Chapter 3: The Law of the Strong

Chapter 3: The Law of the Strong

The aftermath of the Crucible was a blur of calculated indifference. No one spoke of the system-wide crash, nor of the Neophyte who had caused it. Kaelen was simply processed with the rest of the survivors, his file stamped with a designation he couldn't see but could feel in the wary glances of the guards. He was an anomaly, a variable in Vorlag's rigid equation, and that made him a problem.

Their new home was a barracks carved from the same oppressive grey stone as the rest of Aethelgard. A long, cavernous room was filled with rows of triple-stacked bunks, each little more than a slab of rock with a thin, coarse mattress. There was no privacy. No warmth. It was a place designed to strip away individuality and breed compliance.

Kaelen claimed a top bunk in a dark corner, hoping to become part of the shadows. His body still ached, a deep, resonant exhaustion from his ordeal in the pod. The Phobos System was a quiet hum in the back of his mind, its interface minimized to a small, semi-transparent icon in the corner of his vision. He could feel it, though, a constant, low-level analysis of his surroundings.

[Ambient Fear Level: 34/100 (Collective Anxiety, Resignation)] [Personal Status: Mental Fatigue, Adrenaline Trough]

He was watching a nervous-looking boy fail to heave his gear onto a middle bunk when a flicker of movement caught his eye. One moment, the space beside the boy was empty. The next, a young woman stood there, her presence as sharp and sudden as a shard of glass.

She was tall and athletically built, with platinum blonde hair pulled back into a severe, immaculate ponytail. Her grey fatigues were perfectly pressed, a stark contrast to everyone else’s rumpled state. She moved with the unnerving grace of a predator, her icy blue eyes scanning the room with dismissive arrogance.

The boy yelped, stumbling back. "Where did you—"

"This bunk is mine," she stated, her voice as crisp and cold as her gaze. She didn't raise her voice; she didn't need to. Her authority was absolute. She casually tossed her pack onto the top bunk, a full ten feet in the air. It landed with a soft, precise thud, perfectly centered.

As she turned, her eyes met Kaelen's. There was a flicker of recognition, a sneer twisting her lips. "So, you're the one," she said, her voice laced with contempt. "The 'Crucible-breaker.' The one who threw a tantrum and broke the toy for everyone."

Kaelen felt a prickle of defensive anger. "I didn't—"

"Save it," she cut him off, taking a step closer. The air around her seemed to shimmer, like heat haze on a summer road. It was a subtle pressure, a feeling of space warping around her. "You have no control. A power that lashes out blindly is not a weapon, it's a liability. A flaw to be discarded."

The System in Kaelen's vision flared to life.

[Threat Detected: Seraphina] [Power Signature: Spatial Manipulation (Claustrophobia Derivative)] [Threat Level: High]

Seraphina. The name suited her. She looked like an avenging angel, if angels were fueled by scorn and perfectionism. "In this city," she said, her voice dropping lower, "power is everything. But uncontrolled power is nothing. Remember that, anomaly."

With a final, withering glare, she turned away. In the space of a heartbeat, she vanished, only to reappear instantly beside her bunk, beginning her preparations with ruthless efficiency. The other Neophytes gave her a wide berth, their fear palpable. Kaelen now understood the hierarchy. There were sheep, there were wolves, and he was something else entirely—a freak that both sides were wary of.

The next few days were a blur of brutal, systematic conditioning. The master of their suffering was always Instructor Vorlag. He seemed to take a special interest in pushing them past their limits, his lessons exercises in cruelty.

"Aethelgard stands between humanity and the abyss," he would bellow as they ran laps in a cavernous training ground, the air thick and heavy. "Weakness is not a personal failing; it is a betrayal of your species!"

His training was never simple. During one session, he had them gather in a large, marked circle on the training floor.

"Rule Number Three," Vorlag announced from his customary dais. "Within this circle, gravity is now doubled."

As he spoke, the golden, geometric lines of his power flared around him, and a crushing weight slammed down on everyone inside the ring. Kaelen’s knees buckled, the air driven from his lungs. It felt like an invisible giant was standing on his shoulders. Breathing was a chore, lifting a foot an act of monumental effort.

"Now," Vorlag commanded, "fifty push-ups."

Groans of despair filled the hall. Seraphina, however, barely seemed to notice. With a grunt of exertion, she dropped to the floor and began her set, her movements strained but fluid. She was fighting the imposed 'Rule' with pure physical discipline and will.

Kaelen collapsed after three pathetic attempts, his arms screaming, his vision swimming with black spots. He could see his own stats flickering frantically.

[Stamina: 8/100 (Critical)] [System Warning: Muscular tearing imminent under sustained gravitational stress.]

He watched in a mixture of awe and resentment as Seraphina completed her set, her face a mask of grim determination. She was everything Aethelgard valued: controlled, powerful, and utterly unbreakable. He was just broken.

The lesson was clear. Power was the currency of this new world, and he was bankrupt. His one act of strength had been a chaotic fluke, and now, under controlled conditions, he was less than useless.

The ultimate lesson came at the end of the week.

All the Neophytes were summoned to the main training hall. They were arranged in silent, terrified ranks. In the center of the hall was a raised stone platform, empty save for Instructor Vorlag.

"For seven days, you have been tested," Vorlag's voice echoed in the tomb-like silence. "You have been measured. Most of you have shown the barest flicker of potential. But potential is not enough. Aethelgard has no room for dead weight. We have no resources to spare on failures."

His cold gaze swept across the crowd and fixed on a pale, trembling boy near the front—Kaelen recognized him as one who had sobbed uncontrollably after the Crucible test. Two guards stepped forward and dragged the boy, unresisting, to the platform.

"Neophyte Alistair Finch," Vorlag announced, the name sounding like a death sentence. "Crucible result: mental collapse at 24% fear saturation. Subsequent physical evaluations: bottom percentile. Energetic potential: negligible."

The boy, Alistair, was openly weeping now, snot and tears running down his face. "Please… please, I can do better! Just give me another chance!"

In Kaelen's vision, a new alert popped up, focused on the boy.

[Subject: Alistair Finch. Fear Level: Terminal. Dominant Fear: Keraunophobia - Fear of Thunder/Lightning.]

Vorlag ignored his pleas. "Aethelgard is a forge. It requires fuel. Those who cannot become swords will become charcoal for the fire." He raised a hand. "The law of the strong is absolute. You are judged unworthy. You will be culled."

He made a sharp, downward gesture. From the ceiling, four metallic arms descended, crackling with raw, blue energy. They clamped onto Alistair's limbs. The boy let out a single, piercing scream of terror as the energy surged into him.

It was not a quick death. They didn't kill him. They drained him. His body convulsed violently as his life force, his very essence, was pulled from him and siphoned into glowing conduits that ran along the floor and up the walls, feeding the insatiable heart of the city. His scream died, his body went limp, and in seconds, he was little more than a desiccated husk, which the metallic arms unceremoniously dropped to the floor.

A wave of nausea and pure, unadulterated terror washed over Kaelen. This was it. The horrifying reality. Aethelgard didn't just kill its failures. It consumed them.

He looked at Seraphina. Her face was pale, her jaw clenched tight, but her eyes were steady, watching the gruesome spectacle with a cold, hardened resolve. She wasn't horrified. She was learning.

Kaelen looked from the husk on the floor to Seraphina's icy determination, and then to Vorlag's impassive face. The lesson was branded into his soul with agonizing clarity. To survive here, he couldn't just endure. He had to become strong. He had to master the chaotic, terrifying nothingness inside him, or he would be the next one to fuel the forge. The fear of being forgotten was no longer an abstract dread; it was a tangible, imminent threat.