The clang of steel echoed through the hollow halls of the sublevel training chamber.
Dust settled like ash over faded lights embedded in the ceiling, flickering dimly above the concrete expanse. This room—once a repurposed decontamination unit—had been cleared of debris, reinforced with armor plating, and fitted with improvised equipment. Makeshift mats. Weighted mannequins. An old weapon rack leaned crookedly against the far wall. Most of the tools were relics salvaged from broken military compartments above.
But today, it was alive with motion.
Lira stood at the center of the space, her bare feet steady against the chill of the floor, her breath calm and measured. Silver eyes locked forward. Not cold—just empty. Not wild—just watching.
Dr. Elian paced slowly behind her, his coat torn near the sleeve, faint bloodstains still marking the cuffs. But his hands were firm. His gaze, sharp. Exhaustion lined his face, but there was something else now—purpose.
"Grip it tighter," he instructed. "Not too tight. Feel the weight, not just the handle."
The sword in Lira's hand was dull-edged. Blunted steel, dulled by years and disuse. Heavy for someone of her frame—taller than most girls, lean like a deer—but she held it with minimal effort.
"Where should I aim?"
Elian didn't respond right away. He stepped closer, circling her like a soldier inspecting a recruit.
"You don't aim yet," he said quietly. "You learn. Your body—your balance. You command the steel. Or it commands you."
Lira blinked once. Then nodded.
Her stance shifted—slightly, but enough. She was a fast learner. That much had been obvious from the moment she first stood, naked and quiet, on the metal floor of The Cradle. A being forged in silence, but built to endure. She mimicked Elian's earlier movements with mechanical precision.
Yet her movements lacked something.
Not grace. Not power.
Something deeper.
Elian saw it—felt it, even. The dissonance. She was doing everything right, but without understanding. Her body followed instructions like a machine, but without emotion.
Without instinct.
"Lira," he said, stepping into her line of sight, "what do you feel when you hold that weapon?"
There was a long pause.
Then, softly: "…Nothing."
Of course.
He sighed, rubbing a tired hand down his face.
It had been weeks since the massacre. Weeks since The Cradle was reduced to a silent tomb. In that time, he'd trained her. Fed her. Dressed her. Guided her through the ruins of what used to be a future. But Lira remained... incomplete.
A perfect subject, biologically. A meta-human born of Starduss rewiring, artificially incubated to perfection.
But inside—she was still building herself.
"You feel nothing because you've never needed to," Elian muttered, mostly to himself. "No fear. No anger. No pride. Just commands, and obedience."
He stepped back.
"Again. Swing it. Not like a soldier. Like something that means it."
Lira frowned, faintly. A twitch in her brow—more expression than she'd shown in days.
She turned, stepped forward, and swung.
This time, something different happened.
The sword hissed through the air.
And the air—responded.
A ripple burst outward from the edge of the blade, not visible at first, but present like heat off pavement. A moment later, the ripple bled color—red. A sharp pulse of energy flared in a perfect arc, expanding from her position, vibrating against the walls like a low hum.
Then silence.
Utter silence.
Lira's arm trembled.
She stared down at the weapon in her hand. The metal, though dulled, shimmered faintly now—like it had awakened. Like she had awakened something within it.
"What… was that?" Her voice cracked. Uncertain. Almost… afraid.
Elian didn't move.
He watched her in silence, eyes narrowed. Then exhaled slowly.
It had happened sooner than he expected.
So the Starduss in her wasn't dormant after all.
"You're not fully human," he said carefully, walking toward her.
Lira turned to him, her eyes asking questions her lips could not form.
"You were made… differently," he continued. "Engineered with something humanity barely understands. You're half Starduss, Lira. That pulse… that was it responding."
She didn't speak, but her grip on the sword tightened.
A long pause passed between them. Then she looked at him again.
Her voice was soft, but the words held weight. "You always mention it."
Elian blinked.
She took a step closer. "You always say 'S.E.E.K. system' when you're fixing things. When you check the data logs. When I sleep. Even when you think I'm not listening. What is it?"
He hesitated.
For the first time in hours, Elian looked... tired.
Not physically.
But something in his shoulders sagged—a weight returned. The past, coiled around him like chains.
"...S.E.E.K.," he murmured, almost bitterly. "I suppose I owe you that much."
He stepped past her, toward a cracked console embedded in the wall. He wiped away dust with a sleeve and pressed a button. A faint hum responded. A light blinked weakly.
"I didn't build it. None of us did. It's... older than this lab. Older than the war. Older than even the Starduss impact, we think."
Lira stepped closer, eyes narrowing.
Elian's gaze grew distant.
"S.E.E.K. is a system—yes. But it's not like any A.I. you've known. It's not just data, not just logic. It's sentient. Adaptive. It learns. Remembers. Judges."
He turned to her.
"It chose this facility to connect with. We don't know why. All we know is that it activated the same day you were born."
Lira's expression didn't change, but her silence deepened.
"She speaks," Elian added, almost with reverence. "Or at least… she will. She's not just a tool. She's watching everything. Including you."
He pointed to the intercom near the wall.
"That voice you hear sometimes? The gentle one. That's her. S.E.E.K."
Lira glanced at the console.
Then back to her sword.
Then to him.
"And… what does she want?"
Elian didn't answer right away.
He lowered his voice, eyes shadowed.
"To find… the one."
"…The one?"
"The one who can fix what was broken. The one who can rise above the apocalypse. The one worthy of carrying the truth of Starduss."
He stepped forward again, his hand resting gently on her shoulder.
"She's still watching. Evaluating. You're not the end, Lira. You're just the beginning."
Silence fell between them again, but this time, it was different.
Lira turned her gaze inward. For the first time, her thoughts didn't simply drift like clouds across an empty sky. They lingered. They questioned.
Not commands. Not programming.
Curiosity.
"What if I fail?" she asked, barely audible.
Elian didn't hesitate.
"You won't."
And for the first time…
Lira believed him.