Cherreads

Chapter 4 - Chapter 4: Warnack Jordan

The High Warnack's voice was barely a whisper, yet it carried the weight of centuries. "Why didn't you leave when you had the chance?"

Dan stood tall, gaze unwavering. "Because I don't want to be just another ordinary guy. I've got something real here—a chance. I want to be someone people respect. I've had enough of the Dukedom's chains. I want more. I want to be part of Warnack."

The High Warnack studied him in silence.

The dim lighting of the hall wrapped his face in shifting shadows, his expression unreadable. But beneath that calm exterior, something flickered—approval, rare and restrained. This ant had spirit. The kind that cracked through stone. The very reason he'd brought Dan in to begin with. He gave a small, final nod.

"Welcome to Warnack."

Day 1

Dan's new life began not with ceremony, but with action. The High Warnack himself oversaw his orientation—an unexpected gesture that left Dan both honored and slightly on edge.

The base stretched like a steel leviathan beneath the earth, humming with silent machines and pulsing with unseen energies. Holographic panels lit up in the walls, displaying rotating planetary systems, lists of training schedules, and encrypted broadcasts. Everything smelled faintly of metal, ozone, and burning ambition.

Dan's eyes gleamed when they reached the training complex. Obsidian-black floors, reinforced by gravity-altering tech, reflected the high domed ceiling dotted with sky-blue lights. Target drones floated silently along magnetic tracks. The place was a sanctuary for warriors. But what drew his curiosity more than anything was the "Collection of Arts."

He entered the chamber—a library of movements and mystic codes. Dozens of screens flickered with glowing silhouettes practicing martial sequences. Yet, it was underwhelming. Most were arcade-level arts, common and practical. No whisper of true esoterica.

Dan didn't complain. He had his own arts now—rare, dangerous, and unpolished. And in the solitude of the training halls, mostly deserted by complacent guards, he had room to push his boundaries.

From dusk until the facility dimmed for night, he trained. His movements were raw, sharp, and full of intent. Sparks flew from the soles of his boots as he danced through footwork drills. Invisible auras clashed in silent collisions as he summoned and refined techniques whose names were long lost to the public.

By the fourth day, his body began to betray him.

The routine was carved into his bones: wake, work, eat, train, collapse, repeat. Yet the deeper he went into mastering his esoteric ways, the clearer the flaw became—his body couldn't keep up. His muscles burned faster than they should. His lungs ached from shallow reserves. Even guards with average skill could likely overpower him in a brawl.

He stormed into the High Warnack's private chamber, frustration crackling off him like static.

"I've got the aura of an esoteric," Dan said, jaw clenched. "But my body… it's weak. One hit, and I'm done. What now?"

Jordan—his real name, though few dared use it—leaned against a console, arms folded. "You've touched the path," he said, voice calm, "but your body's still on the other side. It takes years to grow into that power. Internal strength isn't something you fake."

Dan didn't hesitate. "Then how do I catch up?"

Jordan tilted his head. "You want shortcuts."

"I want solutions."

"Beast flesh," he said, ticking off fingers. "Powerful—but deadly if you can't survive the digestion. Rare herbs, if you're rich. Or buy an internal strength art and train until your bones break."

Dan's silence spoke louder than protest.

Jordan regarded him for a moment. Then turned. "Come."

The ship was a monolith of shadow and silent grace, parked in the deepest hangar of the facility. Its sleek black surface shimmered with starlight paint that shifted color as it moved. Power coursed just beneath its skin like a living thing. It wasn't just a vessel—it was a relic. Stolen, undoubtedly, but glorious.

Inside, they passed through whispering halls lined with high-tech relics, golden lighting panels, and walls that shimmered with ghostly runes. Finally, Jordan led him to a compact chamber pulsing with energy.

"This is where truth speaks," he said, pressing his palm to a glowing circular panel on the wall.

[PEAK ESOTERIC STRENGTH RECORDED]

Dan stepped up, placing his hand flat against the cool surface. Light danced across his forearm. He felt his aura ripple as the machine scanned his essence.

[PEAK ARCADE STRENGTH RECORDED]

There it was. Proof. His aura surged with promise, but his physical vessel remained that of a common fighter. Dan's fists tightened. He wouldn't accept this imbalance. He couldn't.

Later, Dan stood across from Jordan in the training arena. The air smelled faintly of smoke and copper, a scent that always preceded combat. They circled each other on the black mat, shadows shifting under the overhead light.

Dan had studied this man's fighting style. He knew the rhythm—blinding speed, unrelenting pressure, and a reliance on a specific long-range esoteric art.

Jordan moved first, like lightning slashed from the void. But Dan was ready. He flowed around the strike, his feet whispering across the mat. He could feel the phantom pressure of Jordan's fist pass mere inches from his neck.

He responded with precision.

Dan activated Echo Grasp—a mystic pulse that froze motion in time. For two seconds, Jordan was suspended mid-lunge. And that was all Dan needed.

He threw Blaze Veil. A cloth laced with enchanted thread spiraled through the air, igniting the moment it touched skin. Thin, glinting needles hidden within the fabric burrowed into Jordan's armor with surgical precision.

A muffled blast echoed through the chamber. Smoke billowed in a spiraling vortex before clearing.

Jordan lay sprawled, breath ragged, blood streaking his side. Dan blinked in surprise. Maybe I overdid it. But there was no time to hesitate. He scooped up Jordan's limp body, gripping his shoulder tightly—copying his esoteric energy silently through the link.

The medical bay door slid open with a gentle hiss.

Dan walked in—only to stop mid-step.

The girl from earlier was there, half-turned, in the middle of changing. Others gasped and shifted, but Dan ignored the flurry of movement. His mind was elsewhere. He moved toward a containment pod and carefully laid Jordan inside.

The same girl stepped in to help him adjust the body, her movements brisk but steady.

"You did this to Jordan?" she asked coldly.

Dan didn't flinch. "Yeah."

For a moment, their eyes met—hers burning with silent judgment, his calm and unreadable. She broke the stare first.

"So, you're the guy who trains till midnight every day." A small smirk touched her lips. "Dan, right?"

"That's me."

"Rose," she said, turning away.

Just as she disappeared, a pale-blue notification flared before his eyes.

[The Knowing Path has acquired two esoteric ways:]

Skydrift Mirage

Thousandfold Grasp

Dan's breath caught.

Thousandfold Grasp? Jordan had never used that during the fight.

A chill slid down his spine. If Jordan had used that technique...

I'd be the one lying in that pod.

He hadn't won. He'd been allowed to win.

On the fifth day.

Dan woke as he had every morning, the dim ceiling light of his chamber humming softly above. He dressed quickly, tightening his utility belt with practiced ease. But the moment he stepped out, he felt it—an invisible shift in the air, like the weight of eyes pressing gently on his back.

Two guards stationed outside stood straighter. Then, in unison, they saluted.

Dan blinked, uncertain. No one had ever saluted him before. He gave a small, awkward nod in return, continuing down the corridor. As he walked through the steel-lined halls of the base, more heads turned. Whispers trailed behind him like the echoes of a forgotten storm. Some guards offered brief nods of recognition; others gave tight-lipped smiles, the kind reserved for warriors who had earned their place.

What happened overnight?

Dan's steps grew slower, heavier—not from fear, but the strange weight of newfound respect. The sterile corridors of Warnack's underbelly, once cold and indifferent, now felt warmer, alive with unspoken admiration.

For the first time, Dan wasn't invisible. He wasn't just another newcomer. He walked like someone who belonged.

Word had spread. Whispers of elite experts arriving in mere days, of evaluations that could shift power balances and shake the very bones of Warnack. Rumors swirled through the ranks like morning fog—thick with hope, fear, and ambition.

Dan opened his status panel with a thought. Light-blue glyphs flickered in the air before him, each one pulsing faintly with mystic energy.

Acquired Esoteric Ways:

Golden Break, Art of Disguise, Skydrift Mirage, Thousandfold Grasp, Heavenpierce Thread, Voidpulse Rend

A quiet grin tugged at his lips.

What would all this have cost if I'd tried to buy it? Some of these arts were whispered about in hushed corners of black markets—many considered unobtainable.

His mind lingered on Voidpulse Rend.

The technique was raw destruction. Anything Dan touched with intent became... unstable. As though the world itself rejected its form. Wood splintered like paper, steel corroded mid-grip, and even reinforced tech panels warped under his fingers. It didn't explode—it unraveled, atom by atom, as though existence itself stepped back in alarm.

Then there was Heavenpierce Thread. Refined. Deadly. Power condensed into an invisible filament no thicker than breath, yet capable of slicing through barrier steel and soul-forged armor. The technique demanded more than strength—it demanded mastery of aura and will. But its elegance was unmatched.

Today, however, he had his sights set on Skydrift Mirage.

Dan stepped onto the open platform atop the training tower, where the wind was sharp and clouds crawled across a muted sky. With a steady breath, he activated the art.

A soft glow enveloped his limbs, weight abandoning his body like steam dissolving into air. He jumped—and didn't fall.

He hovered.

The sky accepted him.

He twisted mid-air, gliding like a drifting feather yet with a dancer's precision. Every motion was fluid—he spun sideways, dipped low, and soared upward again in a spiraling arc. The world below blurred. The wind roared in his ears, but he moved like he belonged among it, like a thread weaving through the seams of the sky itself.

This wasn't flight. This was freedom.

He pushed the limits—darting left, flipping backward, skimming low over the stone courtyard until his aura reserves blinked red in warning. Gravity yanked him back. He landed hard, knees buckling, lungs burning.

Panting, Dan looked up at the overcast sky.

A powerful technique… but power-hungry, he mused.

He checked his panel again. His aura reserves had dropped too low for Thousandfold Grasp. Disappointment flickered—but only for a moment. Anticipation kindled just as quickly.

Tomorrow, he thought, rising slowly. Tomorrow, I'll master it.

More Chapters