Training

The echoes of Subject 37's choked screams seemed to linger in the vast, oppressive hall, a ghostly reminder of the razor's edge they all walked. Kendrick's casual cruelty had its intended effect; a fresh wave of fear, palpable and cold, washed over the remaining participants. Ares felt his own Vhala fragment thrumming, not with anticipation now, but with a wary, almost predatory stillness, as if sensing the danger in the air, the thinning of the herd.

He forced himself to breathe, to push down the rising gorge of fear. Panicking wouldn't help. Subject 37 was a warning, not a death sentence for everyone. The masked superior had said it himself: "Lower integration means you are on a precipice." Ares's 17% wasn't high, but it wasn't rock bottom either. He had a chance, a slim one perhaps, but a chance.

The faint, almost inaudible voice he'd thought he'd heard – "Interesting, this human could actually have a chance to become my vessel" – replayed in his mind. Had it been real? A hallucination brought on by stress and the alien energy coursing through him? Or something else entirely? He pushed the thought aside. Speculation was a luxury he couldn't afford. Survival demanded focus.

Liora, seemingly unfazed by the recent culling, gestured dismissively. "Continue. The resonance field will remain active. Those of you who cannot even passively sense the fragment without… adverse reactions… are clearly not suited for this power." Her words were like chips of ice, devoid of sympathy.

The masked superior, his voice still calm and measured, picked up the instruction. "Now that you have… acknowledged… the fragment, the next step is to attempt a rudimentary internal circulation. I emphasize rudimentary. Think of it not as commanding the Mana Force, but as gently nudging a current already present within you. You are not forging a new river; you are trying to feel the flow of an existing one, one that has been violently introduced into your landscape."

He paused, letting the analogy sink in. "Focus on the fragment. Feel its inherent energy. Then, with the softest of intentions, try to guide a minuscule thread of that energy along your natural mana pathways. Do not force it. Do not attempt to draw large amounts. Imagine coaxing a single ember to glow, not igniting a bonfire. The goal here is control, not power. The slightest tremor of controlled movement is a success. An uncontrolled surge is… failure." His gaze flicked briefly towards the door where Subject 37 had been dragged.

Ares closed his eyes again, the image of the man's contorted face burned into his memory. He pushed it away. He found the Vhala fragment, that miniature sun in his chest. It pulsed steadily, a silent testament to the cataclysmic power it represented. The ambient resonance field made it feel more… awake, more responsive than before.

He remembered the superior's words: gently nudging a current. He focused his intent, not his mana. He pictured a tiny, almost invisible thread of the fragment's warm energy. He didn't try to pull it or push it. He simply… invited it. He visualized one of his main mana pathways, a familiar route he'd traced countless times in his futile attempts to improve his D-rank status. He imagined that pathway as a welcoming channel.

For a long moment, nothing happened. The fragment just thrummed. Doubt began to creep in. Was his integration too low? Was he incapable of even this basic step? He remembered the whisper – "my vessel." Vessel for what? This parasitic power?

Then, a flicker.

It was so faint he almost missed it. A tiny spark, a minute tremor of warmth that detached itself from the main body of the fragment and, hesitantly, began to move. It wasn't a flow, not yet. It was more like a single drop of warm liquid slowly rolling down a cool surface.

He held his breath, terrified of disrupting it. The warmth moved, infinitesimally slowly, along the periphery of his chosen mana pathway. It felt… alien. Different from his own mana. Thicker, denser, carrying an undercurrent of something wild and untamed. His own mana seemed to recoil slightly as this foreign energy passed, like oil and water resisting mixture.

The Vhalic Resonance trait seemed to act as a subtle buffer, a mediator. The tingling sensation in his cells intensified along the path of the Mana Force. It was as if his body, at a microscopic level, was trying to accommodate this new power, to find a way to coexist.

He guided the tiny thread, inch by agonizing inch. His concentration was absolute. The outside world faded away. There was only the thrumming core, the alien warmth, and the delicate dance of coaxing it through his system. It was like trying to thread a needle in the dark, during an earthquake.

Suddenly, the thread faltered. It hit a point in his mana pathway that felt… constricted. A bottleneck. The Mana Force, even this tiny amount, seemed to build up, its warmth intensifying, becoming uncomfortably hot.

Panic flared. This was it. The backlash.

He remembered the superior's warning: "Do not force it." He didn't try to push it through. Instead, he did the opposite. He lessened his intent, gently trying to withdraw the energy, to let it recede back to the core.

For a heart-stopping moment, it resisted, the heat growing. His chest ached. He could feel his heart rate skyrocketing.

"Not yet, little vessel. Not yet so easily tamed."

The voice again. Clearer this time. Not a hallucination. It was… amused? Arrogant? It echoed not in his ears, but directly within his mind, resonating from the fragment itself.

Before Ares could process the implications, the built-up energy, instead of receding, suddenly pulsed. Not outwards, but inwards. It didn't explode. It… compressed. And then, with a sensation like a tiny, superheated drill, it forced its way through the constriction in his mana pathway.

A sharp, stabbing pain lanced through him, making him gasp, his eyes flying open. But it was brief. The moment the Mana Force passed the blockage, the intense heat subsided, leaving behind a slightly wider, more open-feeling pathway and a faint, lingering warmth. The tiny thread of Mana Force, now seemingly a little more confident, continued its slow journey before eventually dissipating, reabsorbed into the ambient hum or perhaps back into the core.

He was panting, sweat trickling down his temples. His chest ached, but the acute pain was gone. He had… succeeded? In a brutal, painful, and entirely uncontrolled way, that tiny surge had cleared a blockage. It wasn't the gentle nudging the superior had described. It was a miniature, internal demolition.

He glanced around. Others were in various states of distress. A woman nearby was rocking back and forth, muttering, her face pale. Another man had his head in his hands, his shoulders shaking. But many, like Jones and Sylvie, were still deep in concentration, their faces etched with effort.

Jones opened his eyes a moment later, a bead of sweat rolling down his nose. He looked at Ares, a question in his eyes.

"Anything?" Ares asked quietly.

Jones shook his head, a frustrated sigh escaping him. "Felt… something. Like a warmth. But I couldn't get it to move. It's like trying to push a mountain with a feather." His gaze fell on Ares's slightly flushed face. "You?"

Ares hesitated. How could he explain what had just happened? The voice? The uncontrolled surge that had somehow worked? "I… think so. A little. It's… stubborn."

Sylvie opened her eyes next, her expression tight. "This is… incredibly difficult. It's like the energy has a mind of its own. It resists."

"That, participant, is the crux of the problem," the masked superior's voice cut in, startling them. He was slowly walking among the seated participants, his gaze missing nothing. He stopped a few feet from their small group. "The Mana Force derived from Vhala is not inert. It carries an echo, a will, however faint. Your task is not merely to control energy, but to subdue a sliver of a god's dying breath."

His eyes, or what Ares could see of them above the mask, seemed to linger on Ares again. "Some of you will find this… echo… more responsive than others. Some will find it actively hostile. Your innate compatibility, your mental fortitude, your very essence will determine your success or failure."

He moved on, his quiet footsteps barely making a sound on the dark floor.

Nia opened her eyes, a radiant, almost ecstatic smile on her face. "Oh, that was delightful! Like a tiny, warm river flowing just where I wanted it to go! It tickled!"

Jones and Sylvie stared at her, a mixture of disbelief and annoyance on their faces. Ares just felt a renewed sense of unease. Nia's effortless affinity with this dangerous power was deeply unsettling. She was either a natural prodigy of unimaginable proportions, or she wasn't experiencing the same struggle as the rest of them for a very specific, and probably terrifying, reason.

Kendrick, meanwhile, was clearly getting bored. He yawned dramatically. "Alright, my little glow-worms, that's enough navel-gazing for one session! I'm practically falling asleep here watching you all sweat and strain. Time to see if any of this 'internal circulation' has actually achieved anything, or if you're all just collectively constipated."

Liora shot him a glare. "The objective was initial sensation and rudimentary internal movement, Kendrick. External manifestation is premature and dangerous."

"Premature? Dangerous? Liora, darling, where's your sense of adventure?" Kendrick drawled, stepping forward. "I think a little… practical application is in order. Just a tiny one. To see who's actually got a spark, and who's just a dud."

He grinned, and his eyes landed on a participant near the edge of the group, a thin, nervous-looking young man who was still visibly trembling from the effort of the internal circulation.

"You there! Subject… ah, 112, isn't it? Stand up. Let's see you make a pretty light."

The young man, 112, looked terrified. "B-but Superior Liora said—"

"Superior Liora worries too much," Kendrick said, waving a dismissive hand. "Come on, just a little flicker. Like a magic trick. Impress us."

Fear warred with the ingrained obedience this place instilled. 112 slowly got to his feet, his hands shaking. He closed his eyes, concentrating hard. His face screwed up in effort. A faint, unhealthy-looking greyish aura began to gather around his hand. It flickered erratically.

Then, with a sickening, wet pop, his hand… contorted. Bones seemed to snap and twist under the skin, and the greyish aura turned a virulent, sickly green before sputtering out. 112 screamed, a high, thin sound of pure agony, collapsing to the floor, clutching his mangled hand.

Kendrick clicked his tongue. "Oh dear. Looks like a dud after all. And a messy one. Clean-up crew!"

The two enforcers appeared again, dragging away another casualty of Kendrick's sadistic whims.

Ares felt a cold fury rise within him, but he clamped it down. Reacting would be suicide. But the lesson was clear. Control was paramount. And the superiors, particularly Kendrick, were playing with their lives with the detached cruelty of a child pulling wings off flies.

The voice in his head, Vhala's echo, was silent now. But Ares had a chilling premonition. Taming this power wouldn't just be a battle against his own limitations.