling morphed between celestial wonders—auroras dancing, constellations spinning, nebulas blooming in distant silence. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of ozone after rain, but there was no warmth, no fingerprints on the glass, no scuff marks on the floor. Just engineered perfection. A home without history.

No parents.

Kal nodded at the right moments, feigned interest where needed, but his mind was an orbiting satellite, forever pulled back to gravity wells of memory—his father's booming laugh, his mother's gentle touch. The past had become an anchor, and he was sinking.

But Karina was drowning faster.

Her pillow was damp, but she was no longer lying down. She stood before the mirror, fists clenched, her reflection a stranger—hollow-eyed, gaunt-cheeked, a girl unmade. Her breath shuddered in and out.

Reaching out—not with hands, but with mind—she activated the neural interface embedded in the room. The noise-cancellation system beeped in submission.

Then she screamed.

A sound that should have splintered walls, ruptured the sky, made the gods themselves shudder. But the walls absorbed it, the penthouse swallowing her agony whole. The universe did not listen.

She screamed until her throat was raw. Until her knees hit the ground. Until silence was the only thing left that belonged to her.

The Crucible

Kal and Art stepped into the training facility, a chamber sculpted for war. The walls pulsed with liquid intelligence, adapting in real-time. Nanite constructs hovered in stillness, their forms bristling with latent power. Kinetic training pads lined the far wall, their densities shifting, morphing, testing limits yet to be broken. Holograms flickered in anticipation, waiting to be called upon.

This was not a gym. This was a crucible.

Art cracked his knuckles. "You don't have to watch."

Kal shook his head. "I want to see."

Art studied him for a moment, then turned to the AI. "Initiate training. Standard combat drills."

[EXERCISE START]

A breath. A shift. And then Art moved.

Silver-gray prana ignited across his body, wrapping his limbs in a shifting, liquid metal aura. His first strike landed with a concussive ripple, shockwaves tearing through the air. The nanite construct reassembled in an instant, but Art was already in motion—a blur, fists carving arcs of destruction. Prana pulsed down into his legs, and his next kick sent the construct dispersing into a swarm of metallic fragments before it reformed.

Then the prana climbed higher. Up his spine. Across his skull. Until it coalesced into a metallic crown, gleaming with ethereal radiance.

A single step. A headbutt that shattered the construct into shimmering dust before it reassembled, ready for another round.

Kal exhaled. "Okay. That was insane."

Art wiped the sweat from his brow, smirking. "Beginner mode for you?"

Kal's expression twisted into something between offense and challenge. He didn't need to say it. His face alone screamed: Don't underestimate me.

Art chuckled. "Fine. Initiate level two."

A new construct took form, mirroring Kal's frame.

Kal raised his fists.

No prana. No enhancements. Just flesh and bone.

He swung.

The first punch landed solid. The second, harder. The third—

A vision burned into his mind.

A Name Etched in Blood

Siniferre.

Not a name. A presence. A smirk. The blood. The weight of his parents' lifeless bodies.

Kal's body locked up. His breath hitched, chest tight, vision darkening at the edges. His fingers trembled, his knuckles with a loss of color from the strain. His mind was not here. It was there. That night. The horror, the helplessness, the cold weight of finality.

Then it came.

A tidal wave of fury. Of grief. Of every unshed scream.

He fell forward, fists slamming into the floor. A guttural cry tore from him, raw and unfiltered, splitting at the edges. He didn't know if it was rage or sorrow.

Maybe they were the same thing.

Art was beside him in an instant, kneeling, his arm tightening around Kal's shaking shoulders.

Kal gasped, voice hoarse. "They're gone."

Art held on tighter. "I know."

Kal's breath came in jagged gulps. "It's not fair."

"I know."

The AI chimed softly. [EXERCISE PAUSED]

Neither of them moved.

The training facility, once a proving ground for warriors, had become something else entirely.

A graveyard of memories.

A battlefield of ghosts.

Glossary

PlasmaPlatters - energy fields that act as serving surfaces, disappearing when not in use

MorphoMug - a shape-shifting cup that changes size, form or sections based on the drink