Chapter 12: Is This Still Basic Training?

Three seconds. It wasn't Finn who opened his eyes—it was the searing pain of a laser scorching his body, the sensation of flesh and bone melting, that snapped him awake. According to GoldieTron, this agony was "within his mental tolerance."

Finn learned a new idiom that day: life worse than death.

He was getting a firsthand taste of advanced civilization's terror. This wasn't training—it was a brutal experiment teetering on the edge of physical and mental collapse. Finn's true hell had begun.

But don't mistake this for a robot mindlessly following protocol. If it were any other civilization, maybe, but the Maya were an offshoot of Earth's own—its pinnacle. If military experts saw this training, they'd worship GoldieTron like a god. It was the holy grail of human potential, a dream forever out of reach with Earth's tech.

Finn, though blessed, wasn't clueless—he just wasn't grateful. He was a high school kid, not a soldier. Without years of self-training since middle school, he'd have cracked. Even GoldieTron's calculations had a glitch: Finn's breaking point wasn't fixed; it shifted unpredictably.

But Finn was no ordinary teen. Most kids from normal families would bail on grueling workouts—Finn didn't. When he glimpsed progress through the pain, he gritted his teeth and pushed harder. He knew the stakes: finish alive or die here, a vegetable.

He wasn't ready to die. He had parents, friends… and, well, he was still a virgin.

GoldieTron's "basic training" was anything but. It was total body mastery: Finn's kicks, once impressive at head height, now had to snap perpendicular to the ground in 0.3 to 0.4 seconds—or face a brutal shock.

The basics took a full month. In the first week alone, Finn contemplated suicide three times and teetered on collapse twice. But he survived, shocking even himself. He didn't die in GoldieTron's "simple" course. He even renamed it: DevilTron.

For the month's effort, DevilTron gave him a grudging pass—61 points by Earth standards, with one point as a pity bonus.

The payoff? Finn could fully control every inch of his body and react with precision under 10x gravity. But to DevilTron, this was just "mechanical motion"—the bare minimum for a warrior. Weird, a human called 'mechanical' by a robot. On top of that, Finn's mind had hardened against lasers, shocks, and radiation. After countless hits, fear evaporated. He knew each attack's strengths and weaknesses cold.

The logic was simple: facing a wooden sword versus a real blade changes everything. Fear messes with your head, dulls your edge. The lasers weren't just for pain—they killed Finn's fear, honing his calm under fire.

DevilTron said he'd "barely" managed it. Not that GoldieTron was cruel—its emotional circuits were fried, leaving it stiff as a board. Lucky for Finn? Hard to say.

Mentally, the training wired straight into his body, sparking genetic self-evolution. Unlike the Evantians' passive tweaks, this was pure, internal growth—undetectable by Earth's tech.

In theory, environment shapes evolution. GoldieTron just hit fast-forward with Maya mojo. To the bot, it was routine; to anyone else, it was god-tier wizardry.

Finn didn't notice. Didn't care. He trained, slept, repeat—no time for meals or bathroom breaks. Sleep was mandatory: eight hours, no more, no less. At first, he tossed, turned, had nightmares, or got zapped awake by a "gentle" laser. After days, he mastered deep sleep on command. But the reprieve was short. Soon, random attacks—one to three per night—forced him to stay alert even in dreams. DevilTron called it "balance." Finn had to figure it out.

He wanted to scream. Am I training to be a pilot or an assassin? But DevilTron didn't do pep talks. Danger unlocked potential, and in three days, Finn adapted. Now, he had a sixth sense for threats—something veterans or psychic prodigies might have, but Finn's was hard-earned.

And this? This was just the warm-up. Month one down, the real hell was next.

Finn's only thought: Last month was paradise.