บท 46: Strain
The workshop was quiet, save for the faint hum of the arc reactor in the corner and the rhythmic clinking of Tyr sharpening his sword. His gaze was distant, though, his hands working mechanically as his thoughts drifted back to the battle on the rooftop.
He had won, but it wasn't because of raw skill. It was the Force—specifically, the strange new application of it he had unlocked.
Tyr leaned back, letting the sword rest on the workbench as he exhaled deeply. "Force Breathing," he muttered to himself.
The name felt appropriate. It wasn't just about controlling his breath; it was about channeling the Force into his body, pushing himself past his natural limits. Theon's memories had provided the inspiration, but it was Tyr who had turned fiction into reality.
And it worked.
Tyr stood and walked to the center of the room, his muscles still aching from the night before. He closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, and let the Force flow through him.
The sensation was immediate. His body felt lighter, his strength increasing as his blood pumped faster, delivering oxygen and energy with ruthless efficiency. His reflexes sharpened, every sound and movement in the room amplified to a near-overwhelming degree.
He opened his eyes, his vision sharper, colors more vivid. The world seemed to move slower, every detail etched into his mind.
For a moment, he felt invincible.
But then, the strain began to creep in. His muscles tensed, the energy coursing through them becoming almost unbearable. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, and his breaths grew ragged, each inhale burning his lungs.
Tyr dropped to one knee, gasping as he released the technique. The Force dissipated, leaving his body trembling.
"Six minutes," he muttered, clutching his side. "That's all I can manage before it starts breaking me down."
It was like a knock-off version of Kaioken, a tool that could elevate him to new heights but at a significant cost. He needed to find a way to extend its duration, to make it less taxing on his body.
"Another problem for the list," he muttered, wiping sweat from his brow.
Later, as Tyr sat at his desk reviewing his latest projects, another thought crept into his mind—one he had been avoiding for weeks.
School.
He had tried to focus on his studies, but it was becoming increasingly unbearable. Every day, he listened to his classmates spout venomous hatred against mutants, their contempt thinly veiled behind fake sympathy or hollow jokes. The hypocrisy was suffocating.
It wasn't just the students. Teachers, administrators, even casual conversations in the hallways—they all carried the same underlying message: mutants were unwelcome, a threat to be feared or eradicated.
And Tyr couldn't take it anymore.
He pushed away from his desk, pacing the workshop as the thought consumed him.
"Why am I even bothering?" he muttered. "I don't need a diploma. I don't need a degree. I already have what most people dream of."
He glanced at the monitor, where Argos displayed the latest projections for his upcoming projects.
Rocket League was nearly complete, its development accelerated thanks to Argos's assistance. The AI had not only optimized the coding process but also spearheaded the publicity campaign. Early teasers and trailers had generated significant buzz, with gaming forums and social media lighting up with excitement.
The console was another triumph. Sleek, powerful, and impossible to reverse-engineer, it had already been nicknamed "The Cube" by fans.
Preorders were through the roof, and critics were already speculating that it could revolutionize the gaming industry.
Tyr leaned against the workbench, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've got income. I've got plans. What the hell do I need school for?"
Finn's voice echoed in his mind, a memory of one of their many talks.
"Education isn't just about getting a degree, boy," Finn had said. "It's about building a foundation, learning how to think, how to navigate the world."
Tyr sighed. He respected Finn more than anyone, but the old man didn't understand the full picture. Tyr already had a foundation. He had Argos, he had his projects, and he had the Force.
And most importantly, he had a purpose.
He sat back down, pulling up the latest financial reports. The revenue projections for his game studio, Helix Studios, were staggering. Even before Rocket League's official release, the studio was being hailed as an innovator, with media outlets praising its ambitious designs and polished gameplay mechanics.
And Rocket League was just the beginning.
Tyr glanced at his notebook, where the concept sketches for Bloodborne sat beside diagrams for his next-generation console.
"Why waste my time in a classroom," he muttered, "when I could be building the future?"
The decision wasn't final, but it was becoming harder to ignore.
As the night wore on, Tyr returned to his training. The Force Breathing technique was powerful, but it needed refinement. He pushed his body to the limit, testing how far he could go before the strain became too much.
Each time, he lasted a little longer, his determination outweighing the pain.
By the time dawn approached, Tyr was drenched in sweat, his body aching but his mind sharper than ever. He stood in the center of the workshop, his breathing steady as he stared at his reflection in the polished steel of his sword.
"You've got this," he told himself, his voice firm. "One step at a time."
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