Chapter 138: Enhancements

I gripped the cold metal rungs, my palms slick with the faintest sheen of nervous sweat, and hauled myself up the ladder, one hesitant step at a time.

The higher I went, the more the metal frame swayed beneath me, and I found myself glancing down more often than my dignity would appreciate.

Each of my breaths came in sharp, shallow bursts, as though the air itself had been infused with some invisible elixir of panic.

Above me, Iskanda ascended with an effortless, almost smug sort of elegance, barely seeming to use the ladder so much as humor it.

The moment my hands grasped the final rung and I emerged through the hatch above us, the sight that greeted me stole what little composure I had left.

We stood on a massive platform crafted from dark iron and lacquered steel, its surface humming faintly underfoot like some dormant creature.

Beyond its edges stretched a labyrinth of elevated walkways, rotating disks, dangling chains, slanted bridges, and enormous cogs turning with a slow, grinding rhythm. Plumes of steam erupted at intervals from vents carved into the tower’s sides, sending shimmering waves of heat drifting through the air.

My eyes flicked around, drinking in the sheer audacity of it all. “Saints above,” I muttered, letting my words trail off into the hiss of steam. “What… what is this place?”

Iskanda’s heels clicked lightly as she stepped forward, her shadow stretching long and narrow over the platform. “This,” she said, voice even, almost measured, “is the training course used by many Incarnic Velvets in the past.”

My mouth hung open a little longer than any respectable creature should allow. “Right. Wonderful. And just to be absolutely clear—this is the part where I die, yes? Because it feels like the part where I die.”

She arched a brow, as if questioning my audacity to complain before I’d even tried. “Relax. Most Incarnic mages are trained this way. They survived. So will you.”

I swallowed, nodding slowly, my voice dropping to a squeaky, nervous pitch. “So… what? You want me to… run this course around the tower?”

Iskanda’s lips quirked into the faintest smirk. “Yes,” she said simply. “But not yet. First, I will teach you the most basic use of Incarnic magic.”

“And that is?” I asked, trying my best to sound composed.

“Enhancements,” she replied.

“Enhancements?” I repeated, letting the word hang in the air for a moment. I tilted my head, trying to picture it. “You mean magic to… what, improve my body? Like… steroids but… mystical?”

“Something like that,” she said, a hint of amusement in her voice. “Enhancements fortify parts of the body, give you extra strength, speed, agility. Simple magic once you get the hang of it.”

“That… sounds incredibly useful. And highly overdue.”

“Indeed,” she said pointedly. “Stand in the middle of the platform. We will begin.”

I shuffled into position, trying to project confidence while my stomach threatened mutiny. I felt exposed, the height pressing against my senses, the steam rising in lazy, curling whorls that added an eerie, almost theatrical feel to the whole ordeal.

Iskanda began pacing slowly around me, deliberate, like a predator or a drill sergeant depending on how you chose to interpret her stride. “Do you know how to access your Astral Nexus?” she asked, voice calm, probing, precise.

“Nope.”

She paused. “You’ve never accessed it? At all?”

I shook my head. “My disappearing trick relies on something… else. Something I don’t fully understand.”

Her lips twitched, then she let out a sharp, theatrical sigh. “Fine. That will do… for now.” Her gaze softened slightly before sharpening again. She circled back to stand in front of me. “Incarnic magic pulls from the Astral Nexus to strengthen the body. To manipulate it, you must first sense it, channel it, then redirect it. The process is not instantaneous. You will fail. That is normal. Failure is to be expected.”

I narrowed my eyes, hands on my hips, trying to look as heroic as a quivering boy half-afraid of heights could manage. “Saints, that sounds… exhausting. Can you give me maybe… I don’t know… a starter version? A beginner spell? A pamphlet? Perhaps a nice, non-lethal exercise to warm me up beforehand.”

She snorted, unimpressed. “Perhaps when you stop whining.”

I rolled my eyes before closing them, trying to follow her instructions in that quiet internal theater only I could access. I pictured some well of power deep in my core, imagining it like a dark, viscous pool, swirling faintly with the light of some forgotten star.

I reached toward it with my mind, fingers trembling at the idea of grasping something unseen, something I’d never touched consciously before.

Faintly—almost imperceptibly—I felt a tickle, a whisper of motion, but it slipped away the moment I tried to seize it. My brow furrowed, jaw tightening, as I tried again. Nothing. Saints, absolutely nothing. My mind gritted, teeth clamped.

Focus, Loona, focus.

From behind me, I felt Iskanda’s presence, subtle but weighty, before, without warning, her hands pressed gently against my hips, cool and firm. My body reacted before my brain could file a complaint, and I stifled a sharp breath that almost turned into a squeak.

“Relax,” she whispered, voice low and intimate, brushing a current of calm against the storm of panic in my chest. “You are more than capable of this.”

I exhaled shakily, my muscles slowly unclenching one at a time, her thumbs brushing firm circles at the curve of my hips in a way that felt suspiciously like she was trying to soothe a spooked horse.

“Good,” she whispered. “Now here. Perhaps this will help.”

Before I could ask what she meant, she pressed a soft kiss to the back of my head.

It was gentle, barely a touch—but something uncoiled inside me with sudden, startling clarity. Like a spark dropped into oil, a rushing warmth bloomed in my core, some internal tide shifting, swirling, responding.

Then I felt it. The current. A shift, subtle but undeniable, sliding through my core—warm, pulsing, alive. My hands trembled with the sheer sensation, my breath catching before finding its rhythm again.

“There it is,” Iskanda murmured. “Can you feel it now?”

“…Yes.” My voice came out weak, dazed. “Oh saints… yes, I can.”

“Good,” she said, stepping back but keeping her gaze locked on me. “Now try to redirect the current. Into your arm. Channel it. Control it. Don’t let it spill—don’t let it overwhelm you. Focus.”

I clenched my fists, imagining the river, feeling its pulse like a heartbeat in my core, and then, almost painstakingly, I let a fraction of it stream into my forearm.

The sensation was immediate, electric, tingling along every nerve ending, a strange vibration that felt like both strength and awareness blooming at once. My eyes snapped open, pupils wide, breathing shallow. Saints, I’d done it.

I flexed experimentally, feeling muscles hum with newfound potency, fingers curling with a force that had been absent only moments before. The strength wasn’t just physical—it was magical, instinctive, as if some hidden part of me had finally found its voice and decided to shout.

Iskanda’s smirk had returned, sharp and knowing. “Well?” she prompted.

I let my hand drop to my side, flexing subtly again, marveling at the raw tingle that lingered. “Well…” I began, trying to catch my breath, “I feel… different. Stronger. Somehow lighter and heavier at the same time.”

“Excellent,” she said, voice tight with approval.

I barely had time to steady my breathing, barely had time to convince my legs that they were, in fact, still attached to my body, when Iskanda clasped a firm hand on my back.

The impact jolted through me, knocking a startled squeak from my throat before I could swallow it down. “You accessed your Astral Nexus faster than I expected.”

I blinked up at her, still buzzing with the faint tingle of energy humming beneath my skin, feeling momentarily proud, momentarily tall—before she immediately followed it up with, “Which means you’re ready to run the course.”

The words hit me like a sack of bricks wrapped in disappointment and tossed down the shaft of a well. My pride deflated so quickly it might as well have hissed out of my ears like steam.

I stammered, my tongue suddenly adopting the consistency of damp parchment as I tried to force something coherent out of my mouth.

“R–run the—wait, hold on—Iskanda, you—you mean now? As in immediately? As in right this very instant when my legs feel like overcooked noodles and my soul is begging to renegotiate its contract with reality?”

She merely nodded, serenely unbothered. “There’s no time to waste,” she said, already turning and motioning for me to follow. “You need to learn quickly. You’ll have your match soon, and as entertaining as it would be to watch you flail to your demise, I would prefer you survive long enough for your training to be worthwhile.”

Saints above, the woman spoke of my potential death the way one might talk about a slight inconvenience during afternoon tea.

She guided me toward the far side of the massive platform, where a plank of sheeted metal jutted out over the sprawling labyrinth of mechanical madness that wrapped around the tower.

I stepped onto it reluctantly, feeling every ounce of vertigo I’d tried so hard to suppress crawl right back into my bloodstream like a returning parasite. From this vantage point, the course looked even more intimidating.

“Enhancements,” Iskanda began again, speaking slowly, evenly. “You must use them wisely. For now, you can only enhance one muscle at a time.”

I stared at her, deadpan. “One muscle? That sounds—how do I say this politely?—ridiculously inconvenient.”

“You’ll adapt,” she said with a shrug. “In time you’ll be able to enhance multiple muscles simultaneously. But for now, one at a time.” Her eyes flicked toward the sprawling obstacle course. “You must learn to compensate. Plan your movements. Think about which muscle will carry you further, faster, or with more precision.”

I swallowed dryly and forced myself to face the nightmare masquerading as a training course. “Iskanda,” I said quietly, hesitantly, “what… what if I fall?”

Iskanda offered a reassuring, confident nod. Then she added, “I’ll catch you.”

A beat.

“Probably.”

My soul momentarily disassociated from my body. “Probably? Saints above, what do you mean probably? That’s not a comforting word in any language.”

She didn’t respond. Instead, she reached down—down her neckline, saints save me—and pulled a small, polished silver stopwatch from between her breasts, letting it swing with an elegance that could only be achieved by someone who’d weaponized their femininity long ago.

She stepped back, flipping the top open with a click that echoed across the platform. “Ready yourself,” she said, tone suddenly serious, though her lips twitched faintly as if she were actively suppressing the amusement at my misery.

I gave her a nervous laugh, high-pitched and brittle. She raised the stopwatch, its tiny crystal surface catching the light and glinting like something sharp. She waited, letting the tension build in a dramatic fashion that bordered on theatrical cruelty.

My heart hammered, echoing the click… click… click of the gears turning somewhere beside me in the tower’s inner throat.

And then—

“Go.”

Her voice cracked like a whip, and my body reacted before my brain fully caught up with the concept of movement. My legs pushed off the plank, the wind snapped against my ears, and suddenly I was sprinting toward the first segment of the course—a long jump over a yawning gap wide enough to swallow my ego.

The platform beneath me trembled faintly with each step, the iron vibrating like some slumbering beast stirred by my panicked footfalls.

My breaths came sharp, each one filling my lungs with hot, tainted air. The first jump came up fast—too fast.

I had no time to think, no time to question, no time to weigh whether or not this was the stupidest decision I’d ever made. I braced myself, pushed off the edge, and launched into empty air.

My landing felt a little too hard, my knees buckling in a way that made an undignified noise spill from my mouth, but I stuck it. Barely.

Iskanda called something behind me—I chose to pretend it was encouragement and not a reminder of how fragile my bones were—but I didn’t dare look back.

I ran along the narrow path curving around the tower, slipping slightly with each turn as steam hissed from vents embedded in the walls. Everything shimmered with heat, every surface reflecting a distorted version of myself sprinting like a man fleeing judgment.

Up ahead, pipes jutted from the walkway at odd angles—rusted, slick, wide enough to trip over and smack one’s teeth into oblivion.

I vaulted over the first one, stumbled on the second, flailed over the third, and only barely avoided taking a fatal plunge off the side thanks to an instinctive grab at a hanging chain.

The force of swinging nearly dislocated my shoulder, but I held on, my body whipping forward with enough momentum to hurl me onto a higher ledge.

I scrambled upright, panting, and ran.

The course wound on and on—more chains, metal sheets, narrow beams, and that awful grinding rumble of machinery echoing up from the depths of the tower.

The next obstacle was worse: gears. Massive ones. Each the size of a wagon wheel, teeth clicking together with methodical menace, spinning in alternating directions like mechanical jaws waiting to devour me.

Steam belched from vents nearby, scorching the air and fogging my vision. I timed it poorly, naturally—I was Loona, timing things poorly was in my blood—and dove through as the gears momentarily spread apart.

I scraped through the opening, heat lashing at my face, the metal teeth grazing the ends of my hair with a threatening snip.

My feet hit the platform on the other side and I rolled, breathless, sweaty, heart hammering a violent rhythm in my chest. “Ha!” I gasped, staggering upright. “Take that you overgrown soup-stirrers! You mechanical death-wheels! You—”

Another pipe burst somewhere above me, drenching me with a spray of hot vapor and immediately shutting me up.

But I kept going, curling around another bend in the course. The tower’s side dropped away beneath me into an abyss of dark steel girders and flickering light, the kind of fall that would ensure my body would be found in several memorable pieces.

And that’s when I saw it: a gap. A massive gap. Far larger than the first one. Far larger than any reasonable architect would include unless they were designing it specifically to kill people.

Which, knowing this place, might actually be the case.

I skidded to a halt near the edge, staring at the impossible distance. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” I whispered.

I backed up several steps, trying to think. Trying to remember what Iskanda said. Enhancements. One muscle at a time. One. Inconveniently singular.

“Fine,” I muttered, shaking out my limbs. “Right calf. You’re up. Don’t fail me now. Please, I’m begging.”

I closed my eyes for a brief moment, focused inward, and called upon that strange current that pulsed within me. It answered—hot, electric, eager—and flowed into my right leg, saturating it with this bizarre, prickling warmth that made the muscle flex under my skin with unnerving vigor.

I smirked, feeling—for the first time since arriving here—confident. Capable. Dare I say heroic.

I sprinted, pushing as hard as I could across the platform, each step drumming through the steel beneath me. The gap raced toward me, heart crashing in my chest like a battering ram. I leapt at the very last second, launching off my enhanced right leg with all the strength I had.

For two glorious seconds, I was airborne, suspended like some graceful, magnificent, gravity-defying creature.

Then the third second arrived—

—and I realized, with slow, dawning horror, that I was nowhere near making the jump.

“Oh Saints—!”

And just like that, I plummeted.

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