Thunderbolt Star Saga

2.First training

When Lin Fan opened his eyes, sunlight had already etched a golden line across the floor through the curtain gap. The digital clock showed 11:07, its glowing numbers leaving him momentarily disoriented—such languid mornings had become routine since completing all academic coursework.

The cafeteria's sweet-and-sour ribs still swam in syrupy glaze. He chewed mechanically, swallowing along with an indescribable anticipation. His knuckles trembled slightly as the training facility's metal gate unfolded before him, requiring three swipes of his student ID before flashing green.

"Lin Fan?" The security guard adjusted his bifocals, rustling the paperwork in wrinkled hands. "First time in two years?" The youth's ears flushed pink as his fountain pen blotted ink across the academic records section. The old man's sharp inhale was cut off by the automatic door's hydraulic hiss.

The Lightning Training Facility door creaked on corroded hinges. Musty air laced with metallic tang assaulted his senses, cobwebs draping corners like dusty curtains. He held his breath before the grime-coated energy sphere, palms crackling with sudden electricity. When 1070 Fa flickered across the display, current seemed to arc through his ribcage.

By the third set of weighted squats, sweat had darkened the rubber mat. Violet lightning patterns shimmered across his thighs, each rise from crouch position battling invisible mountains. During speed drills, the wall clock's numerals dissolved into strobing afterimages.

"Yellow zone!" The instructor's bark drew scattered snickers. Lin Fan moved wordlessly toward the lemon-tinted area encircled by female trainees. As lightning armor coated his fingertips, wrist guards sparked against humid air. Thrust, s***h, feint—each motion balanced muscle memory against energy flow's delicate resistance.

"You're the grad student?" The girl materializing post-session resembled a sly black cat. Her tilted-head scrutiny reminded him of the noontime tabby haunting library windowsills. Before he could inquire, her obsidian training suit vanished around the corridor bend.

Chopin's nocturnes seeped through the midnight café's espresso-scented air. While the owner exhaled smoke rings discussing his daughter, Lin Fan polished measuring glasses reflecting his own face. The number "2500 Fa" prismed across curved surfaces, suddenly revealing caramel macchiato flecks he'd spilled moments earlier.

Neon signs bled into rain-smeared constellations during his walk home. As keys clicked in the deadbolt, lightning patterns involuntarily danced across his palm. Six-hour practice schedules filled his planner in meticulous script, the still-glossy ink of "Diligence Mends Imperfection" catching lamplight like liquid mercury.