Iron in the Blood: Rottich’s Trial

Rottich grits his teeth, sweat stinging his eyes as he lunges at the battered training dummy in the barracks yard. The cracked earth beneath his boots puffs up clouds of red dust with every strike. Colonel Quache’s shadow looms close by, arms folded, eyes sharp.

“Pathetic. Again!”

Quache’s voice cracks like a whip, making a squad of older trainees snicker from the sidelines. Rottich’s monkey tail twitches in irritation, but he draws a shaky breath, resets his stance, and swings harder. His scouter chirps faintly, registering the low power output. Quache steps in, grabbing Rottich’s shoulder roughly.

“You call that a punch? If you can’t break this, you’re not fit to wear that armor.”

The older Saiyan shoves him back. Rottich stumbles but stays upright, feeling every eye on him. The afternoon sun beats down, the metallic scent of blood and sweat thick in the air. Rottich sizes up the dummy, fists clenched, the ache in his arm competing with the fire in his chest.

Rottich's fists struck the worn synthetic hide of the dummy with a dull thud, his lungs burning with each ragged breath. He refused to break his rhythm, even as exhaustion radiated through his limbs. Nearby, Colonel Quache loomed, his gaze a cold, unyielding weight that pressed harder than the desert heat.

The training yard fell into a heavy, suffocating silence. Rottich felt the cold bite of the command, the promise of the crushing gravity chamber looming over his evening. He remained frozen for a heartbeat, his chest heaving, while the red dust settled slowly around his boots. The shadow of the Colonel remained fixed upon him.

Rottich wiped a smear of bitter bile from his chin, his small frame trembling with exhaustion and raw, unfiltered hatred. He fixed his gaze on the towering Colonel Quache, eyes burning with jagged defiance.

"I'll show you. I'll show all of you! Especially you, Colonel!"

The training yard fell silent, the surrounding trainees holding their breath at his outburst.

The iron grip on his neck blurred the world into swirls of red dust and jagged shadows as Rottich was dragged toward the heavy, reinforced door of the gravity deck. Zorn stepped forward, his hand resting near his scouter, eyes cold and detached as he watched the raw display of authority.

The heavy metal door of the gravity deck groaned as it slid open, revealing a chamber bathed in sterile, flickering light. Quache shoved Rottich into the center of the room. The internal mechanisms began to whine as the artificial weight started its relentless climb. Guard Brolen stood by the console, his hand hovering over the controls, his expression one of bored indifference.

Rottich pressed his feet firmly against the cold metal floor. He wiped a slick of sweat and dust from his brow, fingers trembling just enough to betray his strain. Drawing a deep, ragged breath, he fixed his gaze ahead and settled into a rigid fighting stance.

"I am still standing,"

he muttered, defiance radiating from his small, tense frame as the room began to hum with intensifying pressure. Brolen adjusted a dial on the console, his face unreadable while the floor plates groaned beneath the growing weight.

The gravity surged without warning, a leaden shroud pressing down with brutal force. Rottich’s knees buckled, his boots slipping slightly on the slick metal floor. Brolen’s fingers moved over the controls, his face unreadable, as the room’s metallic whine climbed to a sharp, piercing crescendo.

The floor plates shrieked, metal groaning beneath the sudden, crushing weight. Rottich dropped to one knee, palms slamming against the grating to keep his face from smashing into the floor. The air thickened, stagnant and suffocating, pressing on his lungs like a solid force. Brolen stared down, his face unreadable as the chamber lights flickered and dimmed, leaving only the dull red glow of the power monitors. Above, the hum of the gravity generators swelled into a deafening roar, shaking him to the marrow.

Rottich crumpled beneath the relentless weight, his knuckles bone-white against the cold, trembling floor. The air in his lungs thickened, heavy as molten lead. Tears stung his eyes, carving clean paths through the grime on his face, yet he growled,

"HWAH!"

and forced his spine upright, battling the oppressive force determined to crush him.

Rottich’s grip on the grating tightened, his knuckles raw and white against the cold metal. The air thinned, trembling with the high-pitched drone of the straining gravity emitters. Behind the console, Brolen shifted his stance, eyes fixed on the fluctuating power levels as the chamber floor began to warp beneath the immense, concentrated force.

Rottich gritted his teeth, muscles in his neck corded and pulsing with effort as the room groaned in protest. The metal floor buckled upward, jagged sparks flying from failing conduits. Silence hung heavy, broken only by the rhythmic, tortured shrieking of the pressurized walls as they neared their breaking point.

A fierce, golden heat surged from Rottich’s core, shattering the crushing grip of the artificial gravity. His small body trembled violently as power exploded within him. Through tear-filled eyes, he faced the warping walls and planted his feet. His aura sparked wildly, clashing with the failing systems. Quache and Brolen recoiled, their scouters wailing in a frantic, unrelenting shriek as the readings soared to an impossible seven thousand.

The chamber groaned, its structure straining under the overwhelming surge. Brolen stood motionless behind the console, hands hovering over the sparking controls as the lights flickered violently between harsh red and blinding white. Static crackled in the air, raising the fine hairs on his arms. He stared at the display, jaw slack, while power levels climbed relentlessly, the warning sirens wailing in a discordant chorus.

Rottich stood amid swirling debris, his aura casting long, flickering shadows on the buckling walls. The air thickened with the sharp scent of ozone and burning circuitry. Brolen’s weapon hummed sharply, cutting through the low, guttural roar of the failing gravity chamber. Quache stood frozen, eyes locked on the boy, his hand moving instinctively toward the hilt of his blade.