The YMCA wasn’t anything special. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale glow over chipped equipment and worn mats. There were a couple of regulars already inside—a retiree speed-walking on a treadmill, two teens arguing over deadlift form, and a personal trainer halfheartedly wiping down a rowing machine. No one paid Dev any real attention when he limped in with a slight hitch to his step.

  Rowan trailed behind him, hood up, earbuds in, clearly not planning to draw attention.

  Dev rolled his shoulders, surveying the space. His new body felt like a tightly coiled spring—balanced, light, and endlessly strong. The lingering soreness from the nanite restructuring was gone. What remained was a quiet hum beneath the surface, like something waiting to be unleashed.

  He started slow—dynamic stretches. Arm circles. Neck rolls. A few squats. Then some push-ups. Twenty. Forty. Sixty.

  By the eighty-mark, his breathing was still even. He flipped onto his back for sit-ups—quick, controlled. It felt less like exercise and more like waking up muscles he didn’t know he had.

  Next came the weights.

  Dev approached the bench press, eyeing the plates like they were puzzles to solve. He loaded up 135 pounds for a warm-up. Easy. Too easy. Rowan, from across the gym, gave him a thumbs-up without looking up from his phone.

  He added more.

  Two plates. Three. Four.

  The bar trembled under the weight, but his arms didn’t. One rep. Two. Five. Ten.

  His arms didn’t shake. His grip didn’t falter. It was like lifting paper.

  He moved to the squat rack. Similar results. 405 pounds like it was nothing. A guy at the next station paused mid-set to stare.

  Dev ignored him.

  He wasn’t here for validation. He was here to feel.

  To test.

  To understand.

  Treadmill next. He cranked the speed as high as it would go and started running. Not jogging. Running.

  His footsteps barely made a sound.

  The machine began to rattle. The belt whined. He hit the emergency stop before it could short out. A bead of sweat rolled down his forehead, not from exertion, but from the heat building in the room.

  He moved to the punching bag.

  This was the real test.

  Dev squared up, fists loose, breathing steady.

  First strike—clean. Fast. Solid. The bag jerked back violently.

  Second strike—harder. He pivoted on his heel, putting his hip into it. The chain creaked.

  Third—he didn’t hold back.

  The bag flew off its hook and slammed into the wall with a crash that made everyone in the gym turn.

  Dev shook out his hand, flexing his fingers.

  “Oops,” he muttered.

  Rowan looked up from his phone, eyebrows raised. “So... how’s calibration going?”

  Dev just smirked. “I think I’m gonna need heavier equipment.”

  Dev was wiping his hands off on a towel when a basketball thudded past his feet.

  He looked up.

  Across the gym, a group of guys—college-age, mostly—had taken over the indoor court. One of them, a tall kid in a Knicks jersey, motioned toward him.

  “You play?”

  Dev glanced at the ball, then at Rowan, who was watching from the bleachers with a half-eaten protein bar in hand.

  “It’s been a min,” Dev said, tossing the towel aside and jogging slightly onto the court. “But I’m down.”

  “Perfect,” the Knicks kid smirked. “We’re down one. You can run with us.”

  Dev rolled his ankle once, getting a feel for it. The cast was gone, but the memory of it lingered. Then he nodded. “Alright. I’m in.”

  They tossed him the ball to warm up. He dribbled, tested his footwork—smooth, balanced. Jumped once, light off his toes. The new body wasn’t just stronger—it had better spatial awareness, coordination, reflex.

  He shot from the top of the key.

  Swish.

  A few heads turned.

  “Damn,” one of the players muttered. “Okay then.”

  The game kicked off fast. Two-on-two at first while others rotated in. Dev started slow—just running plays, setting screens. Testing reactions.

  Then he dialed it up.

  He intercepted a pass mid-air, twisted, and took it coast-to-coast. Another shot—clean. The next possession, he drove straight through a defender, pivoted, and laid it in like it was nothing.

  “That’s not a guy who hasn’t ‘played in a min’” someone said from the sideline.

  Knicks Jersey tried to guard him. Emphasis on tried. Dev faked left, spun right, and hit a no-look pass to his teammate cutting under the rim.

  “Yo, unc can hoop. Bruh, who is this dude?” the kid muttered, winded.

  Rowan leaned back in his seat, watching the chaos unfold with mild amusement.

  The next possession, Dev went for a step-back jumper from deep. Ball sailed.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  Swish.

  Game point.

  He caught the rebound and didn’t even hesitate. Crossed one guy, ducked under another, and leapt—high. Too high.

  He caught the rim with both hands and threw the ball down hard enough to shatter the backboard.

  Glass exploded.

  Everyone went dead silent. The sharp sound of shattering echoed through the gym like a gunshot, followed by the soft tinkling of shards hitting the floor.

  Dev landed, barely breathing hard.

  Then the gym erupted.

  The guys he’d been playing with swarmed him, laughing, yelling.

  “YO, Little Shaq?! That rim owed you money or something?”

  “Ain’t no way he did that!”

  “I’m not guarding him next round. I value my spine.”

  Rowan clapped slowly from the bleachers. “Congrats. You’ve officially over-calibrated.”

  Dev turned, grinning. “Lets leave before we have to pay for the damages”

  …..

  Dev had returned to Rowan’s apartment with him. It was already evening by the time they got back, the sky outside streaked with fading amber and early evening haze.

  Rowan dropped onto the couch with a groan while Dev started rummaging through the cupboards.

  “If you’re looking for more food,” Rowan muttered, eyes half-closed, “you should’ve just grabbed something from the bodega on the way back.”

  “That’s not what I’m looking for. Do you have any baking soda?” Dev asked, peering behind some canned beans.

  “Uhhh—does it look like I bake?” Rowan sat up with a frown. “Why do you even need it?”

  “It’s one of the ingredients I need for the brew, I also need bentonite clay” Dev said, pulling out the vial of glowing liquid. “To help with your core formation.”

  Rowan blinked at the vial, then at Dev. “Whoa, you seriously want to do this today? You just went through, like, hours of intense microsurgery and mild genetic tinkering. That’s coming from Xy, by the way.”

  “Yeah,” Dev said, tone resolute. “I made a promise. I keep my end of the bargain.”

  Rowan shook his head and stood up with a sigh. “Alright, if you say so. I’ll go see if the bodega across the street has any. Just... don’t set my apartment on fire while I’m gone.”

  He slipped on a pair of worn house slippers and headed out the door, hoodie thrown on halfway.

  Dev was left alone in the apartment.

  The silence that settled was calming, even with the faint hum of the city outside. He moved with purpose, laying out his materials and setting up the tiny alchemy station on Rowan’s stove. He began grinding down one of the mana stones into a fine dust using a novelty mortar and pestle set he found. The powder sparkled faintly, catching light like crushed crystal.

  As he worked, his thoughts wandered.

  He’s so different from the man I saw in the future.

  The Xyros—no, the Rowan—Dev had known in the original timeline wasn’t this casual. Wasn’t this open. He was always building, always planning, trying to transcend the limitations of Earth itself. He rarely raided Gates for fame or challenge—only for materials. And when he did go public, it wasn’t until the Cat-plus Berlin Gate.

  That’s when he became famous.

  Iron General. That was the title people whispered, some even thinking it was a system-granted title—if he’d had access to the system at all.

  Dev thought maybe he saw the glimpse of that man on the subway. A flicker of guilt, pain, rage—but even that was before his regression. It made him wonder: what changed? What broke? What turned a guilt-ridden engineer into the Iron General?

  He shook the thought away.

  Back to work.

  He poured the mana stone dust into a small saucepan and uncorked the vial of wraithbeast spit, its contents thick and luminous with oily iridescence. Slowly, carefully, he poured it over the powdered stone. The concoction shimmered as it made contact, then began to bubble—not violently, but like thick syrup reacting to heat.

  He turned the burner to its lowest setting, letting it simmer gently. Instead of evaporating or hissing out of the pan, the liquid seemed to fold in on itself—mana and venom dissolving together into a fluid the color of molten copper.

  Dev leaned over slightly, watching it swirl.

  Just then, the door creaked open behind him.

  Rowan stepped inside, plastic bag in hand. “I had to go all the way to CVS for that clay stuff,” he griped, slipping off his slippers. “Bodega guy looked at me like I was trying to start a mud spa.”

  He walked into the kitchen and caught sight of the stovetop. His brow furrowed.

  “Whoa. Is that... the thing? You’re actually gonna drink that?”

  “Not yet,” Dev replied, eyes still on the pan. “Still needs to be stabilized.”

  He gestured toward the bag Rowan was carrying. Rowan pulled out the items and handed them over wordlessly.

  Dev took the baking soda first, measuring out two tablespoons with practiced ease. As soon as he added it to the concoction, the liquid hissed and foamed, bubbling up with renewed energy. He stirred it in slowly, letting it simmer just long enough to neutralize the acidity.

  Next came the bentonite clay. Dev measured out a teaspoon and added it with care.

  The reaction was almost immediate.

  The murky swirl cleared—translucent and gleaming like molten amber.

  Dev let out a quiet breath. “Perfect.”

  He grabbed a piece of cheesecloth, folded it into a makeshift strainer, and set it over a ceramic mug—bright green, with a worn, faded picture of Shrek giving a thumbs-up.

  Rowan grumbled. “You could’ve asked before you used my favorite mug.”

  Dev waved him off without looking. “You’ll live.”

  He poured the liquid through the strainer, watching as it filtered down in steady droplets—thick, clear, faintly glowing.

  It pooled in the mug with a faint turqoise shimmer. No fumes. No residue.

  Just mana-laced, monster spit-infused alchemical tea.

  Rowan crossed his arms, watching. “So… that’s what’s gonna put a mana core in your chest?”

  Dev picked up the mug and held it steady, eyes thoughtful.

  “Not my chest,” he said, eyes flicking up. “But yeah. This is the first step.”

  Dev sat cross-legged on the living room carpet, the mug still faintly glowing in his hands. He adjusted his posture into a loose lotus position, back straight, breathing steady. The concoction he held—thick, clear, and faintly copper-scented—was known in the future as the Core-Maker Elixir. A product of alchemical innovation, trial, and error. And right now, the centerpiece of the gamble he was about to take.

  He took a breath and glanced up at Rowan.

  “Now I need you to do something,” he said. “You need to constantly release mana into the air around me—just a steady flow. Temporarily raise the mana density in this space.”

  Rowan arched an eyebrow but nodded. “You’re the expert here.”

  Ideally, Dev would’ve done this inside a Gate. Even the weakest—Cat-1—had a mana density at least a hundred times higher than Earth’s ambient levels. The Elixir could provide the jumpstart, the initial surge of energy his body needed to start attracting mana, but it couldn’t create atmospheric mana from nothing. There had to be something for the fledgling core to latch onto. Something to pull in.

  Rowan raised a hand and closed his eyes as the nanites slid from beneath his skin, coalescing smoothly into the contours of his exoframe. A low hum began to ripple through the apartment.

  Mana trickled out of his frame, slow and steady, diffusing into the air like heat radiating from a sunlamp. The atmosphere changed—denser, heavier. Like the air had been laced with something electric.

  Dev felt it immediately like an old friend.

  He closed his eyes.

  And drank.

  The elixir slid down his throat, coppery and bitter, but that was a distant concern. His focus tunneled inward. As the liquid settled in his stomach, he concentrated—zeroed in on the familiar junction of nerves and sensation just beneath his ribcage. The vagus nerve. A channel Baek had taught him to feel for. To guide.

  He reached for the mana within the elixir, grabbing it with practiced intent, and began feeding it into that nerve.

  The reaction was immediate.

  A surge. A pulse. The mana started circulating through his body, slow at first—like a hesitant stream pushing through old pipes—but then growing faster, more confident. The more it moved, the more control he had. He could feel it—mana from the potion, mana from the air, mana from Rowan being pulled in with every inhale.

  Breathe in. Hold. Absorb.

  Breathe out. Guide. Compress.

  His lungs burned, but he didn’t care. He was soaking up every scrap of energy he could hold without blacking out. The mana he pulled in flowed through him like water down ancient channels—through his blood, along his nerves, pulled toward the growing vortex in his lower abdomen.

  A nucleus had begun to form.

  Rotating. Gathering mass.

  He kept spinning it, feeding it more and more mana, compressing it with every cycle. Not too fast. Not too loose. The balance had to be perfect.

  He cycled it again—and again—breath matching each wave.

  Inhale. Absorb. Rotate.

  Exhale. Compress. Refine.

  The room felt distant now. There was only him, the mana, and the steady spinning of something new being born inside him.

  And then—

  Ding.

  A sound. Not from the world around him, but from within. Like a chime resonating through his entire being.

  He released his grip on the core.

  The compressed sphere of mana in his abdomen expanded slightly, reaching its equilibrium—a stable, pulsating source of energy now nestled within him.

  Dev opened his eyes as he saw a glowing screen in his vision, chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths.

  He had done it.

  He had awakened.