The "Illogical Club" was in full swing, turning the dusty basement into a sweatbox of chaotic potential.
In the centre of the scrubbed stone floor, Borg (Gluttony) was doing push-ups. On his back, curled up like a sentient backpack, Olan (Sleep) was fast asleep, adding eighty kilograms of dead weight to the exercise.
"Ninety-nine... one hundred!" Borg grunted, sweat dripping onto the mat. "Borg hungry. Borg need protein."
"Good set," Lack Flameheart called out from the president’s desk, not looking up from his reading. "Olan, wake up. It’s your turn to be the weight."
"No," Olan mumbled, gripping Borg’s shirt tighter. "I am... the anchor. It is... resistance training."
Lack turned back to the stack of dusty books. While the team trained their bodies, Lack upgraded his analytical framework. He had spent the last two weeks devouring the "Old Earth History" archives, searching for the logic that governed this illogical world.
He picked up a heavy, leather-bound tome titled: The Era of Assimilation: Year 0 to Year 50.
"Hey, Torin," Lack asked, turning a fragile yellow page. "Did you know the Purge didn't stop because the Gods felt sorry for us?"
Torin, who was practising shooting arrows around a corner using a shard of mirror, lowered his bow. "I thought they stopped because we surrendered."
"We surrendered on Day 1," Lack said, his voice quiet. "They kept killing us for six months. 9.5 billion people. To them, we weren't an enemy force; we were biomass contamination."
He pointed to a faded holographic photo embedded in the paper page. It showed a young woman, no older than sixteen, standing amidst a field of corpses. She wasn't cowering. She was glowing with a terrifying, golden light. Above her floated a massive, spectral scale.
"Her name was Elena Vance," Lack read. "The First Vessel."
[System Record: Historical Archive]
- Subject: Elena Vance (Age 16)
- Event: The Awakening of Judgment
- Patron: The God of Judgment (Divine Tier)
"According to this," Lack murmured, his finger tracing the text, "The Gods were about to glass the final refugee camp. Then, Elena awakened. She didn't just get a 'Gift'. She was chosen by the Judge."
"The Judge?" Serra (Friction) adjusted her glasses, peering over Lack's shoulder. "Why would a High God pick a human pest?"
"Because she possessed an innate sense of 'Order' that rivalled the Gods themselves," Lack explained. "When the Seraphim tried to kill her family, she didn't beg. She Judged them."
The ability list recorded in the archive projected a terrifying, absolute authority.
- Ability 1: The Shield of Law. A barrier that nullifies any attack deemed 'Unjust' by the user's moral code.
- Ability 2: Stat Enforcement. She could equalise the stats of everyone in her radius, dragging a God down to the level of a human.
- Unique Ability: The Gavel. She could enforce a rule. If she said "No Killing," the concept of murder became physically impossible within her domain.
"She forced a stalemate," Lack whispered. "She summoned the Scales of Truth. She proved that humanity had 'Value' in the Cosmic War. She made a deal: We serve as Auxiliaries, and the Purge stops."
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"So she saved us," Mina sniffled from the corner, where she was watering a plant with her tears.
"She bought us time," Lack corrected. "But look at the timeline. For the next 150 years, we were slaves. Lab rats for the Hybrid programme. It was only 50 years ago, after the Third Great War, that we earned 'Citizenship' and the right to attend the University."
He closed the book with a heavy thud. The history was bloody. Humans weren't allies; they were a conscripted slave army that had slowly earned the right to hold a gun.
"Wait."
A thin sheet of flexible metal disrupted the back pages of the binding. It wasn't paper. It was a thin sheet of flexible, translucent metal. A Memory Foil.
He pulled it out and laid it on the desk. He tapped it. Hum.
The foil lit up, projecting a 3D topographic map into the air above the desk.
"Whoa," Borg gasped, dropping Olan. "Shiny map."
It wasn't a map of the University. It wasn't a map of Sector 98. It was a map of the Shattered Seas—the chaotic ocean between the continents.
Not a standard nav-chart. He zoomed in. "Look at these markers."
There were red dots scattered across the islands. But one island, roughly the size of Malaysia (a small speck on this sun-sized world), was circled in gold.
[Coordinates: Sector 88 - The Silent Isle] [Note: Pre-War Ruin Detected. Signal: Karmic Resonance.]
"Karmic Resonance?" The blood pounded violently against his eardrums. Karmic Resonance was his fuel. That was the fuel of the Devils.
"We have to go there," Lack whispered.
Torin asked, his absolute focus anchored to the golden coordinates. "Sector 88? That's in the Neutral Zone. It's uncontrolled territory. Pirates, Rogue Devils, Ancient Beasts..."
"And answers," Lack said. He folded the map and hid it in his jacket pocket. "But not yet. We're too weak. If we go now, we're just lunch."
"Speaking of weak," Torin said, looking nervous. "President Elander sent a drone. The University Festival is in two weeks."
"The Festival?" Lack asked. "That's just food stalls and parades, right?"
"And the Inter-Faculty Tournament in two months," Torin grimaced. "Every club has to participate. Even the 'History Club'. If we don't field a team, they revoke our club status and we lose the room."
Lack's gaze swept the clean room. The mats. The books. The sanctuary built from the trash.
"They want to take our room," Lack said, his voice dropping to a dangerous chill.
"Jareth is behind this," Serra noted logically. "He's the captain of the Hydro-Club team. He probably rigged the bracket so we fight them in the first round."
Lack stood up. He walked to the centre of the room. He faced his team of Misfits.
"Borg," Lack asked. "Can you eat a Water Bullet?"
Borg thought about it, scratching his chin. "If it's spicy."
"Mina," Lack turned to the crying girl. "Can you make the arena floor muddy?"
"I... I can try."
"We aren't just going to participate," Lack grinned. "We're going to use this Tournament as a live-fire exercise."
"And after that?" Torin asked.
"After that is the Military Camp," Lack said, his attention snapping to the academic calendar on the wall. "Mandatory deployment to the Northern Border. We'll see the Astral Generals there. We'll see the real war."
He clenched his fist. The vibration hummed in his bones, a low frequency of anticipation.
"But first," Lack said. "We need to survive the Festival. I hear the cooking competition is brutal."
"Cooking?!" Borg’s eyes lit up with a holy light. "Borg... Captain of Cooking Team!"
"Approved," Lack laughed.
? ? ?
[Inventory Update]
- Ancient Map (Sector 88): Location of a potential Ancient World Origin site.
[System Record: Character Progression] Name: Lack Flameheart Karmic Energy: 0.4% Current Goal:
- Win the Club Festival (Cooking?).
- Survive the Inter-Faculty Tournament.
- Prepare for Military Camp (3 months at Northern Border).