A New Hope

He paused for a moment, then, as if recalling a forgotten data point, added:

"There are also unsubstantiated rumors that the main tower in New Cairo—the one that supplies power to the robots—was the epicenter of the rebellion. It supposedly powers the subterranean network, and the theory is that whoever controls the tower could, through some unknown mechanism, control the robots as well. But this remains unconfirmed. No one has been able to reach New Cairo."

A profound interest ignited in Ares. The mystery surrounding the story was a complex problem demanding a solution. He fixed his gaze on the General. "You said a tower? What is its design?"

"It is structurally identical to the power towers distributed throughout Atlantis, the ones that maintain the integrity of the dome and shield us from the robots."

Ares felt his heart rate accelerate, a physiological response he couldn't suppress. Why had he awakened inside such a structure? A logical inconsistency existed within the narrative, a variable he could not yet identify. He broke the chain of his thoughts, his voice sharp. "So, you have identified their daily power source, but you have not yet identified the prime mover, the intelligence that initiated their rebellion?"

The General's eyes were reservoirs of pain and sorrow. "No. Regrettably, we have not. As I stated, we attribute their sentience to an external, extraterrestrial force, or perhaps a clandestine state actor providing them with support. We can formulate no other rational explanation for this unprovoked, illogical rebellion."

Ares turned and stared at the map once more. He then maneuvered the conversation, seeking to understand the circumstances that led to his presence in the tower. "On my approach to your position, I observed one of these tall towers you just mentioned. Does it serve any function other than maintaining the dome that protects Atlantis?"

A rare smile touched the General's lips. "They were constructed six years ago, a government-funded initiative. The towers absorb solar radiation, convert it to energy, and transmit it through a subterranean cable network, supplying all of Atlantis with a limitless power supply. With these towers, we eliminated our dependence on finite resources. We now possess a renewable, inexhaustible energy source. So, to answer your question, they power not only the dome but the entire city."

Ares registered the information, carefully masking his astonishment. He adopted an urgent tone. "Are there other towers?"

The General looked at him, puzzled. "Yes, there are seven others. But why do you ask? They are the least of our concerns at present."

Seven other towers, Ares thought to himself. That means there are seven others. Is it conceivable that they correspond to the finalists from the tests? There is a logical flaw in the official explanation for these towers. Their function cannot be limited to solar power generation. I was imprisoned within one for an indeterminate period. Upon waking, I possessed this extraordinary ability, which I was then trained to master. What is the true nature of this situation? There is a critical piece of information being deliberately concealed. But were the tests truly conducted inside the tower, or elsewhere? If they were inside a tower, it would imply all finalists were in a single location. But that contradicts what I am seeing. This means we were in another location entirely, and then transferred to these towers after we secured the top eight positions.

Ares masked his suspicion behind a calm smile. "No, it was not my intention to focus on them, but they appeared... anomalous. I wished to inquire about them. I hypothesized they might have some connection to the robots."

The General seemed to accept his reasoning. He said in a low voice, "No, they have no connection to those cursed things. In fact, the robots seem intent on destroying them, to collapse the dome. What I find illogical is why they have not yet succeeded, given their capabilities!"

Ares laughed, a calculated sound to hide his tension and the storm of questions in his mind. "How many generators are currently active in Atlantis?"

The General considered this for a moment. "There is one, a single, large generator. But it is heavily fortified, protected by a plasma shield. Its destruction is an extremely difficult proposition."

Ares fell silent, pacing the room again, his mind processing the variables. He stopped. "I believe I have a plan to destroy it, General. Will you provide the necessary support to execute it?"

Hope, a powerful and long-absent emotion, transformed the General's features. His grim, resolute expression softened, replaced by a wide smile. "Yes, of course, I will help you. Anything you require, I will do my utmost to provide." He paused, then leaned forward eagerly. "Now, tell me. What is the plan?"

Ares looked at the map. "I need you to show me the generator's precise location."

The General pointed to a dark red sector on the eastern coast. "It is here, exactly. Inside a warehouse. And the defenses are formidable."

Ares turned his gaze from the map and locked eyes with the General. "Now, listen to me very carefully."

***

In the darkness, Sairi recoiled several steps, his mind struggling to process the unexpected development. The individual standing before him also possessed abilities, similar to his own. He felt a profound sense of folly. For a moment, he sensed the presence of two other individuals in the area besides the one he was facing, and the truth of his error became undeniable. The person standing before him was not his target, but his objective—one of the companions he had resolved to gather, to inform them of what he knew about the so-called "Enix" and the secrets he had learned from them. United, they might deduce an escape from this sequence of bizarre events. But the chasm between that intention and his current reality was immense. His own recklessness had set a course that could no longer be altered. How was he to inform the man he had just attempted to kill that he was, in fact, an ally? The opportunity had passed.

Ivanov retreated, resolving to deploy his ability to its full extent. It was his only logical recourse in this predicament. He took a few steps back into the gloom, and the transformation began. Suddenly, his skin shifted to black. The darkness flowed over him, encasing his body in a complete sheath, dominating his form until his flesh took on the appearance of lustrous, black metal. The conversion continued to the soles of his feet, but his blond hair remained unchanged, a stark contrast.

The metallic sheath was not merely for protection; it also multiplied his physical strength severalfold, rendering him immune to pain and capable of lifting immense weights, as if he were an indomitable force of nature. However, as with every ability, it had its point of weakness: the duration of the black shield did not exceed five minutes. He had trained extensively before the Death Race to achieve that specific temporal limit.

Sairi perceived that Ivanov had vanished completely into the darkness. He could no longer see him, but he could sense his presence—a palpable flow of energy that had increased exponentially. A strange feeling washed over Sairi.

"Stop," he called out. "I am not your enemy. I have misidentified my target."

He received no reply, only a black hand that materialized from the gloom, lunging toward him. Sairi raised his sword reflexively to protect his torso from the rapidly approaching blow. Ivanov's fist collided with the blade. From the darkness, Sairi heard Ivanov's voice, dripping with a grim, metallic sarcasm:

"Of course."

The sheer force of the blow sent Sairi flying backward. It was fortunate that the sword had absorbed the kinetic energy of the impact; otherwise, his rib cage would have been shattered. His body collided with the rubble of a slanted, ruined building as he fell. The impacts came one after another as he slid down its steep incline, and for a moment, he felt he would not stop, that his body would be torn apart by the continued momentum. Resisting the pull of air and gravity, he raised his head slightly, lifted his right arm, and plunged his sword into the building's surface. The blade sheared through the material, and the resulting friction gradually decelerated his fall until he came to a stop.

He lay outstretched, pain dominating his sensory input. He drew a ragged breath, attempting to reassert control over his body, and his mind went back to his rigorous training, his disciplined methods for enduring pain in nature. Sairi's affinity for the natural world had been his greatest teacher. He had spent countless hours meditating in silence under the frigid torrent of a waterfall and had pushed his body through relentless physical exercises. He learned martial arts, and it was the test of pain tolerance that had proven most beneficial. His instructor would have him stand imóvel, arms extended forward, as other students relentlessly struck his body. Yet he would remain steady, not registering a flicker of pain. He had learned to control his mind, to command the body's pain centers. But it was not purely a mental discipline; the application of specialized oils, combined with repeated blunt-force trauma from wooden staves, had conditioned his body until pain became a familiar state he could simply disregard. He recalled the old axiom: An excess of pain negates pain itself.