The air in the chambers always smelled the same—recycled, metallic, and dry. Too clean to feel alive. Artificial lights buzzed faintly overhead, casting a sterile white over the bare concrete floors. Within each chamber, tension hung like a second ceiling.
Chamber 1 was louder than most that day. Children murmured, voices low, gathering near the grated vents that connected to other wings.
"Have you heard?" one boy said, hushed but eager. "They say the famous AB finally took the X-Gene compound."
A pause. Then another voice—older, calmer, laced with experience—answered.
O-243, now thirteen, broad-shouldered and sharper than ever, sat at the edge of his bed, arms crossed.
"Tch." A grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Let's see what he has for us."
O had come here three years ago, at the age of ten. In that time, he'd risen through every fight and challenge, eventually becoming the unshaken leader of Chamber 1. To the others, he was more than just strong—he was the one they all followed, the one they watched.
But AB? That was new Class. New genetic power. And in Karnell, anything new meant one thing: disruption.
In Chamber 5, R-932 sat upside-down on his bed, legs hanging over the wall, staring at nothing in particular. At almost seven now, he had grown into his odd, twitchy awareness—a strange foresight that often made him say the right thing a second before it mattered.
He'd been three and a half when he arrived. Most thought he was just a weirdo with a lazy eye and bad posture.
Now? They paid attention when he muttered.
"Let's see what he has for us," he said under his breath, echoing O's words as if they had traveled through the vents.
In Chamber 8, Room 1, the air was thinner. Y-271 lay curled beneath a worn blanket, skin pale as frost. At seven years old, she looked older—but weaker. Her body was frail, stretched thin by the constant drain of her healing gift.
Blood dribbled from the corner of her mouth after a coughing fit. No researcher even looked her way. They had already extracted enough data from her.
There were medicines in that time—painful, volatile organ stimulants, and limb regenerators that only the rich could afford. Even then, side effects were common: madness, cancer, mutation.
But Y-Class children like her could do what science couldn't—heal anything, regrow limbs, organs, even sickness—within seconds. It drained vitality, but to the researchers, it was more efficient than any drug.
She was just a tool. Replaceable.
Especially now that Y-906 had arrived. Younger. Healthier. Brighter.
Back in Chamber 7, the S-Twins, S-410 and S-411, lounged side by side. Six years old, identical in red eyes and pale skin. Born killers with linked minds, volatile psyches, and fire at their fingertips.
"They're all talking about him," said S-410, tone light
"Mm." S-411 narrowed her gaze at the flickering ceiling light. "Let's make him useful."
"Puppet?"
"Tool."
They smiled at the same time.
"New or not, he'll fall into place."
Later that day, when the assignments were updated, AB-774 was led into Chamber 8, Room 4—where Y-906 already sat. The guards entered without words, scanned the door, then stepped aside as the white-haired boy was brought in.
He looked almost like a ghost. Pale skin. Snow-colored hair. Eyes too dark for a child. He moved quietly, not out of fear, but stillness. Unbothered.
He was assigned to the bed in the corner.
Y-906 raised an eyebrow.
She watched him for a long time.
He didn't even glance her way.
That gave her pause.
She didn't like being ignored.
To her, it wasn't silence—it was arrogance.
Who does he think he is?
She felt her pride flare—offended, slighted. She was not just some girl in the background. She was Y-906. Everyone knew her.
Still, something about him—the way he sat—made her hesitate.
After a long stretch of silence, she finally broke it.
"So you're the one they're all afraid of?" she said, lips curling. "The famous AB."
He didn't answer. He didn't even look at her.
That offended her.
"You don't talk much," she said flatly.
No answer.
Her eyes narrowed.
"Of course you know who I am. Everyone knows me. I'm Y-906."
Still nothing.
She didn't like him. But curiosity gnawed at her.
"You better remember that."
Her tone dripped with self-assurance, chin tilted ever so slightly.
Like a queen addressing a servant.
He didn't look up.
But he spoke, finally. His voice was low, smooth, emotionless:
"I remember everything."
That gave her pause again. His tone—it was cold and felt honest. As if remembering wasn't a choice.
She studied him more carefully now.
He had seen the researchers earlier that day, talking about her before he entered the room.
He already knew her.
That night, the lights dimmed. The hum of the chambers softened. Somewhere in the distant halls, a child screamed in sleep.
In Room 4, neither AB nor Y-906 moved. The silence between them wasn't empty—it was heavy. Not friendship. But something else. A strange gravity, just beginning to form.
Something was shifting.
And all of Karnell would feel it soon.
The next morning, the sirens blared.
A sharp hiss echoed through every vent, followed by the mechanical voice of a guard barking the same command across all eleven chambers:
"ASSEMBLE. PHYSICAL TRAINING. NOW."
The floor lights flicked on one by one. Children groaned, limbs heavy with exhaustion. Most had only just begun to adapt to the second X-Gene injection. Their bones still ached. Muscles trembled. The mana coursing through their blood made their skin itch and pulse irregularly.
But in Karnell, rest was not a privilege. And disobedience was a mistake few dared twice.
Doors opened with heavy metallic clangs, and the children filed out, half-limping, half-dragging themselves to the training floor beneath the main wing.
Overhead, the gray panels shifted aside to reveal the massive observation windows, where researchers and officers stood behind reinforced glass. Scoff Karios wasn't there. But Livia was. So was Kaios Verma, his black eyes fixed downward as tubes hissed softly around his collar. Records were being kept.
Everyone wanted to see one thing.
AB-774.
Some had only caught glimpses. But now, all eyes would be on him. Would he manifest something? Would he break the records? Was he the one Scoff had whispered about to his inner circle?
Even the instructors had been briefed: push him.
The children stood in stiff rows. Wobbling, pale, but standing.
Some vomited quietly. Some trembled. But none stepped out of line.
The man in charge today was Instructor Halgen—mid-forties, scarred mouth, dull voice, brutal hands. He paced once through the rows, arms behind his back. His boots thudded deliberately over the concrete floor. Stopping only when he stood near the youngest end of the line.
He scanned the names on the datapod.
Then looked up.
"AB-774. Step forward."
Silence rippled through the ranks.
The white-haired boy obeyed without delay.
Even tired, his movement was clean—measured. He walked without a limp. Eyes straight ahead. Still unreadable.
A few murmurs passed between older children.
"Finally," S-411 whispered to her twin.
S-410 grinned. "Let's see the monster."
"Initiate sparring match," Halgen said, turning back to the chart. "Pair him with T-950."
More whispers now.
T-950. A boy only four years old, but already noted as abnormally gifted. Mana circulated through his torso, classifying him as a T-Class—extremely rare in such young age. Rumors said he cracked an older child's ribs last week with a single body blow.
The boy stepped forward with an eager hop.
Small. Black-haired. Bright-eyed. His expression gleamed with confidence that could only come from too much praise too early.
"I want him," T-950 said, pointing without hesitation. "AB is my opponent. I'll show everyone my worth."
Halgen gave a nod and stepped back.
The circle cleared.
Even the older children, from Chambers 1 to 11, turned slightly in place to watch.
Kaios leaned toward the microphone behind the glass. "Begin."
A silent beep sounded. The lights above the sparring ring flared.
T-950 charged immediately.
Despite his size, he moved fast. His feet didn't drag. He dropped low, fists clenched, and aimed for AB's midsection with practiced momentum.
AB didn't react.
He stood as if not fully present.
The blow landed—hard.
A crack of air and a loud thud as AB staggered back.
Some children flinched. Some gasped. A few grinned.
T-950 didn't stop.
Another strike—this time a rising uppercut to the ribs. The sound echoed again.
AB hit the ground, knees first, then shoulder. Not knocked out—but clearly downed.
No defense. No power. No retaliation.
He blinked once.
The room went quiet.
"No activation?" someone muttered near the edge.
"Is that it?" O-243 scoffed.
Even the S-Twins looked bored.
T-950 stood over him, breathing hard, then turned to the line.
"I told you! I told you I could take him!"
Children looked at each other, disappointed or annoyed.
AB sat up slowly, but didn't rise.
His face held no shame. No frustration. No expression.
Kaios watched from above. His fingers drummed the table once.
Still nothing. Not even a flicker of defense reflex. And yet… the mana readings had spiked briefly earlier. Almost imperceptibly.
He's holding it. Suppressing it. Kaios's eyes narrowed.
Livia frowned slightly, glancing at her datapod.
"No response to trauma," she said. "No surge in mana…"
Kaios said nothing. But his jaw tightened.
"End match," Halgen declared. "Return to lines."
T-950 strutted back with a smirk.
AB rose at his own pace, dusting nothing from his knees.
The spar was over. And for now, so was the anticipation.
Later, when the children returned to their chambers, rumors twisted.
Some called him a fake.
Others said he was holding back.
A few believed he was defective.
But in Room 4 of Chamber 8, Y-906 said nothing.
She stared at the back of AB's head long after lights dimmed.
And whispered only to herself:
"Why didn't you fight?"
He was already asleep.
Or pretending to be.