Chương 37: Chapter 36: The F-Rank Gunner (End Of Arc 1)

Morning on Level Ten never had sunlight. Instead, it had something colder. Hot machine oil vaporizing from ancient ventilation pipes. Metallic dust drifting down like artificial snow. Damp chill rising from rusted conduits and leaking refrigeration lines. And beneath all of it— The scent of thousands of people preparing for violence. Level Ten did not wake up. It rebooted. Badly. First, the pipes groaned. Then the vents coughed.

Then the markets screamed open, the gambling dens changed shifts, the black clinics washed yesterday's blood into the drains, and the arena began feeding again. Z-69 stood alone in the small training yard behind the arena. A cracked square of concrete wedged between two abandoned storage blocks. Overhead neon strips flickered unevenly, painting violet shadows across the ground and across his face.

Fine Prime Flux dust drifted through the yard in lazy spirals, almost invisible unless the light caught it at the right angle. It clung to rusted railings, broken crates, old impact marks, and the breath of anyone still human enough to need breathing. Z-69 did not. He sat on top of a stainless-steel cargo crate. The Heaven-Sundering Short Blade rested between his fingers, turning slowly with each shift of his wrist. He was not polishing it. Not sharpening it. Not checking for damage.

He simply watched the blade rotate, as if staring long enough might unlock a memory that refused to surface. Whenever the metal caught the light just right, something pulsed inside him. A battlefield. A silhouette. A stance. A motion. A strike pattern. Things his mind could not recall. Things his body remembered anyway. The blade did not feel like a weapon he had bought. It felt like an unfinished sentence waiting for him to remember the final word. A faint violet arc crawled along the edge.

Nearby Prime Flux dust recoiled. Not blown away. Rejected. Z-69 watched that too. Prime Flux moved through the world like a current. Through air. Flesh. Machines. Old reactors. Arena systems. Human nerves. Awakened bodies. But Thunderlight did not flow like other outputs. It judged. Rejected. Burned. He still did not understand it. His body did. That was becoming a pattern. The moment he tried to grasp the memory with thought alone, the image dissolved into static. He let the blade slow to a stop.

Footsteps echoed from the corridor. Ten arrived breathless. Still wrapped in bandages like someone held together with tape, medicine, and stubborn hope. Sweat dripped from his chin. His bandages were stained with faint red patches. His right arm hung slightly wrong, set in a hurry by someone with strong opinions about speed and weak opinions about comfort. He clutched his side while trying very hard to stand tall.

"I—I'm here!" He raised one hand in an awkward salute. Instantly regretted it. Winced. Lowered the arm. Z-69 looked at him. Calm. Unblinking. Silent as an old machine booting up.

"You're still alive," Z-69 said.

"Good." Ten swallowed. Z-69 slid off the crate.

"Let's begin." Ten nodded with excessive enthusiasm, like a soldier being told he had somehow passed inspection while actively bleeding. Z-69 walked to the center of the yard and motioned for him to follow.

"Attack me." Ten lifted his hands into a stance. Not perfect. Not good. But not completely wrong. Someone had taught him the basics once. Ten had clearly practiced those basics badly, then survived long enough to make bad practice useful. His first punch came from the shoulder. Straight. Earnest. Weak. His fist struck Z-69's open palm. Clack. It was like hitting the side of a steel container. Ten yelped, stumbled back, and clutched his knuckles.

"Ow—ow—ow! My hand!" Z-69 inspected Ten's trembling wrist briefly. Then stated, without emotion, "You're very weak." Ten wilted like a wet rag.

"I… I know…"

"No," Z-69 said.

"You are not ordinary weak." Ten blinked.

"…Huh?"

"You are F-rank weak." A voice rang out from behind them.

"F-rank? Ha!" John had arrived. He walked out of the back door with a cigarette hanging from his lips, one hand shoved into his coat pocket, looking exactly like a man who had zero expectations for humanity and kept being proven right.

"This brat's bones aren't even F-rank. They're spaghetti-rank. One bad hit and he snaps like a breadstick." Ten's shoulders drooped so fast he looked like he might melt into the floor.

"I really am trying…" John jabbed a solder pen at him like an accusing finger.

"Kid, I need to ask." This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it. His voice carried genuine disbelief.

"How the hell did you pass Round Three?" Ten straightened like a student answering a terrifying teacher.

"Well… uh…" He looked down.

"I don't really know. The only match I won was because my opponent slipped, fell into a pit, and knocked himself out." A pause.

"I still don't understand how." John stared. Then slowly— Inevitably— He burst into laughter.

"Oh my god." He bent over, one hand on his knee.

"Oh. My. God. This kid is powered by divine accident." Ten looked devastated. John wiped an imaginary tear from one eye.

"The chosen one of dumb luck." Z-69 did not laugh. He simply lifted one hand and motioned Ten forward again.

"Do not use your body." Ten hesitated.

"What?"

"Use something else." Ten blinked.

"Like… my heart?"

"No."

"My spirit?"

"No."

"My faith?"

"No."

"My burning desire to climb upward and prove myself?" John snorted.

"That one gets people killed faster." Ten turned back to Z-69, desperate now.

"Then what?" Z-69 did not explain. He bent down and picked up a small metal pellet from the toolbox nearby.

"Close your eyes." Ten hesitated. Then obeyed. Z-69 flicked the pellet. Whoosh. Ten tilted his head left a split second before the pellet passed by. Not fast. Just early. Z-69 picked up a second pellet and threw it harder. Ten ducked under it. Again, not with speed. With timing. A third pellet came from behind. Ten stepped backward. Not too far. Not too little. Just enough. Z-69 nodded to himself.

"That." Ten opened his eyes, completely lost.

"Huh?"

"Your strength." Ten stared at him.

"I thought… that was just luck." John's laughter stopped. He looked at Ten again. Properly this time. Then his cybernetic eye narrowed.

"Hold still." Ten froze. John pulled a compact scanner from his coat and swept it across the boy's body. The scanner beeped. Then coughed. Then displayed the kind of result John usually associated with cheap equipment and disappointing people. [SUBJECT: TEN] [PRIME FLUX OUTPUT: F-RANK] [MUSCULAR REINFORCEMENT: LOW] [REACTION SPEED: BELOW COMBAT STANDARD] [CHANNEL STABILITY: MEDIOCRE] Ten visibly shrank. John's eyebrow rose. Then the scanner added another line.

[SENSORY PREDICTION ANOMALY: DETECTED] [PATTERN ANTICIPATION: ABNORMAL] [MICRO-INTENT RESPONSE: HIGH] John stopped smiling.

"Oh." Ten looked up.

"Is… is 'oh' good?" John stared at the scanner. Then at Ten. Then at Z-69.

"Luck? No." He tapped the display.

"That thing you have is not luck. Not exactly." Ten swallowed.

"What is it?"

"Instinct," John said.

"Sensory reflex. Battle intuition. Pattern anticipation. Pick whichever label makes you feel less pathetic." He looked almost annoyed by the result.

"Your Prime Flux output is garbage. Your body reinforcement is garbage. Your basic stats are a municipal tragedy." Ten's face fell again.

"But," John continued, "your nervous system reacts to intent before motion completes. You're reading micro-signals. Weight shifts. Breath rhythm. Air pressure. Muscle preparation. Maybe even tiny Prime Flux disturbances before an attack fully forms." Ten stared. John pointed the solder pen at him.

"Normal weaklings don't do that. Normal weaklings get hit in the face and learn philosophy on the floor." Ten's expression changed slowly. As if someone had told him he was not garbage after all. Z-69 stepped closer.

"Your body is weak," he said.

"But your instinct is strong." Ten's throat moved.

"What do I do with that?"

"Survive long enough for it to matter." Then Z-69 began teaching him. Not strength. Ten did not have that. Not speed. Ten did not have that either. Not toughness. His body seemed personally opposed to the concept. Z-69 taught him how not to waste movement. How to stand without locking the knees. How to keep the feet close enough to move but far enough not to collapse. How to feel vibration through the soles. How to notice air displacement before impact. How to watch the opponent's center instead of the weapon.

How to stop looking for the strike and start noticing the decision that came before it. Z-69 was not really teaching. He was describing things he did instinctively. Combat memory carved into his bones. Movements older than his broken recollections. Ten copied them earnestly. And shockingly— He learned fast. Too fast. Within minutes, he was dodging three out of five of Z-69's normal-speed strikes. Not because his body was good. His body was terrible. But his timing was clean.

His fear sharpened instead of scattering him. His instincts caught patterns before his mind understood them. John watched with his eyebrows raised halfway to his hairline.

"This brat…" He checked the scanner again. The numbers were still awful. The anomaly line was not.

"…has more potential than I thought." Ten almost smiled. John immediately pointed at him.

"Don't look happy. You're still a wet paper bag with survival anxiety." The almost-smile vanished.

"Yes, sir." Z-69 walked to the weapons rack.

"Choose a weapon." Ten hurried over. He grabbed a wooden stick.

"No." Ten returned it and grabbed a wooden sword.

"No." Ten grabbed a rusty iron pipe.

"Absolutely not." Ten looked crushed.

"What am I supposed to use?" John groaned. He opened his coat and pulled out two weapons. A battered military dagger. And a worn-out energy gun that had clearly seen better centuries.

"These two suit you." Ten stared at them like sacred relics. John shoved them into his hands.

"I'm lending them. Return them when you reach Level Nine. They have sentimental value." Ten held the weapons carefully. The dagger was short, practical, ugly, and well-balanced. The gun was old enough to have a history and stubborn enough to still work. John pointed at the weapon.

"Low-output Flux cell. Don't fire continuously unless you want it to explode in your hand and turn your inspirational climb into modern art." Ten nodded violently.

"Yes, sir!" Z-69 glanced at John.

"Why didn't I get a gun?" John froze.

"…What?"

"You didn't give me a gun." Z-69 held out one hand.

"Give me one." John nearly choked on his cigarette.

"Excuse me? You? With a gun?" He looked personally offended.

"You're the Immortal Thunderlight. You fire lightning from your hands. Gun users are supposed to compensate for not being walking artillery." Z-69's hand remained extended.

"I want one now." John stared at him. Z-69 stared back. Lumina, who had appeared at some point on top of a nearby crate, opened one eye. Give him the gun. I want to see what happens. John pointed at her.

"You are not helping." I am helping my curiosity. John muttered several curses, then reluctantly pulled a compact pistol from an inner pocket.

"This was from my younger days." He placed it in Z-69's palm.

"Do not lose it." Z-69 inspected the weapon.

"Does it use Prime Flux?"

"Standard micro-cell," John said.

"Converts stored charge into a focused kinetic-energy bolt. Simple. Reliable. Boring. Exactly what you are not." Z-69 raised the gun and aimed at a cracked target plate across the yard. John's expression changed instantly.

"Do not—" Bang. The shot struck the outer edge of the target. Not bad. Not good. Very average. John looked horrified.

"You missed the center." Z-69 lowered the gun.

"Yes."

"You have lightning instincts and you missed the center."

"I have not used a gun before." John placed one hand over his face.

"The fall of civilization hurts less than this." Lumina's mental laughter sparkled through the yard. The Immortal Thunderlight has discovered skill issue. Z-69 looked at her.

"I will practice." Please do. This is deeply entertaining. Training resumed. Z-69 moved slowly on purpose. No lightning. No enhancements. No overwhelming force. He forced Ten to rely entirely on instinct. Ten attacked with the dagger. Correct angle. Correct direction. Pathetic force. Z-69 dodged with a lazy lean. Ten switched to the gun. The old weapon buzzed like a dying insect. But Ten's aim— Was frighteningly good. Not fast. Not powerful. But accurate.

Every shot went where Z-69 would have been if he had moved like a normal opponent. When Z-69 shifted rhythm, Ten's next shot adapted. Not perfectly. But faster than expected. Every angle aimed naturally at weak points. Throat. Knee. Wrist. Eye-line. Armor gaps. Z-69 dodged everything. But inside, he acknowledged it. His instinct synchronizes to movement pattern. The boy was not strong. But in the right environment, he was dangerous. John noticed too.

"Gun stays with him," he said. Z-69 tilted his head.

"I also want one."

"You get to borrow one."

"Then I will keep this one."

"No, you will not." Z-69 looked down at the gun. Then at John. John narrowed his eyes.

"Do not look at me with undead property-law confusion. That pistol is mine." Z-69 placed it on his belt anyway. John's jaw tightened. Lumina's tail twitched happily. Eventually, after several rounds, Ten collapsed to the ground. His lungs burned. His arms shook violently. His bandages were half-loose. But his eyes still glowed with determination.

"D… did I do okay?" Z-69 picked up the dagger Ten had dropped and nodded once.

"You did well." Ten nearly cried. John tossed a pouch of supplies at him before that could happen. Ten barely caught it.

"Rations. Water. Painkillers. Bandage sealant. One emergency low-grade Flux stabilizer." Ten stared at the pouch. John's voice hardened.

"Only use the stabilizer if your channels start tearing. It won't make you stronger. It just keeps your nervous system from submitting a formal resignation." Ten nodded quickly.

"Yes, sir."

"And don't die," John added.

"Return my damn weapons." Ten bowed violently.

"YES, SIR! Thank you, sir!" The speaker on the wall crackled.

"ATTENTION: ROUND FOUR — THE TOWER — WILL BEGIN IN FOUR HOURS." Ten straightened immediately, like a soldier hearing a war horn. Then he spun toward Z-69.

"Thank you… for today." His hands tightened around the dagger and old gun.

"I won't give up. I swear I'll reach Level Nine." Z-69 nodded.

"Don't die." It was the closest thing to encouragement Ten had ever received. He ran off, bandages flying behind him like battle flags. John watched him go. Then sighed.

"That kid is going to be a problem." Z-69 looked at him.

"In what way?"

"The annoying kind that survives things he shouldn't." Z-69 considered that.

"Good." John shook his head.

"Of course you'd say that." Back in their quarters, John grabbed his tools and immediately began hammering dents out of Z-69's armor. The room smelled of hot metal, disinfectant, old smoke, and the faint ozone trace of Thunderlight residue clinging to every damaged plate. Lumina curled against Z-69's neck, tail wrapped around him like a fluffy scarf, occasionally twitching in half-sleep. Her spiritual reserves were still dim. She radiated exhaustion like a lantern running out of fuel. Z-69 sat quietly.

His fingers opened and closed slowly. During training, his body had moved before he thought. His feet had shifted before he commanded them. His blade had parried before he consciously chose to counter. His body was not responding to memory. It was remembering for him. The scanner on the table blinked beside him, still showing partial combat data from the training yard.

[THUNDERLIGHT OUTPUT: MINIMAL] [PRIME FLUX INTERACTION: REJECTION RESPONSE] [MUSCLE MEMORY INDEX: RISING] [CORE-BODY FUSION: MARGINAL IMPROVEMENT] Z-69 stared at the last line.

"Fusion rate increased." John did not look up from the armor.

"Barely."

"Still increased."

"Barely still counts, unfortunately." John tightened a screw.

"Training helps because it forces your body and core to negotiate without full crisis conditions. Battle does it faster, but battle also tries to kill you." A pause.

"Very rude teacher. Excellent curriculum." Z-69 flexed his hand again.

"My body remembers."

"Bits of it."

"Enough?" John paused. Then resumed working.

"For the Tower? Probably not." A beat.

"But you have survived with less." Lumina peeked up at Z-69. Her voice was soft as a sigh. Did something come back? Z-69 stared at his hand for a long time.

"No." Lumina nuzzled into his jaw gently. But your body remembers. A pause. That is enough for now. Z-69 did not argue. It was true. The loudspeaker boomed suddenly, echoing through the walls.

"CONTESTANT NUMBER 69 — PREPARE YOURSELF." Static.

"THE TOWER HAS OPENED." The room fell still. Even John stopped working. For a few seconds, only the ventilation unit made sound. Then Z-69 stood. A faint violet spark flickered inside his green eyes. Not memory. Resolve. He took the Heaven-Sundering Short Blade. Fastened the damaged armor over his body. Strapped the compact pistol to his hip. John noticed instantly. His eyes narrowed.

"That is still my gun." Z-69 said nothing.

"That silence is theft." Still nothing. Lumina jumped off his shoulder and onto the bed. Good luck. She lifted one tiny paw. And please do not eat the other contestants. Z-69 looked at her.

"I will try." That is not as comforting as you think it is. John leaned back, cigarette glowing in the dim light. His face was half-shadow, half-smoke.

"See you on Level Nine," he muttered. Z-69 paused at the door. For a moment, the room looked almost still enough to be safe. John with his tools. Lumina curled on the bed. The smell of smoke and hot metal. A broken kind of home, assembled from bad decisions and worse circumstances. Then the moment passed.

"See you all later," Z-69 replied. Brief. Flat. Enough. The door slid open. Cold hallway air swept in, carrying the scent of dust, metal, old fear, and new danger. The scent of a climb that would change everything. Beyond the corridor, the path to the Tower waited. Not with the hum of normal machinery. Not with the pulse of Prime Flux conduits. Something older lay ahead. Something watching. Z-69 stepped forward.

"The Tower begins."