Kelly moved through the upper floors of the Haider building. A clerk in a stiff jacket led the way. The air here was different. It wasn’t just the cleaner filtration or the lack of chemical sweat and rust. The vibe had shifted entirely.

  Downstairs stank of chemical sweat and rust and immediate threat. Security eyes scanned for hidden contraband, staring with flat, assessing eyes, like they expected a concealed weapon to go off. Staff gave her a wide berth, their movements tense, their smiles tight and ready to vanish. Her tag read 'client', which in that environment translated to 'walking liability'.

  This floor was different. Civil.

  The casual hostility had evaporated. A woman in analyst crispness glanced at Kelly’s chest. She saw the tag, now flashing ‘prospect’, and noted the new designation. The woman offered a curt, professional nod. A maintenance tech wheeling a cart of diagnostic equipment shifted his path by an inch to give her space without breaking his conversation about shipment delays. He didn’t stop talking. He just created space. Welcome space. It was respect, or something like it.

  “Look at that,” Kelly said, not to the clerk. “I’m a piece on the board now.”

  It was a hell of an improvement. Kelly appreciated the shift.

  “Downstairs I was a grenade in the hallway. Someone’s problem. This is better. Pieces get to move. Sometimes a piece gets to flip the board. Set the other pieces on fire. Make the whole corporate game explode in a really interesting way.”

  The clerk’s step hitched. Clearly, he was still working in ‘downstairs logic.’

  The clerk walked faster.

  Kelly smiled. It was a pleasant smile. It made the clerk’s shoulders tighten near his ears.

  “Relax. I’m pre-approved. That’s what the nod means. I’m here to see your boss. Mainly to talk about blowing things up. Professionally.”

  The hallway was cool. The lighting was perfect. It showed every clean, controlled line. Kelly hated it. She appreciated it, too. This was the machine’s gut. Where they decided what got crushed and what got built. Today, they decided to build a conversation with her. Their mistake was already in motion. She could feel it ticking.

  Most importantly, this shift in attitude meant that she could easily head to the area where her physical and combat capabilities would be tested. Apparently, to this organisation, the EQ number measurement was not enough proof of one’s capability, regardless of whether one specialised in strength, speed, or any other category they were very proud of writing down. Everyone was tested for their limits, because they believed combat was about more than numbers, and Kelly couldn’t agree more. Being good on paper didn’t stop bruises, charts couldn’t dodge bullets, and numbers never hit back—even a perfect score couldn’t throw a punch.

  “This testing area,” Kelly said slowly, stretching her neck, cracking vertebrae. “The combat one. Sounds cozy. We talking carpet and ambient lighting, or more death-lab chic?”

  “Um…” the jittery clerk met her gaze, at a loss for words. “I… have no idea.”

  The Haider organization—Kelly’s new name for the place—was a smaller operation, one that had shoved its way close to the top over the last twenty years. Dr. Haider did this almost by himself. Most of his brilliant inventions popped up right after the AI coups. He also helped revolutionize mind augmentation security, which meant he built better walls to keep people from stealing your thoughts, then designed the locks.

  He possessed a truly spectacular reputation for being a probable criminal. Rumors of various crimes and accusations of assassinations meant the public and the wider community tolerated him instead of accepting him. This collective side-eye was the reason for his comfortable house arrest.

  To everyone looking in, his organization was a family office. It handled his money. It filed his taxes. It received his mail and packages. It drafted his will. It was all very mundane, legitimate, and boring. No one looked twice at a rich guy's yawn-inspiring family office.

  But the operation was, of course, much more than that.

  The same boring office also paid for his security detail, which was the size of a small army. It managed the contracts for his compound, which was built like a fortress. It hired the lawyers who kept him out of a real prison. When the war came and went, Haider's organization, along with a few others, played a key part in protecting the minds of humanity. Making a killing while saving a few billion people from having their brains turned into puppets. It was a very profitable piece of humanitarian work.

  Kelly and her reluctant guide moved down the corridor of the Haider building’s upper floors, the echo of Kelly’s boots bouncing off the industrial panels. The downstairs clerk hustled in front of her, a translucent glass clipboard wobbling in his hands, voice tense.

  “Elevator’s over here,” he said. “Watch your step. Floor’s been patched recently.”

  Kelly followed, eyes scanning every corner, every seam, taking in the smell of coolant, metal polish, and ozone. Nothing thrilled her more than the smell of an active building, alive with purpose.

  The journey took a single second.

  The doors opened not onto another hallway, but into a vast, startling space. It was a colossal hall—more an arena than a room. Reinforced walls were clad in dark, padded panels, absorbing sound and light. High above, spectator windows ran high along the walls. Rows of empty seats climbed up to the high ceiling. The ceiling was well lit, the floors top layer worn with the faint, thousandfold scuff-marks of combat. The air carried a clean, sharp scent of industrial disinfectant underlaid by the static tang of ozone from hidden machinery. The hall seemed designed for a single purpose: people being tested, people watching, and people blasting all manner of weaponry.

  Kelly whistled. Machines were her favorite audience. Least likely to cry if she lobbed a head through a wall.

  From a seamless door in the side wall, a woman emerged. She was tall, precise in posture, calm, and professional—her movements economical. She was the opposite of the downstairs clerk, and her shoes made no sound against the floor as she moved with confidence that announced to the world ‘I’m too important to run.’ Posture perfect, hair perfect, everything perfect—just screaming someone had spent an obscene amount of money teaching her to walk. She held a thin glass tablet flat against her chest.

  The ‘downstairs logic’ clerk, her previous guide, froze mid-step, then blinked, his shoulders sagging with relief at the arrival of his replacement. Then he left the hall in a sudden burst, almost tripping over his own feet, fast enough that Kelly almost wondered if he’d been yanked off by invisible wires. As her original guide disappeared around a corner, Kelly was left with the new woman, completely intact.

  Kelly tilted her head. “Ah. That’s… a smooth transition. I guess you’re the boss now.”

  The woman smiled warmly at the comment and gestured toward the hall. “Ms. Kelly, welcome,” she said, voice sharp, controlled.

  “I’m Clara,” she said, voice clear and unyielding, her hands unclasped only to gesture toward the hall as if the place obeyed her personally. “I’ll be guiding you for this stage of your evaluation. You understand this is a combat test,” Clara said, eyes not meeting hers. “The test is for combat aptitude and endurance. It is non-lethal."

  "Why not just use virtual combat tests?" Kelly asked, folding her arms. "Holograms, digital opponents. Seems neater."

  “Mr. Ren Sato has a personal preference for real combat. He despises simulations.” Clara stated, her tone allowing no argument.

  Kelly blinked. “He does? Nice. Love that guy already.” She didn’t mean it.

  Clara continued. “This is direct, measurable, and final. We need authentic performance data, theoretical numbers are unreliable."

  Kelly surveyed the hall again. The walls were added, reinforced. Probably rated for blunt trauma up to some insane PSI. Probably could survive a tank crash if she cared to test. Not that she would. Probably. Her eyes scanned the high windows and padded walls. "Any cameras? Anybody lurking to see me trip over myself?”

  "There’s no surveillance in here. Only the machines you see integrated into the structure, you free to act without restraint," Clara said, indicating the faint, rhythmic lights along the walls and floor. "They will monitor biometric exertion, force output, kinematic efficiency. Nothing else. Everything you do counts. Let loose. Do not hold back. We need full clarity on your capabilities—legal, augmented, or otherwise.” Clara replied, her expression unchanged. “Illegal bodywork is permitted but will need legal upgrades once the test is complete.”

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

  "Will you require any weapons for the test?" Clara asked.

  Kelly let out a short, sharp laugh. "Nah. Got hands. Got feet. Got impatience. That should cover it."

  “That is up to you,” she said, her glass tablet beeped, confirming something. “Any offensive modifications, augmentations, or enhancements, illegal or otherwise?”

  Kelly tilted her head. “Illegal bodywork? Oh yeah. I’ve got loads. I bet people bring the weirdest upgrades. Not like mine. You ever see someone with magnetic ankles? No? Wouldn’t suggest it. Kills the mood.”

  Clara paused, almost like she considered questioning, then moved on as her glass tablet gave a soft chime.

  “Good.“ She glanced at it, then back at Kelly. "Please follow the guided instructions and wait here for the system to initiate. Everything else will be communicated through the system. There will be several tests before your final kumite,” Clara said again, eyes still on her tablet. “You should familiarize yourself.”

  Kelly’s brow furrowed. "Final what?"

  Her internal augment feed activated instantly, text and data layering across her vision:

  Kumite. Ancient eastern term used in ancient martial arts, the earliest form before the martial unifications, most commonly associated with the lost art of ‘karate.’ Literal meaning: "sparring," grappling with an opponent.

  A secondary, historical footnote flashed:

  Records suggest the "100-man kumite" is an extreme endurance test in the lost art of ‘Kyokushin’ karate. A single fighter faces 100 supreme-belt opponents consecutively in short rounds. A test of ultimate physical and mental fortitude. To pass, one must win at least half the matches.

  Kelly chuckled softly, shaking her head. “Okay, translation's busted. My ancient languages are rusty, but I'm pretty sure that word doesn't mean 'fight a hundred dudes.'" She shrugged, cracking her neck. "No biggie. I've fought a hundred dudes loads of times. This should be a piece of cake."

  Clara offered no confirmation or denial. She simply gave a curt nod.

  "You know, Clara," Kelly began, her tone conversational, "figuring out Haider's business has been my welcome project. The main income isn't hard to spot. It's the interplanetary work. The legally ambiguous science, the security contracts that exist in gray zones. The outright criminal logistics. The business of beating your competitors into the ground, not just outbidding them."

  Clara offered a polite, professional smile. "Haider’s innovation participates in competitive research and secure logistics across multiple jurisdictions. Our portfolio is intentionally diverse."

  "Sure, diverse," Kelly said, nodding as if they were discussing the weather. "And you're the good guys, too. Responsible for seventeen percent of the world's atmospheric purification. The big biohazard filters. The projects that scrub the deadly air. That's a very clean number for a company with a reputation that isn't so spotless."

  "That is the published contribution of our Atmospheric Revitalization Division," Clara confirmed, a note of formal pride in her voice. "It's a significant point of corporate civic engagement. And despite external perceptions, we are known internally as fair employers. Talent requires a respectful environment to thrive."

  Kelly had seen that fairness herself in the time since joining. The lack of fear in the halls, the lack of predatory oversight. It was unsettling in its decency. Practically a bastion of humane working conditions. They even had an arcade.

  It made the security stand out more. On her way in, she’d seen it. Tank-level personnel, operating at what had to be enhancement thirty or forty, watching the interior and exterior with flat-eyed focus. The building itself was a fortress of cutting-edge defensive systems, a sensible precaution in a city that was practically an active warzone. She’d even seen security teams in tight-fitting exosuits—equipment that could boost a person’s performance by several enhancement levels. Haider had spared no expense to keep its business running today.

  And of course, there was Ren Sato. She hadn't met him yet. He had to be at least a Elite level, sixty EQ or higher. But the surprising thing, which she’d learned from asking around in the upper floors, was his reputation. He was known as kind. Fair. Even friendly.

  He was a combat expert, supposedly, with huge mental flexibility. The word was he could instantly adapt to new augments, test them, and use them in interesting ways. His primary capabilities lay in stealth and infiltration. One very friendly applicant had even claimed that earlier in the year, on a recent job, Ren had survived three days on a Tüin outer world without being caught. Three whole days. Alone. On a world that most elites, and even demigods, would balk at entering without permission and an armed cohort. She doubted humanity had stealth that good.

  Given that unauthorized humans on that world were subject to immediate execution or aggressive ‘reeducation’ which was a fancy term for ‘delayed execution’, and given the technologically advanced, hunting-obsessed nature of that warlike race, Kelly honestly found it hard to believe.

  "Ren Sato seems to be a popular boss," Kelly said, watching Clara's reaction.

  Clara's professional smile warmed by a few genuine degrees. "Mr. Sato is highly respected. He sets the standard for competency and principle within our security operations. You'll understand when you meet him."

  Clara relaxed her posture, then gave Kelly a hopeful look. “Please wait for the combat systems. Follow the instructions. Push yourself. Don’t hold back. We need to see your real limits." With that, she turned and walked back toward the seamless door, which hissed shut behind her, leaving Kelly alone in the center of the massive, silent, waiting hall.

  Access to Dr. Haider’s network, his tech, his resources would help. No point having a genius on retainer if you didn’t use his toys.

  If Haider’s company could take her to Jennie quickly, then all was good. She’d play nice. Follow the contract. If they delayed too long, if they dragged their feet or jerked her around, she would simply take the information. Then she’d throw every soldier, every scientist, every asset in this building at the Cosmic Order God and see who survived—who managed not to scream themselves to death. It was a win-win. Either she got to Jennie fast, or she got a free army stress-test.

  Kelly looked around. The hall was huge. Empty, sterile, padded. Perfect for smashing bodies and measuring everything she was capable of.

  Kelly snorted. “Proof.

  Got it. So… I can go nuts?”

  The ceiling emitted a calm, clear voice, the kind used for helpful assistants and navigation apps. "Phase one will begin now. Please run the length of the track at your maximum sustainable speed."

  Kelly eyed the illuminated path on the floor. "Max sustainable, huh?" She took a breath, and then she was gone.

  It was far from a run, instead, it was something akin a very localized seismic event. The air compressed in front of her and shattered behind her. She reached the far wall before the system's first progress chime could finish. A sensor cluster sparked and died with a pathetic fizzle.

  "Thank you. Please proceed to the strength evaluation."

  Panels in the floor retracted. Massive, graphite-colored cubes ascended on hydraulic arms. A friendly, translucent notification appeared in her peripheral vision: First Object: 500 kg.

  Kelly smiled. Without any using any magic, she was 820% stronger than a baseline-peak human—all thanks to her new augments and passive Traits, humming in the background. She hardly bothered with lifting the cube. She threw it instead. The block left her hands and simply vanished, only to reappear as a crater in the far wall thirty meters away. The resulting BANG was so deep it felt like a physical shove. A fine mist of displaced dust snowed from the impact as the wall sank inwards to minimise pressure, before releasing the cube with dull Thwump.

  "Excellent. Please continue with the next object."

  She did. She threw them all. Each block was heavier than the last. Each impact was a thunderclap that made the impact zone tremble. The system then adopted a kinder tone, one Kelly was almost convinced had suddenly turned polite, and thanked her after each throw before guiding her to the next, heavier block. They had told her she shouldn’t hold back and should try her best. So Kelly did just that.

  Then the wall to her right dissolved at the combat systems command. Phase two began.

  "We will now assess resilience and dynamic reaction."

  A gauntlet of machines flooded into the hall. There were two kinds. Spherical drones with glowing blue barrels floated in like caffeinated pinballs, firing concussive light as if they had opinions about her face. Human-shaped droids made of matte-black alloy swarmed behind them, looking like stylish radiators who’d discovered they could punch really hard. Behind them, smaller, crab-like units with multiple tool-arms skittered and buzzed, welding plates on damaged machines and reactivating them. The drones and droids were slow to self-repair on their own, but the dedicated repair units made the process continuous, keeping everything humming along like some overachieving mechanic with an identity crisis. Kelly had never seen anything like it. The cost must’ve been absurd. She assumed it was so expensive its military use was impractical, or used in wars nobody would ever see or report.

  From the balconies high above, people started to gather. A handful of employees in Haider uniforms leaned over the rails. They’d watch for a minute before being forced to leave, presumably to do their jobs. Her actions had drawn attention. She could see them mouthing questions to each other. Who is that? What team will she be joining?

  Kelly saw no harm in a casual display. And she was certain that, despite assurances otherwise, someone in those overlooking balconies was taking notes, scribbling so hard it looked like their pen was running for office—she wouldn't be surprised if one of them already had a doodle of her face. Most of the operatives here had secrets and illegal augments. It was likely they would assume any peculiarities she showed were something similar, or whatever mutation they kept mistakenly insisting she had. If they, despite all the contracts and promises, decided to try to capture her after seeing some of what she could do, like everyone else who had tried, well. Fighting her way out of the building wouldn’t be so bad either. She’d refuse to die out of sheer principle. She’d faced worse.

  The training and practice for her Fortress of Endurance, Fortress of Flame, and Disciple of Deflection was spectacular. It was built to scale, to find her limits, and it made her wonder if the designers had a secret side hobby in watching people flail stylishly. The intensity, difficulty, and variance changed the better she performed, turning every success into a small, chaotic celebration of explosions and sparks. It allowed her to acclimate to her new mana-fueled augments and how they interacted with her traits and titles. It was so good in fact, that she gained a new title.

  A notification, crisp and clear, appeared in the center of her vision.

  [New Title Acquired: Avatar of Evasion (Grade-I)]

  [Avatar of Evasion (I): You have evaded 100,000 attacks in less than 200 hours. When equipped, this Title increases the probability that strikes and projectiles aimed at you will miss by 5%]

  The self-repairing combatants she had already thrown around were starting to resemble abstract sculptures, flipping themselves over in ways that made no sense but were very committed.

  And in all this, she hadn't even used her werewolf transformation to boost all of her specializations. She hadn't activated her Death’s Foe title. She hadn't used her Mimic Skin to cause her resilience to skyrocket, or utilized her mana sensitivity, or combined it with her Mana Conduit Trait to turn her transforming, shape-memory weapon into something truly extraordinary, nor had she used it to boost her mana-empowered augments to produce something beyond what she should be capable of.

  She was just getting warmed up.