Chapter 10: Instinct

Chapter 10: Instinct

Forten sat alone near the outer steps while the next hopeful was called. The cold stone beneath him felt harder than usual—less like a bench and more like judgment. He didn’t catch the name. His ears were still ringing.

Behind the closed arch, someone muttered sharply. Then louder. A clatter. A hiss.

Apparently, they were hauling in a second core slab.

He’d broken the first.

And not just any slab—a tower-forged core shard, the kind they only used for formal initiations. The kind that took months to refine and weeks to calibrate. Rumour had it the academy only kept two on hand at a time. Just in case.

This wasn’t “just in case.”

He caught fragments of argument behind the doors—“We’re not even halfway through the roster,” and “You think the board’s going to fund another batch after this?”

One instructor let loose a particularly creative curse that echoed faintly across the corridor.

Forten winced. Not from guilt. Just… familiarity.

They were already blaming him. Not out loud. Not yet. But in that way people blame cold snaps and snapped rails—like he wasn’t a person, just bad weather.

He hugged his coat tighter.

Inside his chest, something still hummed. Faint. Deep. Like a drum buried under ice.

He wasn’t sure if it was fear. Or something else.

He looked down at his palms again. The tingling had faded, but a faint, nearly invisible residue shimmered faintly across his skin. Almost like frost—or static.

The light caught it strangely, like it didn’t want to be seen. He brushed it off quickly, glancing around. No one else seemed to notice.

The slab hadn’t shown anything. No light. No flare. Just a fracture. And the way it broke—it hadn’t been random.

He sat in the shadow of the chamber arch, where the wind moved like whispers. Dust spiraled gently in the corners. Above, the glyphs on the ceiling pulsed like slow, sleeping stars.

Forten stood, drawing his coat tighter. Wind slipped through the arches above, rustling dust and breath and silence. The others were still whispering.

He didn’t listen.

He didn’t need to.

Because something had changed.

Inside.

And for a moment—barely a breath—he could’ve sworn he wasn’t alone in his own head.

Not a voice. Not quite.

Just a shape. A weight. A whisper that didn’t come from outside.

It didn’t speak.

It didn’t have to.

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By the time Forten was called again, the weight in his limbs had settled like frost—Present and heavy. He stood as if waking from a half-sleep, shoulders stiff, coat heavy with cold sweat. No one looked at him when his name was called—out of distance, perhaps out of disdain. Like something might crack if they got too close.

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“Instinct,” the instructor called, and the glyphs on the floor shifted with a low, mechanical hum.

The circle on the floor restructured itself—panels folding inward like petals, rearranging into a new shape. Thin lines of light traced paths across the stone, marking a wide, enclosed ring. In the center, a construct began to rise.

It hissed.

Manasteel limbs unfolded from a dormant shell—jointed like a spider, built like a soldier. Its form was padded, not bladed—made of reinforced leather and heavy strike foam, but driven by enough force to rattle ribs if it connected. A dull rune pulsed at the center of its chest, syncing with the glyphs around the ring. Its plating gleamed faintly under the arc-lights, etched with wear marks from years of trials and bruises.

Known officially as an Impact Automaton, this construct was a staple of combat training—standardised across all of Ferria. Powered by bound cores and old-world kinetic enchantments, it could adapt to each fighter’s speed and style in real time, escalating or scaling down force with eerie precision. It was not designed to kill—only to teach—and to teach fast. The faster you learned, the fewer bruises you earned.

It pivoted once, calibrating, its movement smooth and inhuman.

Forten swallowed.

Someone behind him muttered, "He's dead."

“Should’ve brought a healer already.”

“Watch him trip into the thing’s arms.”

Soft laughter rippled through the crowd. No one stopped them.

Thorne, standing by the wall, gave a short nod. “Begin.”

The construct launched forward.

Forten barely dodged the first strike. A padded arm swept past his chest, missing by inches as he stumbled sideways, boots skidding on the glyph-lit floor. The second arm followed, sweeping low. He jumped, but not fast enough—its edge caught the hem of his coat and yanked him off-balance.

The cold stone slammed into his ribs.

Pain bloomed. Sharp and immediate.

“Down already?” someone scoffed.

“Useless.”

He scrambled back, only for the construct to close in, pivoting with mechanical precision. Forten rolled to avoid a downward strike and came up coughing.

He had no stance. No training. Just instinct.

And his were nothing special.

The construct’s next attack came with a feint—one padded arm arcing toward his right before reversing at the last second. Forten twisted mid-motion, slipped, and his foot landed squarely on a loose panel.

It shifted.

He dropped.

The stumble saved him—the construct’s padded arm swept through the space where his head had been. The crowd gasped.

“Lucky bastard,” someone muttered.

He ducked again, narrowly avoiding a sweep aimed for his knees. The crowd above had stopped muttering. Now they just watched.

His breath came in sharp gulps. His coat flapped around him, torn at the sleeve and singed at the hem. He moved like a fox cornered in snowfall—scrappy, breathless, just smart enough to not die.

The construct pressed forward. Every move it made was clean. Perfect. Efficient. Designed to end things quickly.

Forten, by comparison, looked like a wreck.

Still—he stayed on his feet.

Not because he knew how to fight. But because gravity hadn’t quite convinced him to lie down yet.

He dodged left, then dropped low. His hand scraped the floor as he slid under the construct's swing. It adjusted too fast. A padded strike slammed into the stone just behind his head, rattling his teeth.

He popped up behind it, stumbled backward into the outer ring, and raised his fists like he had a plan.

He didn’t.

The construct turned.

Paused.

Evaluators leaned forward slightly.

A glint from above—someone had tossed a half-empty ration flask off the gallery rail. It bounced near the edge of the ring with a clink.

Forten glanced up. He didn’t see who threw it.

The construct moved again.

It spun low. Fast. Forten flinched. His boot caught the edge of the flask and slipped.

He fell—again—but this time he twisted his body, rolled with the motion, and narrowly avoided a strike meant for his side.

He came up coughing, wincing, knees burning, but up.

His coat was hanging by a shoulder strap. His sleeve was half torn. His dignity was somewhere else on the floor.

But he was still breathing.

The construct recalibrated.

Then, suddenly, the glow at its chest flickered once, then dulled to nothing. The body slumped, as if sleep had turned to stone.

From overhead came scattered whispers of confusion, cut short by a crisp verdict: “Test complete.”.

Forten blinked.

Four Trailblazers burst from the wings, straining as they bore the motionless construct back to its pedestal—where it was meant to go under its own power.

Murmurs broke out immediately.

“Wait—he passed?”

“He didn’t even hit it.”

“Did he even try to?”

“Maybe the thing ran out of patience.”

But Thorne didn’t move. He marked something on his slate with slow, deliberate strokes.

As Forten limped off the floor, clutching his side, he saw Thorne watching him again.

Not impressed. Not disappointed.

Just... curious.

And maybe, just maybe, a little amused.