Frosthaven, the northern stronghold, was a rectangular fortress, stretching 100 miles long and 80 miles wide, its concrete walls a defiant barrier against the wilderness.
The northern district, though only a fifth of the city's sprawl, housed half its population—a teeming civilian enclave, where every corner pulsed with the struggle to survive.
In a city where land was worth more than dreams, wealth dictated space. The rich dwelled in sprawling bungalows, their gardens mocking the snow.
The poor, packed into towering, square buildings, lived in cramped cells, each high-rise a monument to necessity. These structures, dozens of stories tall, stood shoulder to shoulder, their gray facades swallowing sunlight.
Families squeezed into tiny apartments, their lives confined to a few square meters, yet no one dared leave the city's embrace.
Beyond the towering walls, the world belonged to monstrous beasts—a forbidden realm where only the mightiest fighters could tread.
David navigated a narrow alley, his steps guided by memories of a life long past. The familiar scent of damp concrete and distant cooking fires stirred his heart, leading him to his family's residential complex.
This building, a thirty-story relic, loomed over the alley, its cracked exterior a testament to time. To save electricity and space, there was no elevator. The higher the floor, the poorer the residents. David's family called the 28th floor home, a perch for those with little left to lose.
His father, James Holt, was likely back by now. Each morning, he sold breakfast—soy milk and buns—at a stall downstairs. At this hour, he'd be preparing tomorrow's batch, his hands steady despite the years of toil.
His mother, Mary Holt, had no formal job. She earned a meager income through delicate embroidery, her fingers weaving patterns for hours to scrape together enough for David's schooling. Their sacrifices, their quiet endurance, had carried him this far.
David entered the dim corridor, the air heavy with the smell of mildew, and began the long climb to the 28th floor, each step echoing with purpose.
In his past life, he'd fought to free his parents from this slum, pouring his soul into martial training.
He'd passed the high school exam, but Alex's interference delayed his entry into Academy by half a year.
By the time he secured a place, his parents had moved, but the strain of their lives had already taken root, leaving them frail, their health never fully restored.
This time, he vowed, the outcome would be different. His heart burned with resolve, a fire kindled by a second chance.
Reaching the 28th floor, David stood before the familiar door, his pulse quickening.
It had been lifetimes since he'd seen his parents, and the weight of that absence pressed against his chest. Yet he steadied himself. He'd lived too long, seen too much, to let emotion overwhelm him now.
He reached into his pocket, pulling out a simple key, its metal worn smooth by years of use. This old-fashioned lock, a relic of the old calendar, offered little security. A skilled thief could pick it in moments.
Only in the slums did such doors persist—wealthy families used advanced sensor locks, a luxury far beyond reach here.
Inserting the key, David turned it, and the door creaked open. A warm scent of stewed fish and soy milk wafted out, wrapping him in memories.
In the cramped apartment, James stood at an ancient soy milk machine, its whir a faint hum of hope. To David, the machine looked like a museum piece, yet it was the family's lifeline, the tool that had funded his education, however barely.
Mary tended a gas stove, a carp simmering in a pot. David knew she'd traded her embroidery for that fish, a rare treat the elders would never eat themselves, saving it for him.
"Dad, Mom, I'm back," David said, forcing a smile, his voice soft but steady.
"My son's home!" James called, his weathered face breaking into a grin. "Wash your hands, your mother's got fish stewing. Dinner's almost ready." His pride in David, their hope for a better future, shone in his eyes, though he secretly wished his son would pursue science in the military, not the perilous path of a fighter.
Mary hurried over, her hands gentle as she helped David shed his coat. "You must be tired," she said. "Rest up. The exam's soon—don't stress yourself too much. You'll always have a home here."
"Parents, don't worry," David replied, his smile genuine now. "I'm fine. The exam's nothing to me."
He slipped back into the rhythm of home, shedding his shoes and stepping inside. He offered to help, but his parents waved him off, insisting he clean up first.
The apartment, a mere 40 square meters, blurred the lines between living room, kitchen, and their bedroom. A small bathroom and a tiny bedroom—David's private corner—completed the space.
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In his room, a narrow cell with a stiff bed, David lay down, the mattress creaking under him. A faint grin tugged at his lips. A fighter like him had endured every hardship, yet this simple bed, so unlike the ones of his later years, felt foreign now.
With dinner still preparing, David turned inward, assessing his situation.
He recalled his high school graduation vividly. Cultural classes posed no challenge—history, from the old calendar to the Great Shift's new reckoning, was rote memorization, and David's mind was sharp. Knowledge of mutated beasts? He knew more than most, his past life a brutal education.
The real test was physical: punch strength, punch speed, and neural response. Academies like Storm, Ironclad, and Apex demanded 200 kilos of punch strength to pass.
Below that, you were out. Punch speed required five punches per second, each at least 80% of maximum strength—160 kilos for a 200-kilo puncher. Neural response meant dodging an attack in 0.1 seconds or less.
Meeting all three guaranteed a place in an academy, with cultural scores as a minor factor. One weak score could be offset by an exceptional one, but David's past life showed the cost of mediocrity.
His stats at graduation: left fist, 206 kilos; right fist, 232 kilos; punch speed, 5.3 punches per second; neural response, 0.096 seconds. All passed, but barely. His lackluster performance left him vulnerable to Alex Reed's schemes, costing him the attention of top academies.
To change his fate, David knew he had to shine in the exam. He couldn't let Alex sabotage him again.
"Three days," he thought, his jaw tightening. "In three days, I'll boost my strength—enough to make the academies ignore Alex's influence. That's the baseline."
As for Alex , David's eyes narrowed. "This time, I'll play your game and win."
And then, his thoughts drifted to her—the girl who'd stirred his heart in his past life. A faint ache surfaced, but he pushed it down, focusing on the fight ahead.