14. The First Cultivation?

Within the barracks, twenty-two bodies fought their own war against exhaustion. Some surrendered to sleep quickly, the day’s physical toll dragging them under. Others shifted, restless, their minds too loud for rest.

I was one of the latter.

I lay on my back, eyes shut, trying to will myself to sleep. The harder I tried, the more elusive it remained. If I couldn’t get the rest I needed, I may as well be productive. Remembering the lectures: focus on the crown, generate pressure, imagine Ether drawn in, push it downward to let it strengthen body and mind. I went through the motions.

Crown to cortex, pressure builds, push downward, draw in Ether.

It came slowly, but it came. I could feel it gathering at the top of my skull, a cold pressure that sat behind my eyes. For one breath, maybe two, it was exactly as Kael described. A weight building, ready to be pushed downward, ready to flow through the brain stem, the spine, into the body.

Now push down.

I pushed.

Nothing.

The pressure vanished. One moment, it was there, full and promising. The next, gone.

I tried again. Drew the Ether in. Felt the gathering. Pushed—

Gone.

Again. Ether. Pressure. Push. Nothing. Repeat.

What the fuck?!

Behind my eyelids, cold text flickered.

The number had changed. Yesterday, it read 0.001%. Now 0.002%.

Where is it going? What does connection even mean?

The Ether wasn’t building my body. It wasn’t reinforcing bone or repairing muscle or doing any of the things it was supposed to do. It was just… leaving. Draining into whatever sat on the other side of the interface. The True-Noosphere was drinking its fill and offered nothing in return.

0.5x cultivation rate… That’s what the system said. But 0.5x implied something was happening, just slowly. This wasn’t slow. It was damn nonexistent, like I was pouring water into a bucket that had a giant hole in the bottom.

When the other recruits awaken and the Ether hits them, they’ll cycle it. They’ll grow. They’ll start climbing ranks. Me on the otherhand…

Anger coiled in my chest, hot and tight. Not the explosive kind from the rooftop. Something quieter. The kind that settles into your jaw and stays.

Fine. If Ether wouldn’t make me stronger, I’ll do it the hard way. I’ll work harder, fight smarter, kill more. I am Marcus, and I’m still not fucking done.

Sleep didn’t come for a long time.

---

[0500]

The siren. The lights. Vance’s boots on the concrete.

“Rise, Greenies! On your feet! The Buggers don’t hit snooze!”

I was already dressed when the first kids hit the floor. The advantage of the door bunk was that it forced discipline. Every inspection, every entrance—I was the first thing they saw.

We stumbled outside into the pre-dawn cold. The formation was slightly better than yesterday. Still ragged, still sloppy, but at least most of them remembered where to stand.

“Same drill!” Vance barked. “Six miles. North wall and back. Tiernan is the Rabbit. Pack finishes within five minutes of the Rabbit, or the Pack doesn’t eat. Step off!”

Same rules. Same structure.

I took off, boots hitting concrete. The cold air bit at my lungs. My body protested; the previous day’s antics had left my arms heavy and my core sore. Behind me, I could hear the pack shuffling into motion.

A lone wolf is just a dead wolf.

I eased off the pace. Not dramatically. Not enough that Vance would see me jogging. But enough to keep myself from leaving the rest in the dust. I settled into a rhythm that was fast, but sustainable.

The first mile passed. I could hear the pack behind me—closer than yesterday. Much closer.

Good. Stay together.

By the second mile, I could hear individual footfalls. Someone was breathing hard just twenty meters back. I held my pace.

The turnaround came. I touched the wall and pivoted. The pack was strung out, but not nearly as badly as before. The front-runners were maybe two minutes behind me. The stragglers, another five behind them. Miller was in the middle, face red but moving.

I passed them without a word and kept going. Held the pace.

When I crossed the finish line, I stopped my count. Forty-four minutes. Eleven minutes slower than my record yesterday.

The first of the pack crossed ninety seconds later. Then a flood. Within four minutes, most of the squad had finished. The stragglers limped in just under the five-minute window.

The pack had finished within the limit.

Vance checked his chronometer. He looked at the squad, then at me. Something passed across his face, too fast to read.

“Pack passes,” he said. “Mess hall.”

The squad, gasping and bent double, began to shuffle toward the mess. Relief was palpable in the air. Some exchanged glances—surprised, almost.

“Tiernan.”

I stopped.

“Sergeant?”

“Forty-four minutes.” His voice was flat. “Yesterday you ran thirty-three.”

“I—”

“Eleven minutes slower. That’s a hefty performance drop there,” He stepped closer. “Are you injured, Recruit?”

Careful.

“No, Sergeant.”

“Then explain to me,” He sucked in a deep breath of air. “WHY MY RABBIT JUST RAN LIKE A GRANDMA WITH HAEMORRHOIDS!”

I met his eyes as spittle flicked against my cheek.

Tell the truth, I was admitting I deliberately undermined my own performance. Lie, claim fatigue, and I was admitting weakness.

There was no right answer.

“Legs were heavy, Sergeant. Won’t happen again.”

Vance stared at me for a long, stretching moment. I could feel the trap closing, but couldn’t see its shape.

“Legs were heavy,” he repeated, the words drained of everything. “Miller!”

Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.

Miller stopped at the edge of the mess hall entrance, still catching his breath. He turned.

“Sergeant?”

“Take Tiernan’s rations from the mess. He won’t be needing them.”

A flash of surprise crossed Miller’s face. He looked at me, and I saw something there for a brief moment. It vanished quickly, replaced by indifference as he nodded and headed off.

“Come on Tiernan, we’re taking a trip,” Vance commanded.

With a nod, I began to follow the man. We passed several familiar buildings, and I realised we were heading to the mess hall. Just as we were about to enter, he pointed to the ground infront of the doors, about 10 meters away.

“Front leaning rest position. Now.”

I dropped into the push-up position. Palms flat on the cold dirt, I could see clearly into the mess hall through the main entrance.

“Begin.”

Down. Up. Down. Up.

Through the mess hall’s doors, I could see the squad eating. Grey paste, protein blocks, recycled water. They ate slowly, deliberately, as if the food might be taken away at any moment. A few glanced through the doors toward me. Their faces were blank, not a hint of sympathy or guilt. Just the flat recognition that the Rabbit was being punished, and this time, it wasn’t their problem.

Down. Up.

Yesterday, I ran quickly. The squad was punished.

Down. Up.

Today, I ran slowly. I was punished.

Down. Up.

Yesterday, the speed was wrong. Today, restraint was wrong.

My arms burned. My shoulders screamed. I could feel my muscles beginning to fail, each repetition slower and shakier.

The rules changed overnight. That’s not discipline. That’s—

“Did I say stop, Tiernan?” Vance barked from somewhere behind me.

Down. Up. Down. Up.

What is he looking for?

The question surfaced between push-ups. I didn’t have enough strength to think clearly, but the edges of the thought pressed in regardless.

Vance had watched me yesterday. Made his notes. Saw the Rabbit run ahead, saw the pack fail, saw me eat alone while they dug. Today, different input. Same observation. His eyes never changed. The anger in his voice had the same measured quality—loud enough to intimidate, controlled enough to feel rehearsed.

Down. Up.

My arms gave out. I collapsed into the dirt, face-first. Grit pressed into my cheek. I could taste earth and something else, something chemical—residue from whatever they used to treat the ground.

“Back up.”

I pushed myself up. My arms trembled violently.

“Continue.”

Down. Up. Down.

I couldn’t complete the rep. My chest hit the ground.

“Did I say stop?”

Down. I tried. My body wouldn’t lift. From the dirt, my eyes found Vance’s boots. They stood perfectly still.

He’s just watching.

I looked up and saw his datapad in hand. His thumb moved once.

He’s making a note. Why?