The screech of metal clashing against metal echoed through the reinforced chamber. Plasma bolts hissed through the air, vaporizing simulated combat obstacles. In the center of the chaos, Locky was a blur of motion—until a massive impact sent him hurtling backward. Zenny, the General, stood his ground, his heavy compression gloves still hissing from the piston-driven blast that had launched his second-in-command.

  Locky recovered mid-air, his boots sparking against the floor as he skidded to a halt. In one fluid motion, he drew the dagger from his hip—a serrated mini-katana forged from an ultra-resistant hot-pink alloy that glowed with a neon edge.

  With predatory agility, he lunged. The pink blade struck Zenny’s heavy gauntlets with a resonant ping. Locky didn’t overextend; he immediately dropped into a roll, narrowly avoiding a stray plasma bolt that scorched the air where his head had been a millisecond earlier.

  Sliding through the simulated grit, Locky barked, “Dammit, Oliver! Focus on your own sector, for fuck’s sake!”

  “My bad, Vice-General!” Oliver shouted back, ducking under a lightning-fast scythe swing from Jack, who was grinning like a madman.

  On the other side of the arena, the Donner sisters were a whirlwind of steel. Alice’s strikes were firm and precise, her daggers dancing against Heloá’s katars. The air was thick with the smell of ozone and sweat. Suddenly, a high-pitched alarm cut through the noise.

  Rotation.

  The team regrouped, chests heaving. Locky’s eyes immediately darted to a small peripheral display—a difficulty meter hidden from the rest of the squad. It pulsed a violent, radioactive orange.

  Wait… we’ve barely warmed up and the system is already pushing a Level 8?

  Locky’s face went stone-cold. He shifted his weight, lowering his center of gravity into a lethal defensive stance. Sensing the sudden change in his energy, the team fell silent. Even Zenny tensed.

  The environment around them pixelated and dissolved, rebuilding itself into the harsh, jagged red desolation of the Martian surface.

  Without warning, a massive holographic silhouette materialized. It moved with impossible speed, delivering a crushing blow to Zenny. The General managed to cross his armored forearms just in time, but the force sent him flying into a jagged rock formation. Spittle sprayed from his mouth as the impact knocked the wind out of him. He slumped there, dazed.

  You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.

  Locky didn’t hesitate. His voice cut through the roar of the simulation like a blade.

  “Mid-tier Aboriginal! Its hide is reinforced—find the gaps in the plating! Oliver, rearguard, now!”

  Oliver scrambled back, overcharging the thermal cores of his pistols until they hummed. The Donner sisters split instantly, flanking the beast. Locky’s mind raced, analyzing the creature in milliseconds: a flattened hammer-shaped head, massive tusks, uneven limb distribution, and rock-hard mossy skin.

  The creature lunged at Jack.

  Instead of retreating, Jack’s grin widened into something disturbing. He braced his titanium scythe and leapt directly into the beast’s shadow. As the Aboriginal unhinged its jaws, Jack drove his blade upward, impaling the creature through the roof of its mouth.

  The beast shrieked, a sound that vibrated deep in their bones. Alice seized the moment, scaling its spine like a shadow, her daggers probing for a weakness. Plasma bolts from Oliver’s pistols slammed into its flank, charring the mossy flesh.

  As the Aboriginal reared up, exposing its vulnerable thorax, Locky’s instincts took over.

  He became a streak of pink light.

  He drove his blade into the creature’s chest, the metal sliding through alien biology like a hot wire through wax. Green ichor sprayed across Locky’s face—visceral and cold—but his eyes remained hollow.

  Lifeless.

  One strike. One kill.

  The carcass slammed into the red dust, and the simulation flickered.

  Locky dropped to his knees, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Alice reached him in seconds, dropping her weapons and pulling him into a fierce embrace.

  Locky’s hands trembled. His eyes were wide, staring at nothing.

  “I… I didn’t even think,” he whispered, his voice cracking. “I just… killed it.”

  A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. Zenny stood over him, limping but steady.

  “Remember what your psychologist told you, Locky,” the General said, his voice deep and calm. “Focus on the anchor.”

  The words seemed to pull Locky back from the edge. The tremors in his hands slowly faded.

  Nearby, the holographic blood vanished from the floor as the simulation powered down. Jack was huffing, trying to wipe imaginary slime off his scythe.

  “I hope that son of a bitch didn’t ruin my edge,” Jack muttered. “Took me two hours to sharpen this!”

  Oliver walked past and smacked the back of Jack’s head while holstering his pistols.

  “Watch your mouth, for fuck’s sake. Adolescents shouldn’t swear.”

  The team began filing out of the chamber. No showers waited for them—water was a sacred resource now, far too precious to waste on sweat.

  They all knew what came next.

  Takeoff.

  They weren’t ready.

  Not a single one of them.

  They were filled with dread—not from the pressure of the mission itself, but from the crushing weight of being humanity’s last hope… and the dark knowledge of what might be waiting for them in the void.