He stared at the cursor. Then:
the mind vault address. there's one in the industrial zone. I looked it up "I know. 2.4 kilometres from here. Opens at nine."
"Is this stupid" marshal murmured himself
A pause. Longer than her usual response time then NAVI replied
"Statistically, walking into an unverified facility at 9 AM, on no sleep and no food, based on a trailer that auto played… is not optimal decision-making."
that's not what i asked
Another pause.
"No," she said."I don't think it's stupid, Marshal."
He leaned back.
"What do you know about Nova?" he asked.
"Nova. Rank three, global leaderboard. Real name: Elian Voss. Age twenty-two. Off the circuit for two months — wrist injury, right hand. Surgery confirmed, recovery timeline was six months. He came back in two."
She sent the player card unprompted. It appeared on screen like a dossier:
PLAYER CARD — REVETIEN: ASCENT LINK
Tag: NOVA
Real Name: Elian Voss
Age: 22
Rank: #3 (Global)
Status: RETURNED — Active (72 hrs ago)
Playstyle: Dual blade / Sniper hybrid
Last match: Protocol Zenith — 6-min boss clear Note: Back 2 months early. Surgery recovery est. 6 months.
Marshal read it twice.
He came back.
"Seventy-one hours ago. Just queued and played."
"Why now?"
"Unknown. He hasn't spoken publicly."
Marshal kept his eyes on the player card.
A guy who had everything. One injury took it all.Now he was back in a game just whatever hadn't been broken inside him, I guess.
"That's my interpretation too,"
Navi said. Then
"Marshal. It's 2:31 AM. Your gym shift starts in three hours."
I know NAVI what you think I should do
The cursor blinked.
Then the screen flickered once again, hard, like a hiccup in the power.
The console went white.
Then black.
A single line of text appeared, corrupted at the edges, like something had half-loaded and given up:
GO
Then she crashed.
The fan spun down. The screen went dark. The room went quiet. Marshal stared at the black screen for a moment. Then he closed the lid, lay back, and stared at the ceiling.
He didn't sleep much. But when he got up at 5:15,
He was already dressed.
The gym at 5:30 AM was a different place.
Quiet machines. Chalk dust. Old rubber.The kind of stillness that belonged to people who showed up before the world asked them to.
His first client came in at 6:00AM a forty-year-old accountant trying to lose twenty kilos before his daughter's wedding.
Marshal watched him struggle through a goblet squat, the weight pulling him forward.And in the back of his mind, his father's voice sat heavy
-You've built something in that body most men twice your age would kill for.
He didn't rush the correction.
He watched. Let the mistake happen. Then stepped in.
"Chest up. Weight in your heels. You're not falling—I've got you."
The man got it on the third attempt.
Paused.
Then looked up—like he'd just done something impossible.
Marshal gave a single nod, logged the set, and moved on.
Three clients. Four hours. He didn't miss a cue, didn't cut a set short, didn't let his mind drift to industrial lots or sync chambers or player cards.
Just the work. Just the hour in front of him.
By 10:15, his last client was leaving.
A retired boxer named Mr. Osei permanently smelling of liniment, handshake like a vice.
On his way out, he pressed a small container into Marshal's hands.
"Chicken and rice. My wife made extra. You look like you didn't eat."
Marshal opened his mouth to say he was fine.
"Take it," Mr. Osei said.
Not unkind.
Just… not optional.
He ate it on the bench outside, watching the morning traffic thicken. Cold rice. Decent chicken. The best morning meal he'd had all week.
He checked his phone. One notification — Navi's system had rebooted sometime around 4 AM. No message. Just a single status ping:
back online
He pocketed the phone. Picked up his bag. 2.4 kilometres. He knew the route already.
The address led to a dead-end lot in the industrial zone. Faded signage. Dusty cams. A creaking gate opened to a squat rusted dome — the kind of place that screamed do not enter in three languages.
He stood there a moment, just looking at it. This was really it.
He stepped forward.
Whhhhmmm.
The walls unfolded like something waking up. Rust peeled back, replaced by glass and chrome. Holograms bloomed around him. Interface orbs drifted in slow orbits. Light scans swept his body, warm and weightless.
It didn't feel like a gaming facility. It felt like something built to contain a secret.
"Welcome, applicant. You are now inside the Mind Vault."
Lab coats. Silver hair. Sharp eyes. One researcher carried a neural crown that looked like silver thorns. Another monitored skill trees fractaling on a holographic display. These were not streamers. These were not esports staffers.
These were scientists.
And then his throat went dry.
He recognised one of them. Dr. Eshwari Sen — the researcher he'd watched in a docuseries at thirteen, the one who theorised emotion-based decision layers in gaming intelligence. He'd thought she was the kind of person you only ever read about.
She was real. And she was right here.
No one had noticed him yet.
He stood there a beat too long. Then, because his brain had no better option, he cleared his throat. A little too loudly.
"Uh… hi. I'm the test player. I mean—not the test player. Just… one of them. Marshal."
A pause.
"…Yeah. That didn't sound better in my head either."
Silence.
Three heads turned.
"Let's try that again," Marshal muttered.
"Hi. I'm Marshal. I was told to come here. I am… apparently a test player."
"…That's me."
Silence.
"I'm saying that like it explains anything," he added under his breath.
Dr. Sen blinked once.
She offered the tired smile of a teacher fielding a very obvious question, then nodded toward an empty seat.
Marshal wished he could uninstall himself.
He moved to sit, mirroring her calm he absolutely did not feel—palms damp, posture careful, like a kid caught cheating who hadn't been called on yet.
A staffer appeared. Camera. ID printer. Corporate smile.
"Gamer tag?"
Marshal blinked. "I… don't have one." The staffer's eyebrow went up.
They ran through options. ShadowKiller — taken. XxLoneWolfxX — taken. MasterChief, Sephiroth — all gone. Each rejection landed a little worse than the last. Marshal's face burned through every one.
Finally, half-laughing at himself, he muttered
"What's left — 'Kyro'?"
The staffer paused. Smirked. Typed.
The printer whirred.
The ID slid out — half-blinking photo, real name, and below it, in clean block letters
KYRO.
A glowing chip embedded in the corner.
He stared at it. A ticket to somewhere he wasn't sure he wanted to go.
He stared at it.
A ticket to somewhere he wasn't sure he wanted to go.
"Kyro," he said, testing it.
It sounded… cooler than anything he deserved.
"Photo's terrible," the staffer added, already moving on.
Marshal glanced down.
Half-blink. Slightly open mouth. The expression of a man caught mid-thought with no thoughts available.
"…Great," he muttered.
The staffer held out a small scanner.
"Thumb."
Marshal pressed his thumb down.
The device beeped.
Paused.
Beeped again.
The staffer frowned. Tapped it once against the desk like that would help.
"Hold still."
"I am still."
"More still."
Marshal froze.
Completely.
Breathing became optional.
The scanner beeped again—longer this time.
"Okay, now you're trying too hard."
"I don't know what the correct amount of still is."
The staffer didn't look up. "You'll figure it out."
"Comforting."
Another beep.
Green light.
"Done."
Marshal pulled his hand back like the machine might change its mind.
"Keep it on you at all times," the staffer said. "Don't lose it. Don't break it. Don't trade it. Don't—"
"I get it," Marshal said quickly.
A pause.
"…What happens if I lose it?"
The staffer finally looked at him.
"You don't."
Marshal nodded.
"Right."
He looked back at the card.
It still didn't feel like him.
But it also didn't feel like a joke anymore.
Which was worse.
The Sync Chamber was cold and metallic, its semi-transparent shell catching the light like something between a medical pod and a confessional.
He stepped in without being asked twice.
The lid clicked shut with a soft hiss.
"Initiating sync… please remain still."
The chamber hummed to life. A cold pressure wrapped around his skull—not painful, just… present. Like something was listening very carefully.
He kept still. Kept his breathing even.
10%. 15%. 20%.
Okay. Easy. Just don't exist weird.
25%.
The lights snapped red.
SYNC FAILED. NEURAL PATH INSTABILITY DETECTED.
The hum cut dead.
Marshal blinked.
He hadn't moved. Hadn't even breathed wrong.
Cool. Great. Failed being still.
His stomach dropped—the kind that hits before a bad fall, when your body already knows before your mind catches up.
Dr. Sen was already at the console, fingers moving fast. She exchanged a look with her colleague—quick, quiet, unreadable.
"Recalibrating matrix. We'll run it again."
The lid hissed open. A staffer reset the sensors without a word.
Marshal stayed still.
Didn't ask.
Maybe don't talk. Talking seems like something that would also fail.
The lid closed again.
"Second attempt. Initiating sync."
The hum returned. The pressure built again—slower this time, like the machine was being careful.
Like it didn't trust him.
10%. 18%.
He held completely still. Barely breathed.
If I become furniture, this should work.
23%.
Red.
SYNC FAILED.
A few murmurs from the observation deck. Someone behind the glass stood up.
Nice. Audience now. Perfect.
Dr. Sen pulled up the error log, scrolling fast, jaw tight.
"There's nothing wrong with the chamber," she said, almost to herself. "The chamber is fine."
"Run it a third time," someone said.
"That's not protocol—"
"Run it."
Marshal didn't turn.
He didn't need to.
The voice settled into the room—quiet, flat, the kind that didn't need volume to land.
The lid opened. Reset. Closed.
"Third attempt. Final scan."
No one spoke.
The pressure returned.
He closed his eyes.
Thought about nothing.
Be normal. Just… be a normal brain.
10%. 11%.
Something flickered in his chest.
Hope.
Small. Stupid. Immediate.
Okay. Okay, maybe
Red.
SYNC FAILED.
"System halt. Please clear the chamber."
— END OF CHAPTER THREE —