Location: Starforge Nexus - Training Facility | Dimensional Fold Space
Time: Day 7 (External: ~1.2 Days)
Jayde woke to pain.
Not the sharp, immediate agony of injury. Deeper. Bone-level exhaustion that made even opening her eyes feel like a monumental task. Every muscle fiber screamed protest at the mere thought of movement.
Day seven. One week down. Five to seven weeks remaining.
(I can't do this anymore,) Jade whimpered. (Everything hurts. I just want to rest. Just one day. Please.)
No rest. No breaks. That's what White said. We keep going or we die weak.
She forced herself upright. The sleeping platform's blankets clung to her like they wanted to drag her back down into unconsciousness. Merciful, painless unconsciousness where nothing hurt and nobody demanded she push past impossible limits.
But White would be waiting.
White was always waiting.
Jayde checked her character screen—habit now, after a week of obsessive monitoring.
╔═══════════════════════════════════════
║ STARFORGE NEXUS - CONTRACTOR ID
╠═══════════════════════════════════════
║ Name: Jayde Phoenix (Jade Freehold)
║ Contractor Level: 0
║ Nexus Merits: 3.5
╠═══════════════════════════════════════
║ PHYSICAL STATUS:
║ - Strength: 3.8/100
║ - Agility: 4.2/100
║ - Endurance: 2.9/100
║ - Constitution: 3.5/100
╠═══════════════════════════════════════
║ CULTIVATION STATUS:
║ - Core: SEALED (Divine Eightfold Lock)
║ - Tier: Voidforge
║ - Essence Access: 0/8
╠═══════════════════════════════════════
║ SKILLS: None Acquired
║ ABILITIES: None Unlocked
║ MISSIONS COMPLETED: 0
╠═══════════════════════════════════════
║ ACCESS LEVEL: Training Facility Only
║ LOCKED AREAS: 52
╚═══════════════════════════════════════
Seven days. Fourteen brutal sessions—White had started doing twice-daily training on day three, morning and evening, with the medicinal bath between them.
Nearly two full points of improvement across all stats. From pathetic to slightly-less-pathetic.
Progress. Measurable. Real.
But gods, the cost.
Jayde dressed in her training clothes—the Nexus provided clean ones daily, taking the sweat-soaked, blood-stained ones and replacing them overnight. Small mercy. She ate breakfast mechanically: more grilled meat, vegetables, bread. Fuel for the machine.
Her hands shook slightly as she ate. Not from fear. From accumulated fatigue that the medicinal baths could heal but not completely erase. The baths fixed damage, strengthened foundation, but they didn't eliminate the deep exhaustion of pushing past limits twice daily for a week straight.
White said this would happen. Said weeks two and three are hardest. Body fighting adaptation. Mind wanting to quit. Have to push through.
She finished eating. Stood. Walked toward the arena.
White was already there.
He was always there. Like he didn't sleep. Didn't rest. Just existed in a permanent state of readiness to inflict suffering in the name of improvement.
"Day seven," he said without preamble. "Endurance test. Run until collapse. Then we test your new baseline."
Here we go again.
***
Jayde ran.
Perimeter laps. The same circuit she'd done fourteen times before. Each session pushing a little further, lasting a little longer, the improvements gradual but undeniable.
Day one: ninety seconds.
Day two: two minutes, fifteen seconds.
Day three: three minutes, eight seconds.
Day four: four minutes, two seconds.
Day five: five minutes, thirty-seven seconds.
Day six: seven minutes, twelve seconds.
Today—
She ran. Legs pumping. Breath controlled—she'd learned proper breathing technique, how to oxygenate efficiently, how to pace herself instead of sprinting stupidly. Federation training doctrine applied to a Doha child's body, creating something slightly more functional than either alone.
Five minutes passed. The burn started.
Seven minutes. Still moving. Legs protesting but not failing.
Ten minutes.
That's new. Never made it past eight before.
The pain intensified. Not sharp—dull, grinding, the sensation of muscles consuming themselves for fuel, glycogen stores depleting, body cannibalizing less critical tissue to keep essential functions operating.
Twelve minutes.
White jogged beside her, not even breathing hard. "Good pace. Controlled. Your form's improving—less wasted motion. More efficient energy expenditure."
Can't. Talk. Running.
Fifteen minutes.
Jayde's vision started tunneling. Grey creeping in from the edges. Legs moving on autopilot, no conscious thought anymore, just momentum and the stubborn refusal to stop until her body literally quit.
Seventeen minutes, thirty-eight seconds.
Her legs stopped working.
Not gradual failure—instant shutdown. One moment running, the next her knees buckled and she crashed hard, sliding across the smooth floor.
"Seventeen minutes, thirty-eight seconds," White announced. "Improvement over yesterday: ten minutes, twenty-six seconds. Improvement over day one: sixteen minutes, forty-eight seconds." He crouched beside her. "You've increased your endurance tenfold in one week. Excellent progress."
Don't feel excellent. Feel like dying.
"Up. Recovery jog. Work the metabolic waste out."
Jayde forced herself upright. Started the slow shuffle that kept blood flowing, prevented cramping, helped clear lactic acid from screaming muscles.
"Now we test something new," White said. His expression held that gleam—the one that promised pain. "Sparring."
Oh no.
***
They moved to the center of the arena.
White gestured, and the floor shimmered. Some kind of energy barrier appeared—a circle maybe twenty feet across, marked by faint blue lines of light.
"Combat assessment," White explained. "You've drilled techniques for a week. Individual movements, isolated skills, repetitive training. Now we test application under pressure." He smiled that predatory smile. "We spar. No rules except: stay in the circle. I attack, you defend or counter. We continue until you can't."
He's going to kill me.
"I'll hold back," White added. "Significantly. But not completely. Pain is a teacher. You'll learn faster under real pressure."
He shifted into a combat stance—casual, relaxed, but somehow more dangerous than any aggressive posture. Like a coiled spring. Like violence waiting to happen.
"Begin."
White moved.
Fast. So fast Jayde barely tracked it—one moment standing across the circle, next moment his fist was driving toward her face.
Block!
Her arms came up automatically. Federation defensive technique, the move drilled into muscle memory across decades and reinforced through a week of brutal repetition training.
The block worked. Sort of.
She deflected the punch—barely—but the force drove her back three steps. Her arms went numb from the impact despite White "holding back." That casual strike had more power than anything she'd ever encountered.
He's not even trying and it's like getting hit by a vehicle.
White flowed forward. Low kick aimed at her lead leg.
Jayde jumped—awkward, unbalanced, but avoiding the strike. Landed poorly, stumbled, barely recovered.
White's follow-up punch caught her in the ribs.
The world exploded into pain. She crashed to the floor, gasping, vision blurring, everything below her right breast a supernova of agony.
Broken. Ribs definitely broken. Can't breathe. Can't—
"Up," White commanded. "Or yield. Your choice."
Yield means giving up. Giving up means weakness. Weakness means death.
Jayde struggled to her feet.
White came again.
This time she managed two blocks before a spinning kick—telegraphed so obviously it had to be intentional—crashed into her left thigh. Her leg buckled. She crashed down again.
"Up."
She got up.
White attacked.
Block, block, miss—punch to the stomach. Down.
Up.
Attack. Block, miss, miss—kick to the hip. Down.
Up.
They repeated the pattern maybe twenty times. Each exchange, Jayde lasted slightly longer. Blocked slightly more. Her body was learning—adapting in real-time, Federation muscle memory integrating with desperate necessity, creating something functional from catastrophic inadequacy.
But every hit that landed—and most of them landed—left new damage. Ribs cracked. Muscles bruised. Bones jarred. Blood in her mouth from a lucky punch that slipped past her guard and split her lip.
Finally, after an exchange where White's roundhouse kick sent her flying out of the circle, she couldn't get up anymore.
Just lay there. Breathing hurt. Moving hurt. Existing hurt.
This is worse than the regular training. So much worse.
"Good," White said, standing over her. "You lasted thirty-two exchanges. Yesterday you would've lasted five. Tomorrow you'll last forty. Each day, you improve. Each session, you learn." He crouched beside her. "How many ribs broken?"
"Three," Jayde gasped. "Maybe four."
"Three. I was careful. The medicinal bath will fix them." He picked her up—gentle now, surprisingly careful handling her damaged body. "This is necessary. You can drill techniques in isolation forever, but real combat is chaos. Pressure. Fear. Pain. You need to learn how to function through all of it."
He carried her to the medicinal bath.
"This session hurt worse than previous ones," he continued. "The sparring added trauma the regular training doesn't. Which means the bath will work more effectively. Maximum damage, maximum healing. By tomorrow, you'll be stronger. And we'll spar again."
Every day. He's going to beat me up every single day for six more weeks.
(I don't know if I can do this,) Jade whimpered.
We don't have a choice. So we do it. We survive. We get stronger.
White lowered her into the bath.
The liquid fire consumed her.
***
The pain of the medicinal bath was familiar now. Still excruciating—always excruciating—but familiar. Expected. She knew the rhythm: initial agony, gradual adaptation, warmth replacing fire, healing beginning.
The broken ribs hurt worst. The herbs sought out the fractures, concentrated there, accelerated bone healing that normally took weeks into hours. She felt the tissue knitting—actually felt it, bones fusing, calcium depositing, structural integrity returning.
Her character screen updated.
PHYSICAL STATUS:
- Strength: 4.1/100 (+0.3)
- Agility: 4.5/100 (+0.3)
- Endurance: 3.4/100 (+0.5)
- Constitution: 4.0/100 (+0.5)
Nexus Merits: 4.0 (+0.5)
Larger gains than usual. The sparring damage—the broken ribs, the deep bruising, the accumulated trauma—had forced her body to heal more dramatically. Which meant the bath worked harder. Which meant better improvements.
White was right. Maximum damage equals maximum healing.
"You're adapting faster than expected," White observed. He sat nearby, watching her soak. "Most contractors plateau around day ten. Their bodies hit a growth ceiling, progress slows dramatically. But you—" He gestured to her screen. "—you're still improving at accelerated rates. The dual consciousness helps. Your Federation mind drives the body harder than normal willpower could. And young Jade's survival instincts refuse to quit."
(We're getting stronger,) Jade said, and for the first time in days, she sounded hopeful rather than despairing.
Five more weeks. Maybe we can actually do this.
"Tomorrow," White said, "we add weapons. Sword drills. Then sparring with blades. Then—" His smile was evil. "—then we start environmental training. Hot rooms. Cold rooms. Rooms with reduced oxygen. You'll learn to fight in every condition."
Oh good. Just when I thought it couldn't get harder.
But beneath the dread, beneath the exhaustion and pain and desire to quit—
A tiny spark of something else.
Pride, maybe. Or satisfaction. Or just the grim pleasure of survival. She'd made it through week one. Had improved measurably, undeniably. Was becoming something slightly more than the broken slave child who'd entered the Nexus seven days ago.
Still pathetically weak by any real standard. But less pathetic than before.
Progress.