Zander stepped out of the meditative array the following morning, the soft, thrumming hum of the Ark's systems greeting him like an old, reliable friend.
The reinforced chamber did not switch on abruptly. Instead, the lights brightened in slow, golden increments, shifting from the deep violet of "night-cycle" to a warm, pale yellow, perfectly matching the natural circadian rhythm the Ark preferred. The ship always attempted to mimic planetary morning cycles—Aethros had insisted on that programming tweak to keep the human mind balanced in the timeless void—but today, Zander felt more awake than usual.
He felt heavy. Not with fatigue, but with density.
His breakthrough to Tempered Martial Master—Stage 3 still pulsed faintly in his body, a low-frequency vibration in his marrow. The improvement was real, solid, and earned, but it was far from the intoxicating rush of his first awakening. This was different. It was the feeling of iron cooling into steel.
He flexed his hand, watching the faint distortion of air around his fingertips. His body still carried resistance in certain meridian pathways—specifically the darker, narrower channels along his spine. Several muscle fiber groups hadn't yet adapted to the increased harmonic tension; they felt stiff, like clay that needed to be worked before it could be fired. It would take weeks of micro-adjustments before he was fully fluid at this level.
But it was enough. Enough to move forward. Enough to tackle the mountain standing in front of him.
He exhaled, the breath rushing out in a controlled stream, straightened the collar of his uniform jacket, and headed toward the Ark's central deck.
The moment Zander entered the vast command center, the atmosphere shifted.
Arkeon was waiting. The AI had manifested his physical avatar—a massive, terrifyingly beautiful hybrid of draconic biology and Ashurim liquid-metal. He was coiled around the central dais, his scales shifting with data streams. As Zander approached, the construct rotated one massive, burning blue eye toward him.
"You stabilized," Arkeon rumbled. The voice was deep and resonant, vibrating the floor panels beneath Zander's boots.
"Barely," Zander replied with a small, self-deprecating smirk, though his posture remained rigid. "I still feel the friction in the energy flow. I have a long way to go."
Arkeon's eye narrowed—not in disapproval, but in cold, mathematical assessment. Sensors swept over Zander, reading the new density of his Force.
"Good," the AI intoned. "Strength gained too quickly becomes brittle. It shatters under stress. Your progression is fast, but it is not reckless. It is... acceptable."
Coming from Arkeon—a guardian who had watched civilizations rise and fall—that was high praise.
Zander scratched the back of his head, slightly embarrassed by the scrutiny. "I'm doing everything I can… I have to. Time's ticking, and the galaxy isn't waiting for me to catch up."
Arkeon shifted his massive metal head, the sound of heavy plates sliding against one another filling the room.
"You stated previously that you would explain your next destination. 'Astral Command Institute,' was it?"
Zander nodded, inhaling deeply. He walked to the main holographic console, his hand hovering over the interface. This was the part he hadn't fully articulated yet, even to himself.
"The Astral Command Institute…" Zander began, keying in a sequence. "It isn't just a school, Arkeon. It's a forge. It's where they train ship captains—the real ones. Not simulated command for local patrols, not basic navigation for freighters. True, deep-void astral leadership."
Arkeon's tail, thick as a tree trunk and tipped with a data-spike, thudded softly against the floor. "Explain."
Zander activated the holomap. A vast, rotating constellation unfolded in the air above them, marked with dozens of complex trade routes, red danger zones, and annotated influence networks of the Alliance.
"Graduates of the ACI are entrusted with the heavy cruisers. The deep-space exploration fleets," Zander said, pointing to the edge of the known map. "Their captains decide humanity's expansion routes. They negotiate with alien civilizations on the frontier. They protect colonies from orbital bombardment. They manage cross-planetary logistics that keep billions alive."
Arkeon raised a scaled brow ridge, processing the sheer scope of the responsibility.
"And you intend to enter this institute? My data suggests the attrition rate is 60%. The standard training cycle is five solar years."
Zander gave a tired but determined laugh, looking at the spinning stars.
"I don't intend to take five years. I don't have five years. I'm going to compress the curriculum. I'm going to do it in maybe… eighteen months. Two years at most."
Arkeon didn't respond immediately. The silence stretched. The blue eye dilated, focusing intensely on the small human. He was calculating the probability of failure.
Zander continued, listing the mountain he had to climb:
"I'll have to learn astral physics, fleet strategy, command protocols, deep-void biology, FTL navigation mechanics, multi-species diplomacy… basically everything necessary to lead a crew of hundreds safely through the unknown."
He turned away from the map to face the dragon directly.
"When I graduate, I'll take command of a vessel. A real one. And when that happens… you and Aethros are coming with me. We're going out there together. Not as passengers. As the tip of the spear."
Arkeon's tail flicked, a quick, sharp gesture halfway between excitement and pride.
"A bold claim, small warrior. To condense a master's education into a fraction of the time requires a mind as tempered as your body. But… I will hold you to it."
Over the next several days, the Ark became a crucible.
Zander focused on refining his new strength—not expanding it. He knew better than to rush another breakthrough while his channels were still settling. Instead, he sharpened what he already had, turning blunt force into a razor.
He practiced three specific Ashurim harmonic techniques he could reliably control, drilling them until his muscles screamed and his Force reserves ran dry.
Echo Step
It wasn't speed; it was silence. He practiced moving across the training hall floor without disturbing the air pressure. He used harmonic tension to momentarily quiet his physical presence, sliding between heartbeats. It created micro-accelerations—not teleportation, but an efficient redirection of momentum that made him appear to stutter in and out of reality.
Step. Vanish. Reappear. Strike.
Pulse Guard
He stood in the center of the room while training drones fired kinetic rounds at him. Instead of blocking with a hard wall of Force, he spun a web of vibration. The Pulse Guard flowed with the impact rather than resisting it outright. It caught the kinetic energy, spiraled it around his body, and dissipated it harmlessly. It drastically reduced incoming force but required a stable rhythm and absolute mental clarity. One moment of panic, and the shield would collapse.
Resonance Strike
This was the killer. He stood before a block of hyper-dense alloy. He didn't punch through it. He placed his fist against it and channeled a focused vibration. He tuned his Force to the natural frequency of the metal.
Hummm… CRACK.
The block didn't dent; it shattered from the inside out. It was not explosive, but penetrating—excellent for bypassing heavy armor and hardened targets.
Each technique drained him quickly, forcing him to pace himself, to manage his internal battery with the frugality of a starving man.
Between physical sessions, Arkeon ran him through brutal mental endurance drills. He subjected Zander to memory compression, forced him to solve complex tactical fleet simulations while under auditory stress, and tested his decision-making pathways until Zander's nose bled from the strain.
Never enough.
Never perfect.
But improving.
One week remained.
The Ark's engines hummed gently in standby mode, a low lullaby compared to the violence of the training hall. Zander sat in his quarters, performing a final diagnostic check on his traveling gear.
The ACI was strict. Applicants were required to bring minimal personal belongings—survival tools, a standard training uniform, empty data tablets, and their own mental discipline. Everything else—weapons, tech, support—would be provided by the Institute, standardizing the cadets.
He packed his bag slowly. He touched the cold metal of his new harmonic module, hiding it deep within a false bottom of the pack.
His thoughts quieted as the moment approached. The silence of the room felt heavy.
"This is it," he murmured to himself, zipping the bag shut.
He wasn't ready. He knew that. The gap between where he was and where he needed to be was still a canyon.
He also didn't have a choice.
Standing at the observation deck, Zander gazed out at the swirling, colorful nebula beyond the Ark's shield. The gases twisted in violent, beautiful ribbons of violet and gold, a cradle for new stars.
"A week," he whispered, his reflection ghostly in the glass.
"Just one more week… and then everything changes."
A faint tremor of uncertainty ran through him. It was the fear of the unknown, the fear of stepping out of the shadows and into the blinding light of scrutiny.
He pushed through it. He crushed the fear down and used it as fuel.
He was going to the Astral Command Institute.
He was going to earn his place among Earth's future explorers, not as a legacy admission, but as a ghost who forced the door open.
And he was going to do it fast—because every step he took was one step closer to the day he would return home.
A step closer to the day he could look his family in the eye and reveal he was alive.
A step closer to fulfilling the promise he made to the galaxy, and to himself.
He placed his hand on the glass, covering a distant, burning star.
"I'm coming."