In the western wing of Karnell, the hum of static never stopped.
It came from the steel walls, the light grids, the constant surveillance. But lately, the hum had shifted — it was heavier, tighter. As if something waited beneath it.
Something listening.
The message came not through sirens or alarms.
It came in silence — a direct uplink from the Stella Empire.
Inside a sealed observation room, Scoff stood before a deep-blue projection terminal. The voice that came through wasn't grainy or distorted. It was clear, imperial, and cold.
"This is Emperor Arkanos," said the voice. "Progress report. I need six viable tools within nine years. The next wars will not be decided by magic or machines, I want results before that.
Fail me, and Karnell will be shut down. Permanently."
Scoff didn't bow. But his posture stiffened.
"I understand, Your Grace."
The transmission cut.
Even the puppeteer had strings.
And someone was pulling them from far above.
But someone else heard it too.
In a dim corridor near the sealed room, two guards lingered.
"…he said nine years," one whispered. "Emperor Arkanos himself. Six names."
"Six? You think we'll get that many?" the other grunted. "We're lucky if two survive next year."
Unnoticed, AB-774 was nearby.
He didn't move. Didn't blink.
He simply listened.
Six names. Nine years. Arkanos. The Emperor.
He filed it away. Not emotionally — strategically. Every name, every number, mattered.
"If they fail," one of the guards added, "they'll kill everyone."
AB-774 walked on.
He didn't need to know everything — just enough.
Elsewhere, in a heavy reinforced chamber, O-243 stood in front of a shattered training wall.
A sheet of steel bent inward, warped by the pressure of his blow.
His fist dripped with blood, but he didn't flinch. His bones had changed. Hardened. The pain wasn't weakness anymore — it was measurement.
Behind a screen, Scoff watched the footage on repeat.
"O-243 now exceeds mechanical limiters," the assistant said. "His raw strength is off-scale."
Scoff laughed quietly. A humorless, sharp laugh.
"A fist that can bend steel," he muttered. "Now all it needs is a will that doesn't."
He tapped the terminal.
"Begin stress-testing. Let's see what cracks first."
In Chamber 2, the atmosphere was… cooperative.
But only because R-932 had made it that way.
He didn't order the other codes. He advised them. Quietly. Logically.
"You're stronger than him," he once told one of the bigger subjects. "But you waste your energy on posturing."
"You want more food?" he asked another. "Organize patrols. Gain value."
R-932 didn't need to threaten anyone.
He offered them better chances of survival — and they took it.
Even the guards noted it.
Chamber 2 had fewer fights. Fewer breakdowns. Subjects rested more, trained better, reported on each other willingly. And all of it was orchestrated by the calm, narrow-eyed boy with perfect posture.
R wasn't just trying to control Chamber 2 anymore.
He was studying the facility.
Looking at its weaknesses. Its routines. Its limits.
Not for escape.
For takeover.
Meanwhile, in Chamber 3, the twins continued their silent communication.
S-410 and S-411 had stopped playing childish games. They were planning now — subtle manipulations, strange experiments with chamber objects, controlling others through fear and soft whispers.
"We can't control him," S-411 said one night, staring at the locked cell of AB-774.
"Not yet," S-410 replied. "He's too careful."
"We'll need something unpredictable. Something he won't see coming."
Both nodded.
Then they smiled.
Not out of joy.
Out of calculation.
And still, through it all, Y-271 tried to reach him.
That day, she approached AB-774 near the nutrient dispensers.
"You always sit alone," she said softly.
"I prefer it that way."
"You don't have to."
"I do," he said simply.
Y looked down. "You know… they're watching you. All of them. Even the ones who like you. They're scared of you."
AB-774 turned his head.
"I know."
"Do you care?"
He thought for a moment. Then answered:
"Not now."
She smiled faintly. "Maybe someday, then."
He didn't reply.
But he didn't walk away, either.
That night, as most of the children slept, AB-774 sat upright in his cot, unmoving.
Six names.
Nine years.
A tournament. An empire. An emperor.
And himself — a boy with no known power. No display of strength. No confirmed potential.
But he had something more dangerous.
He had time.
And time, he understood now, was more powerful than muscle or magic.
Even the puppeteer, he thought, had strings.
The difference was — he wanted to find the hand that moved them.