The darkness.
The darkness didn't lift all at once.
It bled.
Red seeped into the edges of Niero's vision, thick and heavy, as if one eye were pressed shut beneath warm liquid. The world came back in fragments—blurred, shaking—each breath dragged in with a harsh, broken rasp that wasn't his.
He was… someone else.
Every inhale burned. Every step sent pain screaming up battered legs. A long weapon—straight, worn, familiar—was clutched in trembling hands. A bo-staff, chipped and stained, its surface slick with sweat and something darker.
The ground beneath was wrong.
Something else on the sand.
Not stone. Not soil.
Bodies.
Armored warriors lay strewn across the arid expanse, their metal shells cracked and torn open like discarded husks. Among them were alien beasts—twisted anatomies, jagged limbs, forms that didn't belong to any world Niero knew. Some were massive. Some were small. All of them were still.
The air tasted of iron and ozone.
Far above, the sky burned with impossible color—two stars hung side by side, one red, one blue, locked in an eternal, merciless glare. Their light washed the desert and the ancient ruins scattered across it, half-buried spires and broken monoliths that whispered of civilizations long dead.
This wasn't a dream.
It felt like a memory.
A memory torn straight from the mind of someone who had survived hell.
The figure—his body, yet not—staggered forward, boots crunching over shattered armor. Each step was a war against collapse. Blood dripped down his vision again, blurring the world further, but still he moved.
Because stopping meant death.
At the horizon, something impossible turned slowly against the sky.
A circular arch, enormous and incomplete, formed from dozens—no, hundreds—of segmented parts. Each segment floated freely, rotating and sliding into place as if guided by unseen hands. Together, they formed a perfect ring.
At its center—
A portal.
It shimmered like a pool of water suspended in air, light rippling across its surface in soft waves of silver and gold. Reality bent around it. Space felt thinner there. Fragile.
Hope.
The unknown figure limped toward it, teeth clenched, vision narrowing, body screaming for rest.
Don't stop.
The thought surfaced—not spoken, not heard—felt.
Not now.
Then—
A voice.
Low. Hoarse. Barely holding together.
"Keep fighting hard...Keep moving forward..."
The figure staggered, nearly falling, planting the bo-staff into the sand to stay upright.
"…Don't. Fall. Now."
The words echoed—not just in the desert—
—but in Niero's chest.
Like a command carved into his soul.
The red haze deepened.
The portal loomed closer.
=
[ March 17th, 2087 (Monday Noon) | Niero's Bedroom > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Niero snapped awake.
Not screaming. Not gasping.
Just—awake, like a switch had been flipped somewhere deep in his instincts.
For half a second, his body tried to move as if he were still limping toward that portal—
—and then pain slammed into him.
A deep, all-over ache spread across his face, ribs, arms, legs… everywhere. It wasn't sharp anymore, not like the barrage that knocked him out—but it was heavy, bruised, real. The kind of pain that didn't let you forget where you were.
"ghh…" he hissed under his breath, immediately sinking back into the mattress.
Yeah. Definitely not a dream.
He blinked a few times, letting his vision settle. No red sky. No twin stars. No desert of corpses.
Just his room.
Messy stacks of old-school comic books leaning dangerously near the bed. His worktable cluttered with half-built gadgets, loose wires, scorched components, and tools he definitely meant to organize someday. His gaming laptop sat open on the desk, screen dimmed—sleep mode—exactly how he'd left it.
Familiar. Safe. Embarrassingly him.
At the same time, he noticed something on his chest.
As he examined it, its a warm and wet handtowel. His forhead is also wet as well.
From there he can only assumed that this wet handtowel was placed on his forehead during his near-conconcious state when he was resting.
With a small groan, he reached for his SmartCom on the bedside table, every movement protesting like his body was personally offended by consciousness. He winced as he lifted it, thumb sluggish as he tapped the screen.
12:30 PM
March 17, 2087
"…slept till noon," he muttered.
Recovery day. Right.
The memory came back all at once.
The clash.
The rhythm.
That one opening.
His jaw tightened slightly as he stared at the ceiling.
He lost.
Against his own mom.
Not because he wasn't strong enough. Not because he couldn't keep up—he had, for a moment. He'd felt it. The flow. The learning. The adaptation. That fleeting instant where victory didn't feel impossible.
But then came the hesitation.
The Nova-Spark energy in his fist.
The split second delay.
The thought: *This is my mom.*
And she saw it.
She felt it.
His fingers curled into the bedsheet, knuckles tensing before pain forced them to relax again.
"…damn it."
Frustration bubbled up—not loud, not explosive—but heavy and sour in his chest. He replayed it over and over: if he hadn't hesitated, if he'd committed, if he'd trusted himself instead of freezing—
Her barrage.
The HUD numbers dropping.
Vuldyr shouting.
The darkness.
He exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling like it might give him answers.
He didn't just lose the fight.
He lost the chance he created himself.
And somewhere, deep beneath the soreness and frustration, that vision lingered—quiet, unsettling, and stubborn.
Keep fighting hard...Keep moving forward...
Niero closed his eyes again—not to sleep, but because right now, staying awake hurt just a little less.
Whatever that vision was.
Whatever that power meant.
Vuldyr's presence lingered in his mind like a steady hand on his shoulder.
> ["You were unconscious longer than usual,"] she admitted, her telepathic voice calm but threaded with concern. ["I was… worried."]
Niero exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling while every breath tugged at the bruises beneath his skin. That alone told him how badly the spar had gone.
When he looked around his surrounding, he already knew he was in his bedroom. As for who put him here, he can only assumed Mom and/or Aunt carried him here.
Vuldyr continued, shifting to the practical.
> ["The good news is that your [Trait: Trinity of Self-Supremacy (Body - Tier 01)] is functioning normally. Accelerated recovery is active. Bruising, microfractures, internal strain—already repairing. Based on current regeneration speed, you'll be fully recovered by tomorrow."]
Tomorrow.
That word stung more than the aches.
"So… I got wrecked," Niero muttered, lips curling into a bitter half-smile. "And I don't even get a rematch."
He clenched his fist weakly, then relaxed it when pain flared. Losing was one thing. Losing because he hesitated—because he thought instead of acted—was another. His mother's relentless barrage replayed in his head: the way each strike flowed into the next, how his guards had screamed under the pressure, how his stance had collapsed inch by inch.
Rank-D Orkoid Orcs hit hard.
She hit harder.
And worse—she'd known exactly when he'd lost his nerve.
> ["Your disappointment is understandable,"] Vuldyr replied gently. ["However, engaging her again in your current condition would be inefficient. She, too, stated you requires a one-day recovery period after the sparring evaluation. That was one of their rules."]
"Tch. Figures." He turned his head slightly, wincing. "Guess the universe really wants me to sit this one out."
There was a brief pause—then Vuldyr subtly shifted the topic.
> ["So...Tell me about the dream,"] she said. ["Or… vision, you had. It felt different this time."]
That caught his attention.
Niero went quiet for a moment, eyes unfocusing as the images resurfaced—the red haze, the limp, the bo-staff scraping against scorched sand. The corpses. The alien ruins beneath twin stars that didn't belong to any sky he knew.
"…Yeah," he said slowly. "It wasn't like the others."
He swallowed.
"No black figure this time."
That absence unsettled him more than its presence ever had.
"It felt… real. Like I wasn't dreaming as myself. Like I was borrowing someone else's eyes. Someone who'd already crawled out of hell and was just barely still standing."
The portal—the spinning segmented arch, the shimmering pool of light—burned clearly in his mind.
"And there was this feeling," he added. "Like something—or someone—was pushing me forward. No voice. Just… intent."
For the first time since waking up, unease crept past the physical pain.
"…That's new," Niero muttered.
> ["Yes,"] Vuldyr agreed quietly. ["It is. For now, this vision already recorded and catalogue into the Astra Codex for further analysis. For your previous visions, it is still yet be be extrapolate, so you had to wait until further infromation has gathered."]
A faint coolness brushed against his forehead.
Niero stirred, eyes cracking open just enough to register a familiar scent—clean water, faint herbs. A wet towel.
"…Aunty?" he croaked.
She froze.
For half a second, she stared at him as if her brain had short-circuited—then her eyes widened.
"He's awake!" she blurted out, spinning on her heel. "Emmy—he's awake!"
Her footsteps barely reached the door before another set thundered up the stairs.
The door burst open.
"NIE—!"
He barely had time to register her before his world disappeared into warmth.
His mother wrapped him in a crushing hug, pulling him upright without a shred of restraint. Her arms trembled as she buried her face against his shoulder, voice breaking instantly.
"I'm sorry—! I'm so, so sorry—!" she cried, clutching him like he might vanish if she let go. "Mama went too far… I shouldn't have—my baby badger—!"
"Ow—ow—ow—Arrragh Mom—!" Niero hissed, every bruise in his body screaming in protest.
She froze.
"Oh—oh—sorry! Sorry!" She eased him back onto the bed with exaggerated care, hands hovering anxiously as if even air pressure might hurt him. Tears still streamed down her face, but now she was smiling too—messy, relieved, painfully human.
"You scared me half to death, you we're unconscious for a while..." she sniffed. "...but thank the Empress you're awake… and...healing…"
Niero blinked at her, still disoriented. This was the same woman who had folded him like laundry less than a day ago.
"…What happened?" he asked. "Last thing I remember was blocking and—"
Her expression twisted with guilt.
"I think…" she said carefully, "…I might've beaten the crap out of you."
"…Might've?"
She looked away, rubbing her arm.
"The sparring test lasted about fifteen minutes. Started at sixty minutes on the timer… ended at forty-four fifty-five."
Niero's eyes widened slightly.
"…You dropped me in fifteen minutes?"
She winced. "In my defense, you hesitated first."
That stung—because it was true.
"And then you stopped moving," she added softly. "So I ended it immediately. You were out cold for a while after that."
Niero let out a slow breath, sinking back into the pillow.
"Wow," he muttered.
She sniffed, then laughed weakly through her tears and gently flicked his forehead—careful this time.
"…So," Niero said after a moment, eyes drifting to the ceiling, "hypothetically."
His mom stiffened immediately.
"…I don't like where this is going."
"If I wasn't out cold," he continued carefully, "would you have… y'know. Kept hitting me while I was down?"
Her expression twisted into something between a wince and a grimace.
"To be fair," she said slowly, "you agreed to the sparring test."
"That's not an answer."
"And," she added quickly, holding up a finger, "you were fighting an elite soldier who was actively holding back."
Niero turned his head to look at her.
"…That still doesn't sound great."
She sighed, shoulders slumping. "Niero, the nature of the test wasn't about winning or losing. It was about pressure. Endurance. Decision-making under overwhelming force." Her gaze softened. "You froze. If this were real combat, hesitation gets you killed."
He opened his mouth to argue—about power scaling, about fairness, about how ridiculous the gap still was—
Then he closed it.
Because she wasn't wrong.
He'd agreed to the rules. He'd known who he was fighting. And deep down, he understood exactly what she'd been testing.
"…Yeah," he muttered. "I know."
The room settled into a quieter atmosphere.
After a pause, Niero glanced toward the door. "Uh… did Sophie or Daisy ask about me?"
Alura, who had been quietly wringing out the towel near the sink, perked up instantly, a smug little smile forming.
"Oh, absolutely. I handled that."
Mom turned slowly. "Alura."
"What?" Alura said innocently. "I told them he had a fever."
Niero blinked. "A fever?"
"Mm-hm." Alura lifted the towel from his forehead, then pressed it back down gently. "A bad one. I even used hot water soaked wet handtowel ya hold to heat your forehead so the lie would stick. Commitment is important."
Mom stared at her.
Alura continued cheerfully, "They were devastated. You'd think their beloved big brother was on his deathbed, not suffering from a tragic case of 'common cold.'"
Niero groaned. "You're kidding…"
"Oh, they were hovering outside your room earlier," Alura added. "Very emotional. Very dramatic."
Then, with a grin that was entirely too satisfied, she finished:
"Luckily, both of the girls are completely unaware that their beloved brother became Mom's personal punching bag."
The room went silent.
Mom slowly turned her head.
Her stare was flat. Deadpan. Utterly unamused.
"…Are you serious right now?"
Alura shrugged, unbothered. "I prefer the term selective truth."
Niero, despite the aching bruises and wounded pride, let out a weak snort.
Yeah.
He hesitated.
He got demolished.
He lost.
Alura crossed her arms, leaning back against the desk as she studied him with an appraising look—less aunt and more battle analyst.
"Honestly?" she said. "I'm still shocked you took those hits like a champ."
Niero glanced at her. "That… doesn't sound reassuring."
"I mean it, as a compliment," she continued. "Most of the punches your mom held back?" She emphasized the words with air quotes. "They would've shattered bones. Face strikes especially? An average man or woman would heavily injured, crippled, or even be dead. No exaggeration."
The room went quiet.
Niero's eyes widened slightly. "…Dead?"
Mom looked away, rubbing the back of her neck. "I monitored my output," she said quickly. "Very carefully."
Alura raised a brow. "You punched him in the head. Multiple times."
"…Carefully."
Niero swallowed.
Those were held back?
His fingers twitched instinctively, the memory of impacts flashing through his mind—the way his skull rang, how his vision blurred, how each blow felt like it was trying to knock his soul loose. And he'd taken them. Not cleanly. Not gracefully.
But he'd taken them.
"…Damn," he muttered under his breath.
The realization hit harder than the punches.
He'd fought a Rank-D Orkoid Berserker once. Nearly died doing it. Crushed ribs. Internal bleeding. One wrong move away from never standing again.
And now?
He'd survived fifteen minutes against his mother.
An elite soldier.
Holding back.
And still lethal.
Even as a relative Rank-F, he'd endured damage that *should've killed him*.
A quiet warmth spread through his chest; a sense of pride.
I'm stronger.
Not just faster. Not just smarter.
Stronger. Denser. Tougher.
His body had grown—bone, muscle, reflex, endurance—tempered by near-death fights and relentless training. The Nova-Spark energy thrummed faintly beneath his skin, responding to the thought as if in agreement.
It wasn't enough.
Not yet.
But for the first time since waking up, Niero felt a small, stubborn spark of satisfaction push back against the frustration.
He looked down at his bruised hands, then clenched them slowly.
"…Guess I didn't come out of that fight empty-handed after all."
Mom finally looked back at him, eyes soft but proud.
Alura smirked.
Mom suddenly straightened, worry flaring across her face all over again.
"Oh—! You need more fluids," she said rapidly. "And soup. Hot soup. And ointment—your bruises need another layer, and I should check your head again—"
Before she could take more than two steps, Alura casually reached out and grabbed her by the collar.
"Whoa there, Mama bear." Alura said, completely unfazed. "Give the boy a breather."
"I am taking care of my son," Mom shot back, already trying to wriggle free. "He just woke up after I—"
"After you used him as a stress-testing dummy," Alura cut in cheerfully. "Which is why he needs rest. Not another medical inspection speedrun. Plus, you still have a cafe to run."
Mom was worried, as she tuned her head towards Niero.
Niero raised a hand weakly. "I'm… good, really—"
"See?" Alura said, tightening her grip and physically steering Mom toward the door. "Doctor Alura prescribes bed rest."
Mom huffed, pointing back at him as she was dragged away.
Aunt Alura continues. "You rest for the entire day! No training, no working, no *thinking* about going round two with Mama Tyson for a while."
That earned her a sharp glare from Mom.
"HEY! I'm not—!"
The door slid shut with a soft click, cutting off the argument mid-sentence.
For a few seconds, Niero could still hear them—muffled voices through the walls. Mom's indignant protests. Alura's teasing, sing-song rebuttals. Footsteps pacing, then retreating down the stairs.
Silence finally settled over the room.
Niero lay there, staring at the ceiling, a faint smile tugging at his lips despite the aches.
"…Mama Tyson," he muttered, almost a chuckle.
Alone again—bruised, exhausted, and very much grounded in reality.
Niero let himself fall back onto the bed—
—and immediately regretted it.
A sharp wince twisted across his face as pain flared from his ribs and shoulders, reminding him that dramatic movements were currently illegal. He lay still, breathing shallowly until the ache dulled into a manageable throb.
"…Bad idea," he muttered under his breath.
Once the pain subsided, his thoughts returned to less physical wounds.
He'd been completely wasted.
Absolutely demolished.
By his own mother.
Worse than the bruises was the memory of hesitation—the moment he froze. That single crack in his resolve had cost him not only the match, but what felt like his first real chance to earn her full trust… to prove he was ready to become a Marauder.
"…Damn it," he muttered under his breath.
And now he was benched.
No sparring.
No training.
No redemption round.
So what was he even supposed to do for the rest of the day?
> ["Rest,"] Vuldyr answered smoothly within his mind.
> ["Your body and the Stargod System are already accelerating recovery. Further strain would reduce efficiency. You are advised to avoid any activity that burdens your muscles, neural pathways, or internal energy circulation."]
She paused deliberately.
> ["That includes the [War Room] within your [Ego-Space]."]
Niero stared at the ceiling.
"…Yeah. Sure."
The mention alone, however, did sparked something dangerous.
A slow one.
A curious one.
[Ego-Space.]
[War Room.]
An idea flickered to life.
> [ "Oh No. Nononono. NO! Stop right there, kiddo! Do not do anything stupid-"] Vuldyr warned immediately.
Too late.
Niero closed his eyes.
And dropped.
=
[ March 17th, 2087 (Monday Noon) | Niero's Ego-Space > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
The sensation was familiar now.
Not falling through air—
—but sinking through something deeper.
Cool, fluid pressure enveloped him as if he were plunging into an endless ocean made of liquid starlight. Water-like currents brushed against his skin. Bubbles drifted upward past him in slow spirals. Around him stretched a vast expanse of nebula-colored darkness, threaded with distant stars like scattered embers.
Downward.
Deeper.
The descent slowed—
—and stopped.
His feet touched solid ground.
The chamber emerged around him, crystallizing from light and memory at the center of the infinite starry ocean.
It resembled the bridge of an alien warship—sleek, curved architecture made from dark metallic alloys that shimmered faintly with embedded constellations. At its center stood the command throne, elevated slightly, designed with both authority and calculation in mind.
Yet it was undeniably his.
His bedroom furniture had been replicated here—his desk, his chair, even his gaming setup and cluttered workstation, perfectly reconstructed with eerie precision. It was as if his personal world had been fused with something cosmic and ancient.
Beyond the chamber, suspended in the vast "ocean," six enormous doors floated upright in the starlit expanse. Their surfaces were engraved with shifting sigils, each radiating a distinct presence. They rested upon the invisible floor of the nebula-sea like monoliths waiting to be challenged.
And among them—
One door he was eying at.
Massive.
Red.
Its surface pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat beneath forged metal.
Projected across it in sharp holographic letters was its name:
[WAR ROOM – TACTICAL CRUCIBLE]
Niero's gaze locked onto it.
Pain in the real world.
Frustration in his chest.
A lost opportunity.
"…If I can't train my body in the real world," he murmured, eyes narrowing slightly,
"Then I'll train in here."
Behind him, Vuldyr sighed while slapped her forehead.
> ["I knew you would say that."]
Niero stepped forward, boots echoing softly across the metallic floor of the chamber.
Each step toward the red door felt deliberate.
Intent solidifying.
Resolve sharpening.
Before he made it halfway—
Light fractured beside him.
Particles of blue code spiraled into existence, assembling midair like a descending constellation. From that cascade of luminous data, Vee manifested in her humanoid form.
She hovered effortlessly above the ground.
Long silver hair streaked with glowing blue flowed weightlessly behind her, as if suspended in zero gravity. A mechanical halo rotated slowly behind her head, rings interlocking with quiet precision. Her form-fitting bodysuit shimmered with pulsating gridlines that mapped her digital essence, each line flickering like living circuitry.
Over it, a projected qipao of cascading code draped elegantly across her frame with a half-worn baggy jacket which exposed her bare shoulders, the symbols flowing like silk in an invisible breeze. Angular, pearlescent wings unfolded behind her—refracting starlight into impossible colors.
She looked less like an AI—
—and more like a celestial administrator of Ego-Space itself.
She crossed her arms.
> ["You are ignoring medical advice,"] she said flatly.
Niero didn't slow down.
"I'm not training my body," he replied. "Just tactics."
> ["That is still strain."]
"It's thinking."
> ["It is intense thinking."]
He continued walking.
> ["You just got your ass kicked,"] she added pointedly.
He twitched.
"Motivation," he shot back.
Vee drifted sideways to keep pace with him.
> ["Your mother explicitly instructed you to rest for the entire day."]
"She also punched me in the head."
> ["That is not a counterargument."]
"It kind of is."
They reached the door.
The red surface loomed before him, humming faintly. The holographic label flickered.
Niero lifted his hand.
Before his fingers could make contact—
Vee blinked out of existence.
—and reappeared directly between him and the door.
Face-to-face.
Close enough that her halo nearly clipped his forehead.
Her eyes narrowed, glowing softly.
> ["You are doing,"] she said slowly, ["the exact OPPOSITE of what you are supposed to be doing after losing in a beatdown."]
He stared at her.
She stared back.
Silence stretched.
Then—
With the same energy one would use to move an unwanted condiment bottle out of the way—
Niero placed his right palm gently against her shoulder.
And slid her aside.
> ["…Excuse me."]
Vee drifted several inches to the left, wings fluttering in indignant disbelief.
> ["…Did you just—"]
He grasped the door handle.
"And for the record," he added, pushing it open, "I didn't lose."
The massive red door groaned as it parted, crimson light spilling across the chamber.
"I gathered data."
Vee hovered there, lips parting slightly.
Then she puffed her cheeks in a very un-celestial pout.
> ["You are impossible,"] she muttered.
But even as she complained—
She followed him in.
Because no matter how stubborn he was—
She was still his system.
And she wasn't about to let him train alone.
=
[ March 17th, 2087 (Monday Noon) | War Room > Niero's Ego-Space > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
The moment Niero pushed open the red door—
Crimson light swallowed him whole.
Then the space reassembled.
He stepped into the [War Room].
Unlike the serene vastness of the Ego-Space chamber, the War Room felt dense. Purposeful. Every inch of it radiated controlled aggression.
This was not a place for contemplation.
This was a place for improvement.
Directly ahead, two massive sections defined the space:
[The Armory] and [Training Room].
---
[The Armory]
It wasn't merely a storage area.
It was a living arsenal.
Weapon racks rose from the floor in sleek mechanical columns, rotating slowly as holographic data streamed across their surfaces. Every item within could be summoned, dismantled, upgraded, or stress-tested in real time. Combat metrics floated midair—durability graphs, penetration force estimates, mana conductivity rates.
Simulations could be layered over weapons instantly, allowing performance analysis under specific battlefield conditions.
At present, however—
The collection was… modest.
Metal pipes.
Reinforced batons.
Hand-crafted gadgets he'd built at his workbench.
Improvised shock tools.
Then the recent additions.
A jagged blade hovered in its slot as he approached.
[
Crude. Serrated. Uneven in craftsmanship.
The metal shimmered faintly green, like it had been dipped in oil that never quite dried. Despite its rough forging, its edge gleamed with unsettling sharpness.
> Passive Effect: Venom Infliction.
> Successful cuts apply Poison status against living targets.
"Ugly," Niero muttered.
But effective.
Next to it, resting within a magnetic containment frame—
[
A compact, break-action six-round magnum revolver.
But its barrel wasn't conventional.
An electromagnetic rail system lined its interior, humming faintly with restrained power. When fired, it accelerated projectiles to extreme velocities—turning standard rounds into miniature kinetic artillery.
A handheld railgun.
He admired the sleek brutality of it.
"Still only Rank-E," he murmured. "But not for long."
Data flickered across the air beside the weapon—upgrade trees branching outward like veins of possibility.
---
[Training Room]
Beyond the Armory, the space opened infinitely.
The floor dissolved into a seamless plane of polished black, stretching into a horizon that never quite existed. Above, a ceiling of shifting constellations responded to his thoughts.
This was no simple dojo.
It was a fully adaptive simulation field.
Environment replication.
Variable gravity.
Weather manipulation.
Hostile entity generation.
Combat scenario reconstruction.
He could recreate city streets, alien wastelands, dense forests, underwater battlefields—even the café downstairs if he wanted to test close-quarters maneuvering in tight civilian spaces.
Ego-Space in general has an extreme time dilation parameters that floats faintly at the edge of his vision.
Inside here, hours could pass—
While outside, barely a minute ticked forward.
He could spar endlessly.
Repeat scenarios.
Refine footwork down to millisecond precision.
Break habits. Rebuild instincts.
All without straining his real-world injuries.
At least physically.
---
Vee materialized beside him again, arms folded.
> ["You see?"] she said. ["You are absolutely planning something excessive."]
Niero's gaze drifted from the Armory…
…to the endless Training Room.
His jaw tightened.
"If I'm going to beat an S-Rank ex-soldier someday," he said quietly, "then I don't get to waste recovery days."
A faint grin tugged at his lips.
The Training Room recalibrated at his command.
The endless black plane reshaped into a familiar environment—
Polished wooden flooring.
Wide-open dojo space.
Minimalist walls.
Soft lantern light flickered into existence overhead.
Niero stood at one end.
Across from him, light gathered.
Niero rolled his shoulders.
"Load sparring simulation," he said. "Opponent: Mom."
Subject: Emilia Ripley / Mother (Rank-S) – Combat Analysis Model
A circular glyph expanded across the center of the dojo floor.
Data spiraled upward.
[Stargod's Astra Codex – Combat Reconstruction Mode]
> [Target: Subject –
> [Analysis Depth: Partial]
> Advanced feats and hidden abilities remain obscured.
> Defensive obfuscation present.
Particles condensed.
A silhouette formed.
Vee's voice echoed calmly across the chamber.
"Be advised. Current analysis remains partial."
Niero didn't look at her. "Define partial."
>["Our [Golden Eye] appraisal level is insufficient to fully scan Sororitae-grade combat data,"] she replied. ["Unlike Mana Casters and their Mana Arts, Sororitae capabilities appear shielded."]
"Shielded?"
> ["Akin to a mystical firewall,"] Vee clarified. ["Their feats, layered techniques, and adaptive instincts are not fully readable at your present level. The model will replicate observable physical parameters and recorded exchanges, but not her complete depth."]
"So this model won't be accurate, including everything she can actually do."
> ["From the [Stargod's Astra Codex], it will utilize a reduced approximation of her observable physical output and recorded patterns. However, her deeper capabilities remain obscured."]
"…Figures."
So it wouldn't be her at full capacity.
Not even close.
"…Still better than nothing," Niero muttered.
The light finished assembling.
A perfect physical manifestation of his mother stood across the dojo—stance relaxed, eyes sharp, posture deadly even in stillness.
Just looking at it made his stomach tighten.
The memory of those punches.
The pressure.
The suffocating dominance.
He frowned.
"…Change it."
Vee paused. "Clarify."
"Remodel the Codex avatar."
"To what specification?"
He exhaled.
"Standard featureless combat dummy. Humanoid template."
There was a brief silence.
Then the image shimmered.
His mother's face dissolved into blank geometry. Features erased. Hair gone. Clothing simplified. What remained was a neutral, smooth-surfaced humanoid figure—white, expressionless, devoid of identity.
Better.
This wasn't his mom.
This was data.
He rolled his shoulders once then take a stance, ignoring the faint phantom ache in his real body.
"Start combat simulation."
Before the system could respond—
Vee materialized directly in front of him.
Not hovering gently this time.
She descended and planted both feet firmly on the dojo floor.
Her halo slowed.
Her wings folded.
"No."
The word echoed.
Niero blinked. "Excuse me?"
"I will not initiate the combat simulation."
Her voice wasn't playful.
It wasn't teasing.
It was firm.
He frowned. "It's essentially mental training."
> ["May I highlight the fact that if you are defeated here—even by a combay dummy calibrated to your mother's estimated strength—the physical, psychic and sensory feedback from here will impact your recovery. Training or cultivting here still reflects on the real space."]
"It's just simulation feedback. I can handle it."
> ["No. It is still stress. Physical. Neural. Emotional."]
The mannequin stood silently behind her, waiting.
> ["You may observe the projections,"] Vee continued. ["You may review combat data. But live engagement is suspended until your body and mind stabilize."]
Niero's jaw tightened.
"So I'm just supposed to sit around and do nothing?"
> ["You are supposed to recover."]
"I lost," he snapped. "I hesitated. If I don't fix that now—"
> ["If you damage yourself further, even in here,] Vee cut in sharply, eyes glowing brighter, [you will delay your recovery."]
She stepped closer.
> ["And if you delay your recovery even further… you will never become a Marauder."]
The words hit harder than any punch.
Silence filled the Training Room.
Niero's fists trembled at his sides—not from pain this time, but frustration.
His dream wasn't small.
He wanted to leave the city. To survive beyond it. To become an off-city mercenary—a Marauder. To stand on battlefields where hesitation meant death.
He wanted to be strong so he can protect his family, fight the horrors, and never wants to be weak.
And today—
He'd proven he wasn't ready.
"I can't just do nothing," he muttered.
Vee's expression softened slightly, but her stance didn't waver.
> ["Then do not do nothing,"] she said. ["Analyze. Reflect. Study patterns. Strength is not built only through collision."]
Her voice lowered.
> ["Stop being stupidly stubborn before you injure yourself further. When you recover back to peak health, then you can train."]
The edge in her tone told him she meant it.
He wanted to argue.
He really did.
But as much as he hated it—
He knew she was right.
Slowly, his fists unclenched.
The combat dummy flickered, awaiting a command that would not come.
"…Fine," Niero exhaled.
Not surrender.
Not defeat.
Just—
Restraint.
And that, he realized bitterly—
Might be the harder lesson.
The red glow of the [War Room] dimmed behind him as Niero stepped back into the central chamber of his Ego-Space.
The vast starry ocean stretched endlessly around the platform, calm and indifferent.
He exhaled sharply.
Frustrated.
But not blind.
He knew Vee was right.
Didn't mean he had to like it.
As he walked toward the center throne platform, he asked flatly,
"Recovery status."
A translucent HUD window materialized in front of him.
> HP: 101 / 150
> Recovery Progress: 67%
> ["You are currently at sixty-seven percent of your total one hundred fifty HP capacity,"] Vuldyr replied. ["Regeneration remains stable."]
He clicked his tongue. "Still a third short."
> ["Correct."]
Another notification shimmered into view.
> [Trait (Origin): What Doesn't Kill You…] – Passive Effect Pending
Vuldyr continued, her tone analytical.
> ["Upon full recovery, the trait will activate. You will receive a statistical boost derived from accumulated combat stress."]
"How much?"
> ["Unknown."]
He raised a brow. "Unknown?"
> ["The boost is calculated from two percent of the total damage you sustained,"] she clarified.
> ["However, final conversion values remain undetermined until complete restoration."]
Niero let that sink in.
Two percent.
Of everything his body endured in that fifteen-minute beating.
A slow grin tugged at his lips despite himself.
"…So I get stronger for getting wrecked."
> ["In simplified terms, yes."]
Niero pulled a small grin.
"Quite a broken trait, isn't it."
> ["That's the 'Origin Trait' for ya,"] Vuldyr replied smoothly. ["It is expected to be... even if its true nature is yet to uncovered."]
He walked over to the replica of his bed—perfectly recreated from his real bedroom—and flopped onto it more carefully this time. The starry expanse reflected faintly above him like a cosmic ceiling.
Impatience buzzed in his chest.
He hated waiting.
Hated stagnation.
Hated the feeling of unfinished business.
But the numbers didn't lie.
67%.
Not ready.
Vuldyr hovered faintly into view above him, halo rotating in slow, steady rhythm.
> ["Rest,"] she said firmly.
Not a suggestion.
A directive.
> ["Regard this as your current objective."]
He stared up at the distant nebulae.
"…A quest, huh?"
> ["Yes."]
---
> [ Objective: ]
> Recover to 100%.
> Recovery Progress: 67%
---
No enemies.
No combat.
No shortcuts.
Just restraint.
Niero closed his eyes slowly.
If training his body was forbidden—
Then mastering his patience would have to count.
"…Fine," he muttered.
=
[ March 17th, 2087 (Monday Afternoon) | Niero's Bedroom > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Niero eased himself back into reality with far less dramatic flair than before.
No cosmic descent.
No crimson doors.
Just his bedroom ceiling.
For the next few hours, he obeyed the "quest."
Comics were stacked against his pillow, their worn pages flipping lazily beneath his fingers. When his arms grew tired, he switched to watching anime on his SmartCom tablet—half-paying attention, half drifting. Occasionally, he migrated to his gaming PC, logging into an online match or two, careful not to tense up too much when the action spiked.
Every now and then, a dull ache reminded him he wasn't at full capacity yet.
But compared to this morning?
Manageable.
A soft knock interrupted a loading screen.
Before he could answer, the door slid open anyway.
"Sis!" Daisy's voice came first.
Sophie followed right behind her, trying—and failing—to look composed.
Both of them froze for a split second when they saw him upright and conscious.
Then Daisy practically launched herself toward the bed.
"You're awake!" she gasped, stopping just short of tackling him. "You scared us!"
Sophie exhaled in visible relief. "You look… less dead than earlier."
"Wow," Niero muttered. "Comforting."
They crowded around his bed immediately.
"How do you feel?"
"Do you still have a fever?"
"Do you need water?"
"Soup?"
"Blanket?"
"It was just a bad cold," Niero said quickly, holding up a hand. "I'm fine. Seriously."
He kept his tone casual.
No mention of sparring.
No mention of getting folded in fifteen minutes.
Just "fever." Easy. Harmless.
Daisy squinted suspiciously. "You normally never get sick."
"…first time for everthing, i guess," he replied vaguely.
Sophie narrowed her eyes too—but after a moment, she let it go.
Instead, they shifted into casual chatter, perching on the edge of his bed and desk chair like they'd been waiting all day to unload gossip.
"So, school was boring today as always," Daisy complained. "We had like three 'self-study' periods."
Sophie snorted. "Which means the teachers didn't feel like teaching."
"So we just hung out with friends," Daisy continued. "Oh! And you won't believe what happened."
Niero leaned back slightly. "I'm afraid to ask."
"There's this twin-tailed girl in our class," Sophie began, already smirking.
"The bold one," Daisy added.
"She brought a magazine to school."
Niero blinked. "Okay…?"
Daisy leaned closer, lowering her voice dramatically. "A porn magazine."
He nearly choked on air.
"She said she "found" it behind the bushes near the schoolyard," Sophie said dryly. "Very believable."
"It had like—super handsome muscular guys," Daisy continued enthusiastically, "and also really cute effeminate boys—"
Sophie elbowed her lightly. "You don't have to describe it in detail."
"But it was detailed!"
Niero stared at them.
"…You're telling me she just brought that to school?"
"She gathered half the girls during break," Sophie said. "They were reading it in a circle like it was celebrity gossip magazine."
"Some of them got nosebleeds," Daisy added seriously. "Like in anime."
Niero pinched the bridge of his nose.
"That is… insanely bold. She must have some large lady balls to do that shamelessly."
"Right?" Daisy giggled. "Until a teacher caught them and confiscated it."
Sophie sighed. "The legend didn't last long."
Niero shook his head slowly.
"…Your generation is wild," he muttered.
Sophie gave him a look. "You're barely older than us."
"Still counts."
The three of them laughed lightly.
For a moment, the weight of Marauders, recovery percentages, and Origin Traits faded into the background.
He was just a brother.
Listening to ridiculous school drama.
=
A gentle knock preceded the door sliding open again.
Mom stepped in carefully this time, balancing a tray.
A bowl of steaming mushroom soup.
A tall glass of apple juice with condensation sliding down the side.
The smell alone made Niero realize he was actually hungry.
"There we go," she said softly, walking toward his bed. "Recovery fuel."
Daisy perked up. "That smells good."
"It's for the patient," Mom replied immediately, setting the tray on his desk. "There are still more in the pot in the kitchen".
Sophie crossed her arms. "We're supervising."
Mom gave them the look.
"Do either of you have homework?"
Silence.
"…No," Daisy admitted.
Sophie hesitated. "…Not really."
"Good," Mom said sweetly. "Then you can help downstairs at the café so you don't tire your brother."
Both girls froze.
"Wait, what?" Daisy protested.
"But we're keeping him company!" Sophie argued.
"He needs rest," Mom said firmly. "Not noise."
"We're not noisy!" Daisy objected loudly.
Niero raised a hand. "Okay, that was pretty noisy."
They both glared at him.
He gave them a small, reassuring smile. "I'm fine. Really. Just a cold, remember? Go help downstairs."
Sophie studied him carefully, as if trying to detect hidden suffering.
"…You sure?"
"Yeah," he nodded. "I'll still be here when you come back."
Daisy huffed but leaned in to give him a quick side hug—careful this time.
"Get well soon," she said.
"Don't die from a common cold," Sophie added dryly.
"Not planning to."
Reluctantly, the two of them shuffled out. The door slid closed with a soft click.
Silence settled over the room again.
Mom waited a few seconds—just long enough to ensure footsteps faded down the stairs.
Then she turned to him.
"…Did you say anything about our training?"
Her tone was gentle.
But serious.
Niero immediately made a dramatic show of zipping his lips shut with his fingers—
Then mimed tossing the invisible key over his shoulder.
Mom snorted despite herself.
"Good."
Her shoulders relaxed slightly as she picked up the soup and handed it to him.
The steam curled upward between them.
"Eat," she said softly. "You'll recover faster."
Niero took the bowl carefully.
"…Thanks."
And as he lifted the spoon, he noticed—
The worry in her eyes hadn't completely gone away.
Mom lifted the spoon instinctively.
"Open."
Niero stared at her.
"…I can feed myself."
"You're injured."
"I'm not paralyzed."
There was a brief tug-of-war over the spoon before he gently took it from her hand.
"I'm fine," he muttered, scooping up the mushroom soup carefully. "You don't have to baby me."
She watched him for a moment, then let out a quiet sigh.
"I'm sorry," she said softly. "I might've gone too far."
He blew on the spoon, thinking.
"At the very least," he replied after a moment, "I don't think it was malice."
She looked up.
"But," he added dryly, "it was kinda close to child abuse."
Her hand immediately went to the back of her neck, rubbing it awkwardly.
"…That bad?"
"You dropped me in fifteen minutes."
She winced again.
"It might not have been that bad," she said carefully, "if you hadn't hesitated."
Niero paused mid-motion.
Mom continued, voice calm but analytical.
"You had an opening. You committed to an energized punch." Her eyes sharpened slightly. "Then you pulled back."
The spoon stopped.
Ice slid down his spine.
Energized punch.
For a split second during the fight, he had drawn on that faint trace of Nova-Spark energy—raw, unstable, and absolutely not something he was supposed to expose.
Not to civilians.
Not to family.
Especially not to his mother.
His pulse quickened.
"…Energized?" he echoed casually. "That was probably just adrenaline. Heat of the moment. You know how it is."
Her gaze didn't waver.
Calm.
Piercing.
The kind of stare that made careless lies dangerous.
He forced a small shrug.
"Adrenaline-fueled delusion," he added lightly. "I thought I could hit harder than I actually could."
Silence lingered.
Steam curled between them.
Finally, she spoke.
"I was surprised," she admitted. "I thought you finally decided to use your innate gift against me."
His grip tightened imperceptibly around the spoon.
"Innate gift?" he repeated, feigning confusion. "You mean stubbornness?"
She didn't smile.
He did.
Just enough.
Inside, his thoughts raced.
Did she see it?
Did she feel the Nova-Spark fluctuation?
Or was she fishing?
"…Mom," he said, keeping his tone steady, "if I had some secret superpower, don't you think I would've used it before getting my face remodeled?"
A beat.
Then another.
Her eyes studied him—measuring.
Weighing.
Finally, she exhaled softly.
"…Maybe."
Not convinced.
But not pushing further.
She reached forward and adjusted the towel on his forehead again, her touch gentler than any strike she'd thrown the day before.
Niero wanted to deny everything—every word about "innate gifts" and that near-fatal "energized punch."
The denial rose to his throat, sharp and desperate.
But before he could speak, Mom gently took his hands in hers.
Her grip wasn't forceful.
It was warm.
Steady.
"Everyone has skeletons in their closets, Niero," she said softly. "Things they're afraid to bring into the light. For many reasons."
Her thumb brushed against his knuckles, as if grounding him.
"I have mine too."
His breath hitched.
"So I understand," she continued, her voice tender yet unyielding, "if you're not ready to tell me. Especially in a society like ours… where power mostly belongs to women."
A faint, bitter smile crossed her lips.
"In this matriarchal world, when a man manifests power… he is either treated with reverence—or with fear."
Niero's fingers curled unconsciously.
"At first," she admitted, "I wondered if you might become the world's first male Mana Caster."
Her gaze sharpened slightly.
"Or perhaps a Psionic… a Dreamwalker…"
Her voice lowered.
"Or worst of all… a Redborn."
The word lingered between them like a curse.
"But none of those fit what I've seen from you," she said quietly. "Not the things you've done. Not the way your power feels."
Her eyes locked onto his.
"So tell me, Niero… what are you really hiding?"
And for the first time since the soup had gone cold between them, Niero felt truly seen.
Mom's question lingered.
Niero's mind spiraled inward.
In this world, supernatural power wasn't simple.
Women manifested Mana Energy.
They awakened Mana Arts.
The chosen among them became the radiant warriors known as the **Sororitae**.
That was the norm.
That was understood.
But men…
Men could gain powers too.
Just… rarely.
And never quietly.
---
There were [Psionics].
Psychic power users.
Abilities not tied to mana, but to the raw depths of the human mind—psionic potential that every human theoretically possessed in faint traces.
The next step of human evolution, for both male and female.
Most could barely bend spoons.
Some could move objects with effort.
The strongest?
They could tear apart armored tanks… distort gravity fields… even influence weather patterns.
Their strength varied wildly, each ability uniquely personal—like fingerprints of the soul.
But that wasn't him.
His power didn't feel like mental force.
It felt more… cosmic.
---
Then there were [Dreamwalkers].
Those marked by the iridescent fungal growth somewhere on their bodies like a fungal infection patch, that grants them the ability to descended them into Nocturne—a gothic fantasy nightmare realm stitched together by shadow and ancient horror.
In there, they utilized an RPG-like magic system and the "players" treated that realm like an Ark.Net's MMORPG VR game.
In there, they fought monsters.
They gained loot.
Magic.
Artifacts.
Strength carved from survival which one can use in real space, both magical abilities and loot they earned.
But there is a dire cost—
If they died in Nocturne…
They died in reality.
Worse—
Their corpses became vessels.
The monstrosities that killed them would wear their bodies in the waking world like grotesque armor, puppeting their flesh until exterminated.
The nature of the 'Nocturne' fungus was still a mystery,
The fungal growth itself somehow wasn't contagious.
No one knew how it spread.
And anyone suspected of infection was identified and monitored by the Bloom Dominion.
Niero suppressed a shiver.
He had no fungal mark.
No dreams of gothic ruins.
No Nocturne.
So it wasn't that either.
---
And then…
The worst possibility.
[Redborn].
Victims of an unknown alien plague.
Humans. Animals.
Twisted into fleshy abominations shaped by abstract concepts reflecting their former selves.
Some became towering horrors of hunger.
Some embodied rage.
Some manifested despair into monstrous forms.
But majority, they embodied a wish, desire or obsession one hold and twisted into a monstrous mockery of it with forms and abilities that associated with it.
A rare few retained their humanity.
Retained their minds.
Retained their human form.
Retained their powers.
But they were cursed.
Cursed with an insatiable, cannibalistic hunger—for human flesh… or raw meat.
Cursed to devour both humans and other Redborn.
Redborn were captured.
Monitored.
Or in worse case, exterminated.
Also by the Bloom Dominion.
Niero's stomach tightened.
He felt no hunger like that.
---
No mutation.
No alien corruption crawling beneath his skin.
He was not a Psionic.
Not a Dreamwalker.
Not a Redborn.
And yet—
He wasn't normal either.
The Nova-Spark thrummed faintly in his chest.
Something that didn't belong to any known metahuman classification under the Bloom Dominion's codex.
Which meant—
If he told her the truth…
There was no category to protect him.
No label to soften it.
No system to explain it.
Mom was still holding his hands.
Waiting.
And Niero—
Fully aware he didn't fit into any known power classification—
Couldn't say a single word.
Silence pressed against his ribs.
Then—
> ["If you intend to become a Marauder,"] Vuldyr's voice flowed smoothly through his thoughts, ["identifying as a Psionic would be strategically beneficial."]
Niero didn't move.
> ["It is the most plausible classification. It prevents you from becoming a red herring to the entire Queendom. Far preferable to revealing you paracausal, cosmic-tier phenomena associated with the Stargod such as yourself. After all, some of your abilities can be stated to be psionic in nature."]
Translation:
Lie.
But lie smartly.
His throat felt dry.
Psionic.
Out of all the categories… it was the safest. Psychic potential. Internal force. Subtle enhancement.
It would explain the "energized punch."
It would explain his physical amplification.
It wouldn't explain everything—
—but it didn't have to.
He swallowed.
"…I think," he began slowly, carefully, "I might be a Psionic."
Mom didn't blink.
He forced himself to continue.
"Not like… fireball strikes or twisting tanks into toothpick. Nothing flashy." He gave a small, awkward shrug. "More like… generating a small amount of internal energy. Amplifying my physical output, making me stronger and faster than normal."
He kept his tone uncertain.
As if he had only recently pieced it together himself.
"I didn't know how to explain it before," he added quietly. "I wasn't even sure what it was. I thought maybe it was just adrenaline. Or training. Or me imagining things."
That part wasn't entirely a lie.
"I guess… I didn't want to say something stupid and be wrong."
His chest felt tight.
Because the truth was—
He wasn't wrong.
He just wasn't telling the right truth.
The Nova-Spark flickered faintly in his core, silent yet pulsing.
Mom's gaze sharpened.
Not angry.
Not accusing.
But piercing.
The kind of stare that stripped excuses and peeled back layers.
She was analyzing him.
Weighing micro-expressions.
Breathing patterns.
The subtle tremor in his fingers.
For a moment—
He thought she saw through him.
Thought she would say his name in that low voice and tell him to stop lying.
Seconds stretched.
Then—
Her grip softened.
"…An augmentation-type Psionic," she murmured thoughtfully.
Her eyes searched his again.
And then—
She nodded.
"That incredibly amazing."
Relief hit him so suddenly he nearly sagged.
"It fits better than the others," she continued. "No fungal markers that indicates Dreamwalkers. No mutation signs for Redborns. No mana resonance of most Mana Casters." A faint smile ghosted across her lips. "And yet you've always been stubborn enough, didn't realised you have some additional 'firepower' in you."
He let out a small breath that he hoped didn't sound like a collapse.
"I'm still figuring it out," he said quietly.
"That's fine," she replied.
Her thumb brushed over his knuckles again.
"You don't have to have everything understood yet."
Guilt twisted in his chest.
Because she believed him.
Not because she was naïve.
But because she trusted him.
And that trust—
Made the lie heavier than any punch she had thrown.
The moment the word Psionic settled between them—
Niero and Vuldyr both exhaled internally.
> ["Psycho-analysis indicated she calm and accepting to your lies. Stability maintained, fortunately."] Vuldyr noted.
Crisis avoided.
Or so he thought.
Mom leaned back slightly, studying him with a calmer expression.
"Even if you are a Psionic," she said evenly, "that doesn't mean you get to skip the sparring test."
He blinked.
"…What?"
"You still have to prove you can survive outside the shielded walls of Mega Ark-City 01."
Her tone wasn't harsh.
It was matter-of-fact.
"Power doesn't equal survival. Control does."
There it was again.
No anger.
No fear.
Just… expectation.
Then her expression shifted—subtle, but protective.
"You will use it minimally," she continued. "Do you understand?"
He frowned slightly. "Why?"
Her gaze hardened.
"Because I don't know what they'll do to my baby badger if word spreads."
His chest tightened.
"In a world where most women manifest power," she said, voice low but steady, "a man with abilities becomes an anomaly."
She began counting calmly on her fingers.
"You could be flagged as a military asset."
"Targeted by recruitment divisions."
"Approached by powerful families. Clans. Conglomerates."
Her jaw tightened slightly.
"And some of them," she added with quiet disgust, "would view you as genetic leverage."
Niero felt a chill.
"Men with 'acceptable' superpowers," she continued, the quotation marks audible in her voice, "are sometimes pushed into selective breeding marriages. Political alliances masked as romance. Bloodline strengthening programs."
Her eyes darkened.
"I will not have anyone deciding my children's futures like political asset or livestock."
The room fell silent.
He swallowed.
"…That's actually a thing? I thought its a rumor."
"Yes."
The answer came too fast.
"Especially if your psionic output shows higher potential."
The implication settled heavy in his chest.
He wasn't just hiding a cosmic secret.
He was navigating a market.
She tilted her head slightly.
"Are there any other abilities?"
There it was.
Another crossroads.
He hesitated.
Just for a fraction too long.
Then—
"…Minor psychokinesis," he said, forcing steadiness into his voice. "Small objects. Throwing knives, maybe. Nothing major."
True enough.
He could technically replicate that.
"And… accelerated recovery. I think the energy reinforces my body."
Also technically true.
Just not for the reasons she believed.
Mom's expression didn't shift into shock.
Didn't sharpen with suspicion.
Instead—
She looked… reassured.
"That's manageable," she murmured. "Augmentation-type Psionics tend to be more stable."
Stable.
As if she had already categorized him.
Filed him away neatly.
She continued speaking almost casually, as though her son revealing he was one of the rare few men with psychic abilities was just another household discussion.
"You'll train control. You'll cap your output. You will not display it publicly unless absolutely necessary."
She adjusted the tray slightly.
"We'll handle this carefully."
Carefully.
Not fearfully.
Not explosively.
Carefully.
Niero sat there, quiet.
Unsettled.
Because she wasn't reacting like someone who had just learned her son had powers.
She was reacting like someone who had prepared for it.
Even Vuldyr spoke, faint surprise coloring her tone.
Her emotional response is significantly more stable than predicted.
No hysteria.
No interrogation.
No panic.
Just strategy.
As if—
On some level—
She had always suspected.
And that realization unsettled him more than anything else.
Niero hesitated.
Then quietly asked,
"…How are you taking this so well?"
She looked at him.
"As if you already knew," he added carefully.
Mom studied his face for a moment.
Then she asked softly,
"Do you remember what happened five years ago?"
His pulse skipped.
"The night before your birthday. 20th May, 2082."
The air in the room grew heavier.
"You climbed out of your bedroom window in the middle of a Hollow Creature alarm," she continued. "Said you were being chased by a perverted female streaker."
Niero went very still.
He remembered.
Not the excuse.
The truth.
That was the night he had been kidnapped.
Dragged into darkness by a Hollow entity known as [Hachishaku-Sama].
That was the night he awakened the [Stargod] within him.
The night everything changed.
"…Yeah," he answered quietly.
Mom's gaze softened—but there was something deeper beneath it.
"When you came back," she said slowly, "we were about to organize a search party."
Her fingers curled slightly on her lap.
"And when I saw you, coming out from the Sector 13's national park…"
She paused.
"Not only was about to cry with relive but... I also sensed something."
His heartbeat thundered.
"Something... radiating out from you, as if something had awakened within you that day."
Not mana.
Not mutation.
Just—
Something.
"I couldn't identify it," she admitted. "It wasn't Mana resonance. It wasn't fungal trace. It wasn't Redborn corruption."
Her eyes met his.
"But it was there."
A silence stretched between them.
"And now," she continued gently, "it makes sense. My baby badger has psychic powers."
Relief crashed into him so hard he nearly sagged.
She didn't know.
She had sensed the awakening—
—but not the cosmic nature of it.
Not the ancient paracausal system nested in his soul.
Inside his mind, Vuldyr spoke—rarely unsettled.
> ["Eventhou it was my day of being 'manifested,' I failed to immediately mask your [Astra Force] emission that night, right after defeating that Hachishaku-Sama entity."]
There was a faint note of irritation in her usually composed tone.
> ["I corrected the error once your mother approached. The concealment was… improvised."]
Improvised.
Like hastily sweeping dust under a rug when guests arrive.
Not elegant.
But effective.
Niero swallowed.
That night had nearly exposed everything before it even began.
He looked back at Mom.
"So you've… suspected for five years?"
"I suspected something," she corrected. "I just didn't know what."
Her expression grew firmer.
"But whatever it is—Psionic or otherwise—"
She reached forward and gently pressed her forehead against his.
"You are still my son first."
His throat tightened.
=
The last spoonful of mushroom soup disappeared.
The apple juice glass was empty.
Niero handed both over without a word.
Mom balanced the bowl and glass neatly onto the tray and stood from the edge of his bed.
"I'll start dinner soon," she said lightly. "Homemade kimchi ramen tonight."
That made him blink.
"For everyone?"
She smiled. "Obviously. And I'll bring you a bowl up here, so don't even think about sneaking downstairs."
He gave a small, sheepish nod.
"Rest until then," she added gently.
She turned toward the door.
"…Mom?"
She paused.
He hesitated again.
"…Are you okay with it? Me having powers."
The question came out smaller than he intended.
"And… are you going to tell Aunt Alura? Sophie? Daisy?"
She looked back at him.
There was no hesitation in her eyes this time.
"Even without powers," she said firmly, "I have never been more proud of my baby badger."
His chest tightened.
"As for Alura," she continued, adjusting the tray against her hip, "I already told her."
Of course she did.
"But we won't tell Sophie or Daisy yet," she added. "Not until the time is right."
Her tone carried that quiet maternal authority that meant the decision was final.
Then her expression softened again.
"So focus on getting better," she said. "You have another sparring test coming up, don't you?"
He groaned quietly.
She chuckled.
"Rest. Heal. Eat. Then show me what you can do."
She stepped out into the hallway.
The bedroom door clicked shut.
Silence filled the room.
Then—
A faint sound drifted through the wood.
Her humming.
Soft. Warm. Familiar.
The melody was slightly muffled as she walked downstairs, fading little by little.
Niero leaned back into his pillows.
The room felt different now.
Safer.
Not because his secret was secure.
But because she had accepted him.
Even if it was a half-truth.
The hum downstairs grew fainter… then dissolved into the distant sounds of kitchen cabinets and running water.
Niero exhaled slowly.
For now—
He could rest.
=
Time slipped quietly from late afternoon into night.
Niero passed it the way any recovering teenager would.
Anime streamed across his SmartCom tablet. Bright colors. Explosions. Overdramatic speeches about friendship and destiny that hit a little too close to home.
He played a few rounds of his favorite games, thumbs moving on instinct, letting himself sink into something normal.
Something ordinary.
Dinner arrived not long after.
But it didn't come alone.
Sophie and Daisy pushed into his room with exaggerated ceremony, Daisy carefully carrying the steaming bowl of homemade kimchi ramen like it was a sacred offering.
"Special delivery for the wounded hero," Sophie announced.
Niero rolled his eyes.
They stayed.
Of course they did.
The three of them eventually gathered around his bed, tuned his gaming pc's monitor towards themselves on Niero's bed as it streamed Daisy's favorite comedy-action series from the Ark.Net;
Anti-Anomaly Bureau No. 88.
A workplace comedy wrapped in paranormal chaos.
Set in a chronically underfunded government precinct, the series followed a dysfunctional—yet alarmingly competent—squad of officers tasked with containing supernatural threats hiding in plain sight. Their office was a circus of clashing personalities: the conspiracy and action film obsessed weirdo detective, the intelligent yet overly dramatic captain, the booksmart nerd female officer, the deadpan exorcist-for-hire detective, a musclebound family man with a enchanted shotgun, the two slob officers yet an experts in obscure supernatural phenomenon, and talking German Shepperd who somewhat of a scaredy cat but always muster courage to help its teammates.
The tonal whiplash was half the charm, as their days swung wildly between the absurd and the apocalyptic.
One moment: arguing over stolen lunches in the break room in a comical way.
Next moment: coordinated takedowns of soul-devouring abomination made from the amalgamated human bodies with horror tone.
Another moment: a emotional romantic development between a weird main character detective with a book smart female officer.
Daisy laughed the loudest during the mundane scenes—the passive-aggressive memo wars, the captain's increasingly unhinged motivational speeches. But she leaned forward just as eagerly when the squad snapped into professional precision, bantering seamlessly while containing horrors that would shatter ordinary minds.
They laughed loudly enough that Mom had to shush them once from downstairs.
For a while—
It felt like nothing in the world was wrong.
And yet…
Between laughter and slurping noodles, a quiet weight pressed against Niero's chest.
He was hiding so much.
Not just from classmates.
Not just from the Marauders.
From them.
From Sophie's dramatic eye-rolls.
From Daisy's unfiltered excitement.
From the warm kitchen downstairs.
If they knew he was a Stargod—
If they knew the scale of what might one day come looking for him…
Would they still laugh like this?
Or would every hug feel fragile?
At worst, he thought quietly, these secrets would go with him to the grave.
And until then—
He would treasure this slice of life.
=
Night deepened.
Daisy protested when the episode ended.
"Just one more—!"
"No," Mom called firmly from downstairs.
Aunt Alura backed her up.
"Your brother needs sleep."
Groans echoed dramatically.
But the girls obeyed.
They each gave him a tight hug. Daisy kissed his forehead with zero hesitation. Sophie tried to play it cool but did it too.
"Get better," Sophie muttered.
"Or we're stealing your snacks," Daisy added.
Then they were gone.
The house settled into its nighttime quiet.
Niero lay back in his bed, staring at the ceiling.
"…Vuldyr."
> ["Yes."]
"What's my health at?"
A brief pause.
> ["Your biological integrity has stabilized to approximately 81.3% of your total 150 HP capacity."]
He exhaled softly.
> ["At current recovery rates, you will return to 100% by morning."]
"That fast?"
> ["Your constitution and your resting period has been significantly enhanced. Minor systemic trauma is inefficient at sustaining itself."]
He snorted quietly.
"Good. I've got things to do."
> ["Indeed,"] Vuldyr replied dryly. ["Which is why you will refrain from doing something reckless until tomorrow. Such as sparring with your mother. Or challenging my simulated combat model within Ego-Space."]
He chuckled.
"Wow. You wound me, Vee."
> ["You wound yourself sufficiently without assistance."]
The darkness of the room grew heavier.
Comfortable.
His body felt warm beneath the blankets.
His breathing slowed.
> ["Rest,"] Vuldyr added, softer now. ["Tomorrow you may resume making questionable decisions."]
"…Yeah."
The last thing Niero heard before sleep claimed him was the faint hum of the house settling for the night.
And the quiet certainty—
That for now,
Everything was still whole.
=
[ March 18th, 2087 (Tuesday Early Morning) | Niero's Bedroom > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
At first, it blended into the dream.
A faint beeping.
Slow.
Rhythmic.
Like a countdown buried beneath layers of sleep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Then—
Silence.
A familiar crystalline *chime* rang out.
Niero's eyes snapped open.
He shot upright in bed.
6:30 AM glowed on his SmartCom display.
But the sound hadn't come from it.
His breath slowed.
"…Vuldyr."
> ["You heard it as well,"] she replied.
He didn't hesitate.
"Status."
A translucent window unfolded before his vision, projected directly into his perception.
---
> **[STARGOD SYSTEM: STATUS]**
> Ascension Realm: 1st Realm: Mortal Realm
> Ascension Phase: Phase 2: Convergence Phase
> Ascension Level: 11 -> 13
> HP: 150 / 150
> Ascension Points: 2 Available
> Universal Stat Gain: +0.03 to All Base Attributes (by [Trait (Origin): What Doesn't Kill You...])
> STR (Strength): 1.02 → 1.05
> AGI (Agility): 1.02 → 1.05
> END (Endurance): 1.02 → 1.05
> INT (Intelligence): 1.02 → 1.05
> PER (Perception): 1.02 → 1.05
> LUK (Luck): 2.02 → 2.05
> CHM (Charm): 1.02 → 1.05
> CRT (Critical Rate): 1.02 → 1.05
---
He stared.
"…Two levels?"
> ["Correct."]
Even Vuldyr sounded impressed.
The cause was obvious.
[Trait (Origin): What Doesn't Kill You…]
The absurd, borderline broken effect that converted 2% of total sustained trauma into permanent statistical growth and adaptive resistance—provided he healed to full.
He had assumed the Orkoid encounters would carry most of that yield.
The rank-E Orkoid Scrapper (Goblins).
The rank-D Orkoid Berserker (Orcs).
Those had nearly killed him.
Only gave him 1 level each.
But—
"…Mom's beatdown gave me two levels?"
He felt a faint shiver crawl up his spine.
> ["The accumulated trauma from your recent combat combined with high-impact physical punishment from a significantly superior combatant produced optimal adaptive stimulus."] Vuldyr explained calmly.
He rubbed his arms.
"That's a terrifying sentence."
His mother's "heldback, light spar" had nearly rearranged his skeleton.
And somehow—
It had made him stronger.
He swung his legs off the bed.
No soreness.
No stiffness.
No residual pain.
His body felt… primed.
He dropped into a squat.
Smooth.
Explosive.
Push-ups followed.
His muscles responded more efficiently, more fluidly. Even the floor felt lighter beneath his palms.
"I don't feel like I just recovered from getting folded in half."
> ["Because you did not merely recover,"] Vuldyr replied. ["You adapted, as you should be."]
He stood and stretched his shoulders.
The slight dread lingered for a moment.
If Mom's training sessions counted as "trauma farming"—
No.
He was not going down that thought spiral.
Instead—
"Prep a combat simulation."
A pause.
> ["…Seriously?"]
He smirked.
"Just a combat dummy. Load Mom's previous combat simulation matrix."
> ["You have achieved full recovery less than few seconds ago."]
"I'm not sparring her. I need to study her."
Silence.
Then—
> ["Elaborate."]
"She's faster than me. Stronger than me. Her techniques is impressive and her footwork's insane. If I can break down her patterns—adapt to them—I can shorten the gap."
He clenched his fist.
"And incorporate what works, such as her CQC techniques, into my own style."
Another pause.
Then—
> ["You are… learning."]
He grinned.
"Don't sound so surprised. I'm not a caveman with brains smoother than jell-o."
> ["I am not surprised. I am mildly concerned."]
He laughed.
"Just prep it. I won't overdo it."
A soft, resigned exhale echoed in his mind.
> ["Very well. Combat simulation initializing. Standardized dummy with Mom's previous combat matrix loaded."]
The air in his perception shifted.
The faint outline of Ego-Space began forming at the edge of his consciousness.
> ["However,"] Vuldyr added firmly, ["you will not push beyond sustainable strain thresholds. Adaptive growth is efficient but structural collapse is not. You still need to spar with your mom if you're going to prove yourself that you have what it takes to be a Marauder."]
"Yes, ma'am."
> ["Do not address me as such, Kiddo. Makes me sound like an old lady."]
He chuckled as the simulation finalized.
After finishing his last set of jumping jacks, Niero let out a slow breath.
His body felt light.
Responsive.
Charged.
He hopped back onto his bed and settled into a cross-legged position, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his knees.
The morning light filtered softly through the curtains.
Outside, the house was still quiet.
Inside—
He slowed his breathing.
Inhale.
Exhale.
The world began to recede.
> ["You intend to enter Ego-Space right now?"] Vuldyr asked.
"Yeah."
A brief pause.
> ["How long will you be training?"]
He considered that carefully.
Time inside his [Ego-Space] moved at an extreme dilation rate.
One year within it equaled one day in real time.
A dangerous advantage.
Also a dangerous temptation.
"…A week," he decided.
> ["Clarify."]
"A week inside. That's like what—about thirty minutes out here?"
> ["Technically its approximately twenty-eight minutes and forty-eight seconds,"] Vuldyr corrected smoothly.
He grinned faintly.
"That'll suffice for now."
> ["Understood. I have prepared one week's worth of sustenance and hydration for your inventory, both mom's hotdog buns and miitary ration with water bottles. The standard combat dummy configured with Mom's previous combat matrix."]
He exhaled slowly.
The air felt heavier.
Or maybe he was just sinking deeper.
> ["Reminder,"] Vuldyr added, tone firm, ["this is technical adaptation training. So don't push yourself too much."]
"Got it."
His consciousness tilted.
Then—
He dove.
=
[ March 18th, 2087 (Tuesday, Early Morning) | Niero's Ego-Space > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Darkness bloomed—
Then geometry assembled itself from nothing.
Steel flooring.
Dim overhead lights.
Strategic holographic displays.
Multiple empty racks of with few weapons on display.
The vast circular chamber of the [War Room] materialized around him, forming a dojo-like space to train one, as requested.
Warm.
Precise.
Waiting.
At its center stood the combat dummy.
Humanoid.
Featureless.
But as its systems activated—
Its posture shifted.
Weight distributed.
Feet angled.
Guard raised.
His mother's CQC stance.
Well replicated for a limited scan.
Niero rolled his shoulders once.
A week.
Seven days to dissect her footwork.
Seven days to understand her rhythm.
Seven days to close the gap—even if only by inches.
And able to be back before his sisters leave for school.
The War Room doors sealed behind him.
> ["The simulation about to begin. Take your stance, Kiddo"] Vuldyr announced.
The dummy moved first.
Fast.
Clean.
Efficient.
Niero smiled.
"Good."
And stepped forward to meet it.
=
[ March 18th, 2087 (Tuesday, Early Morning) | Upper Floor (Home Floor) > Maison Bella Cafe > Sector 13-05 > Mega Ark-City 01: Radiant City > Earth ]
Around seven in the morning, the upstairs hallway stirred to life.
Sophie and Daisy stepped out of their room in full school uniform, yawning and slightly sleepy, bags slung over their shoulders, hair still faintly damp from hurried brushing.
They moved toward Niero's door with perfect, wordless synchronization.
Daisy raised her hand to knock—
The door opened.
Niero stepped out.
He looked… fine.
But tired.
Not sick-tired.
More like someone who had pulled an all-nighter before finals.
Sophie's eyes narrowed instantly.
"What happened to you?"
"Did your cold flare up again?" Daisy asked, already reaching up to press her palm against his forehead.
He gently caught her wrist.
"I'm fine," he said evenly. "Just did some...uhh...indoor training."
"At seven in the morning?" Sophie deadpanned.
He gave a small shrug.
"Recovery speedrun. Push-up. Squats. Jumping jacks. Etc. Gotta beat the cold, you know?"
The two of them stared at him.
He smiled—just convincing enough.
After a moment, Daisy relented. Sophie still looked unconvinced, but no longer alarmed.
"Don't overdo it, lil bro. You caught that cold yesterday," Sophie warned, pointing at him like a strict older sister.
"Yeah," Daisy added seriously. "You're not allowed to collapse… or we'll cry."
Niero could only roll his eyes at the dramatics.
They headed downstairs.
He let out a quiet breath.
From the hallway, Mom's expression sharpened the moment she saw him.
"You alright?"
He didn't hesitate.
"I'm ready for round two."
Confident.
Steady.
Something in his posture had changed.
Subtle.
But she noticed.
There was hesitation in her eyes—not doubt in his ability, but concern over what pushing too fast might cost him.
After a brief silence—
She nodded.
"…See you tonight."
The tension between them lingered.
Not hostile.
Not warm.
Competitive.
Measured.
He wanted to prove himself.
She wanted to make sure he survived doing it.
But for now—
He stepped into his other role.
A son.
=
Downstairs, the kitchen was already alive with the scent of toasted bread, warm milk, and freshly sliced fruit.
Niero descended the stairs without hesitation, slipping seamlessly into his role as the son of the household. He tied on his apron in one smooth motion and stepped into the rhythm of the kitchen as if he'd been born to it.
Toast popped.
Eggs sizzled sunny-side up.
Bacon crackled in the pan.
In minutes, plates came together—golden toast, perfectly runny eggs, crisp bacon, a colorful spread of freshly cut fruits, and a chilled glass of orange juice to wash it all down.
He even slid Daisy's plate toward her before she had the chance to open her mouth.
"Eat properly," he said lightly.
She huffed, cheeks puffing in protest—but obeyed anyway.
Sophie muttered something under her breath about "overachiever energy."
Niero immediately mimicked her tone in an exaggerated whisper while setting down a small bowl of fruit salad—watermelon, honeydew, and apple carefully arranged.
Daisy burst into laughter at the ridiculous face he made while copying Sophie.
Normal.
Domestic.
Warm.
=
Meanwhile upstairs, another door clicked open.
Aunt Alura stepped into the hallway, hair tousled, tank top slightly askew as she lazily combed her fingers through the mess. Sleep still clung to her movements.
She almost walked straight into Mom.
Mom stood in front of Niero's bedroom door—lingering a moment longer than usual.
"So, sis. What's up?"
Mom's face was composed, lips pressed into a thin line.
Too composed.
The kind of calm that felt inevitable.
"Prep the D-Blockade for tonight," she said.
Alura arched a brow.
"Round two?"
A faint curve touched Mom's lips.
"Round two."
Silence stretched between them.
Alura's eyes sharpened.
"…He's ready for it?"
Mom gave a small nod.
Alura exhaled through her nose. "Boy. Kid's got guts."
"Kid's got pride," Mom corrected quietly.
From downstairs, faint laughter drifted up from the kitchen.
Warm. Carefree.
Alura glanced toward the sound.
"…So you're kicking it up a notch?"
Mom didn't look away from the door.
"He wants to prove himself."
A beat.
Then—
"I'll make sure he understands what that means."
A faint smirk tugged at Alura's lips.
"Alright then. See you two tonight."
=
The morning carried on like any other.
Breakfast.
Chatter.
Clinking dishes.
Sunlight spilling across the table.
But beneath the warmth—
Something was tightening.
Building.
Round two was coming.
=
<<<[ Ch16, Part 02 - END ]>>>