Aldrich squared off against his ghost clone, his fists snapping like gunfire, his kicks cracking like whips. The clone mirrored him perfectly, parrying every blow with the same ferocity. No surprise there. it was just a projection of himself, after all.
Sweat stung his eyes as they traded blows for long minutes, the dojo's murmur fading into the background. Then, they switched to weapons. The dojo's racks held an array of training blades, all dull and harmless fakes for practice.
Aldrich grabbed his favorite, a sleek katana, its familiar weight settling his nerves. Years of sparring had made him a master, the blade an extension of his will. He dropped into a stance, ready to clash again.
Unfortunately, a deafening clang shattered the moment. The dojo doors slammed open, and a squad of Red Core combatants marched in, their crimson laser rifles clutched tight. The room froze. Fighters stopped mid-strike, drifting together like a wary pack, their eyes burning with hate and fear. A lead combatant stepped forward, his helmet retracting with a soft hiss to reveal sharp blue eyes, blonde hair, and a neatly trimmed beard framing a hard face.
"We're looking for Benson Brandy," he growled, his voice like gravel.
Aldrich's gut twisted at the name. He knew what this was about. He edged toward the cluster of dojo members, his katana still in hand.
"I won't ask again," the combatant snapped, his tone laced with menace. "Which one of you is Benson Brandy?" His squad tightened their grips on their rifles, barrels glinting under the dojo's flickering lights.
"Easy, easy," Herman said, stepping forward with a disarming grin. "No Benson Brandy here, right, folks?" He glanced back at the group, who shrugged and muttered in agreement.
The combatant's eyes narrowed. "Our intel says he's a member of this dojo. He's here now."
"Well, your intel's garbage," Herman shot back, his smile unwavering but his stance braced.
The man surged forward, stopping inches from Herman's face. "You think you're clever, boy?" he hissed. "Produce him, or we'll drag every last one of you out of here and make sure you never see the sun again."
"Enough, Herman!" a voice called from the huddle of dojo members. A lean, average-height boy stepped forward, his meek frame screaming anything but fighter. "I'm Benson Brandy," he said, a bitter smile flickering on his face.
"Beebee, don't—" Herman started, but Benson cut him off.
"I can't let you all take the fall for me," he said, clapping Herman's shoulder before stepping toward the Red Core combatants.
The blonde leader, Lucius didn't hesitate, slamming the butt of his rifle into Benson's gut. The kid crumpled, gasping in pain.
"Benson Brandy," Lucius sneered, "skipping your first day at the quarry's a serious crime."
Herman growled, surging forward. "You piece of—"
But someone beat him to it. Aldrich was already there, his training katana pressed against Lucius's exposed neck, steady as steel. The Red Cores snapped their rifles up, barrels trained on him.
"You tired of living, boy?" Lucius said, turning his head slowly, blue eyes locked on Aldrich.
"Not really," Aldrich shot back, unflinching. "Just tired of your voice."
Lucius cackled. "What, with that toy sword? Am I supposed to be afraid?"
Aldrich's lips curled. "Wanna bet your life?"
The grin faded from Lucius's face. "Lucius, let me put a hole in this bastard," one of the combatants snarled behind his helmet, his finger slightly pressing against his trigger.
"Hold," Lucius barked, raising a fist. "I like your guts, kid, but without a combat core, you're nothing. I am a red core user, my skin may not be as tough as steel but it's definitely not something someone like you could cut through easily. Put down the weapon before I put you down like a dog.
Aldrich scoffed, his grip tightening. Everyone knew a red core doubled your strength, speed, their durability, everything. However, he did not care.
"Wanna bet?" he said again, his smile sharp. Lucius's brow furrowed, unnerved by the kid's confidence.
Before the standoff could explode, a deep voice cut through the dojo.
"Well, damn, it's lively in here, today."
All eyes turned. A man in a loose kimono and straw hat sauntered in, a woman in sleek black leather, pants, boots, zip-up blouse, at his side. The dojo crew relaxed slightly. They knew these two. Veltroch and Julia.
"Who're you?" Lucius demanded, straining to eye the newcomers.
"Me?" The man, Veltroch, grinned, plopping onto a stool by the wall. "I own this dump of a dojo. And you're trespassing." He pulled a fat cigar from his pocket, lit it, and blew a plume of smoke.
"You should incorporate manners into your curriculum," Lucius said.
"My students are just fine," Veltroch said, smirking. "You're the ones barging in like you own the Lowlands. Tsk tsk." He puffed his cigar, then nodded at Aldrich. "Put the blade down, kid."
Aldrich hesitated, eyes still boring into Lucius, but slowly lowered the katana.
"Doesn't change a thing," Lucius said, voice dripping with authority. "He threatened a combatant. That's a crime."
Veltroch's laugh was low, mocking. "If I chucked a rubber ball at you, soldier, is that a threat? It's a fake blade. Or what? Is the red core so weak a toy can kill you now?"
Lucius's jaw clenched, speechless. He hauled Benson to his feet and turned to leave with his squad.
"Soldier!" Veltroch called, biting his cigar. "Tell Commander Astrolak that Veltroch says hi."
The name hit like a shockwave. Lucius froze, eyes wide, as if Veltroch had invoked a ghost. His men faltered, glancing at each other.
"Bye now," Veltroch said, waving lazily. "And if that kid in your hands comes back with even a scratch, you'll answer to me."
Lucius swallowed hard. "Yes… sir," he muttered, then marched out with his squad, dragging Benson along.
Aldrich watched the group shuffle toward the quarry, their figures swallowed by the Lowlands' smog. His jaw tightened. In less than a year, he'd turn seventeen, sentenced to the same ore mines, choking dust, endless labor, the fate of every Lowlander until they either succumb to the gray disease or meet their life quota. The only way to escape this was if they become core users and leave these parts. The thought stung, sharp as the memory of his mother's dusted cough.
"Aldrich! Herman! My office, now!" Veltroch's voice sliced through the Dojo's clamor. The master stormed off, his heavy steps kicking up grit, Julia trailing close behind.
Aldrich's stomach knotted. A scolding was coming, and it wouldn't be gentle. He and Herman trudged silently, their boots scraping the cracked stone floor.
Veltroch's office stood out in the Lowlands' decay, too polished, almost Highlander-like. A tall shelf loomed, crammed with martial texts, their edges frayed from use. Two seat-floaters hovered near the wall, humming faintly. Fancy rugs softened the cold metal floor.
Veltroch sank into his chair behind a battered steel desk, its surface scarred like the man himself. A droid whirred past, slipping into the kitchen nook. Julia settled onto a floater, its low buzz cutting the tense air as she sat, stiff and distant.
Herman tried first. "Master, before you say anything, just—"
"Fools!" Veltroch snapped, his voice a blade. "Threatening a combatant? What were you thinking?"
Aldrich stared at the rug's faded threads, avoiding Veltroch's glare. Herman shifted beside him, equally cowed.
"You, Aldrich," Veltroch said, his eyes pinning him. "I expected better."
"Sorry, Master," Aldrich muttered, gaze fixed on the floor.
"Sorry's not enough. Be careful," Veltroch growled. "You're supposed to be the reasonable one. Not him." He jabbed a finger at Herman.
"Hey, I can be reasonable!" Herman shot back, but Veltroch's scowl silenced him.
"I'll do better, Master," Aldrich said, voice barely audible.
Veltroch leaned back, exhaling sharply. "The combatant trial's tomorrow. Julia, the list?"
Aldrich glanced at Julia, eyes narrowing. Her green eyes glinted in the dim light, long dark hair framing a face grown unfamiliar.
She was striking, always had been, but colder now. She pulled a thin sheet from her pocket. "Twenty-five from our Dojo this year," she said, voice flat, handing it to Veltroch.
Julia had once been close with them, sharing laughs in the Dojo's yard. But four years ago, the gray disease sank its claws into her father. He still clung to life, but Julia had drifted, detached, like she'd walled herself off. She hadn't even come to Aldrich's mother's funeral.
As Veltroch scanned the list, Aldrich's chest tightened. The trial wasn't just a fight, it was his shot to break free from the quarry's shadow and find answers about his father's death.