Part 6 – The Weight of a World

The Wizards led a stunned and overwhelmed Sheral away from the clamor of the Grand Plaza to their hidden, subterranean sanctuary. It was here, in this vast, reconfigurable chamber, that the new Superwoman would be forged. After a tearful, hurried farewell to her parents, Sheral was left alone with Master Elara.

“The artifacts are now bonded to you, child,” Elara said, her voice gentle but firm. “They are a part of your soul. Place them on. Do not fear the power. Welcome it.”

Her hands trembling, Sheral took the two crimson-gemmed artifacts. The moment the choker’s cold metal touched her throat, it clasped shut with a soft click. The belt settled around her waist as if it were made for her. A dizzying, explosive rush of pure, cosmic energy surged through her body.

A wave of brilliant crimson light washed over her, dissolving her simple weaver’s tunic. In its place, the energy wove a new uniform into existence. It was a suit of deep, heroic red, made of a material that was both soft and impossibly resilient. It took the form of a practical female military uniform of the era: a reinforced, long-sleeved armored tunic, cut high on the thigh like a modern leotard, leaving her long, powerful legs bare. Simple, elegant plates of crystalline armor formed on her shoulders and forearms. Knee-high, soft-soled red boots materialized on her feet, and a simple red mask settled over her eyes, granting her the anonymity of a symbol.

She looked at her reflection in a polished wall. She was no longer Sheral. She was the Champion of Lemuria. She was Superwoman.

Her training was a grueling, frustrating, and often humbling ordeal. Elara began with strength. She gestured to a ten-ton block of obsidian in the center of the chamber. “Lift it.” Sheral, still thinking like a mortal girl, strained against it with her muscles, accomplishing nothing. “The strength is not in your muscles, child,” Elara’s voice coached her. “It is in your will. The artifacts respond to your intent. Believe you can lift it.” Sheral closed her eyes, focused, and pushed. The block flew into the air so fast it shattered against the misty ceiling, raining down harmless pebbles.

Flight was a clumsy disaster. Her first attempts were uncontrolled lurches and panicked spirals that ended with her crashing heavily into the padded chamber walls. It required a different kind of focus, a letting go that was alien to her. The Wizards guided her through meditations, teaching her to feel the energy not as a force to be pushed, but as a current to be ridden. The moment she finally achieved stable, controlled flight, soaring gracefully through the vast chamber, a cry of pure, unadulterated joy escaped her lips.

Her invulnerability was the most terrifying lesson. A drone fired a low-level plasma blast at her. Her every instinct screamed at her to dodge. “Stand still, child,” Elara commanded from the sidelines. “Trust the power.” Sheral squeezed her eyes shut, bracing for impact. The blast washed over her in a wave of harmless warmth. She opened her eyes, stunned, a new, profound sense of confidence beginning to take root.

High above, in a shielded observation gallery, General Kaelen watched her progress with a scornful glare.

“Look at her. She fumbles like a newborn colt,” he sneered to Elder Valerius. “My soldiers are dying every day, and we are wasting our precious time teaching a weaver girl how to float! If she is not ready for the front within the week, I will petition the Grand Council to have the artifacts removed from her and given to a real soldier, blood bond or no.”

The psychological toll on Sheral was immense. At the end of each grueling day, she was escorted to her new, spartan quarters. With a silent, mental command, she would will the power to recede. In a soft flash of crimson light, the magnificent red uniform and the artifacts themselves would dissolve into nothingness, retreating to their pocket dimension. In their place, her simple weaver’s tunic would settle back onto her shoulders. She was just a girl again, alone with the crushing weight of her nation’s hope. One night, Elara found her weeping silently.

“The power is a heavy burden, Sheral,” the old Wizard said softly, comforting her. “Those tears do not make you weak. They prove that the kind and gentle heart that chose you is still pure. That is your true strength. Never forget that.”

The week passed. The clumsy girl was gone. For one final test, the Council and General Kaelen observed as Sheral, once again in her full Superwoman form, stood in the center of the chamber. A full-sized, armored target drone, the same model used for heavy siege warfare, flew at her at maximum speed. Sheral met it head-on. There was a blinding flash, and she flew through it, shattering the massive machine into a million pieces with a single, effortless punch. She hovered in the air where it had been, her powerful, perfect form not even breathing heavily.

Elara’s voice echoed in the now-quiet chamber. “You are ready. The Hoard has laid siege to the southern city of Aethel. General Kaelen’s forces have been unable to break the siege. You will be their last hope.”

Before Sheral could reply, the heavy doors of the training chamber hissed open. General Kaelen strode in, his face a thunderous mask of barely contained rage. Elder Valerius hovered nervously behind him.

“So,” Kaelen sneered, his gaze sweeping over the powerful, crimson-clad figure hovering before him. “The puppet can destroy a mindless drone. Impressive.”

He continued to advance, his eyes locked on Sheral. “That machine is nothing compared to the heat of a real battle. Have you ever smelled the stench of a battlefield, girl? Have you heard the screams of men dying? Have you felt the grip of terror so strong it freezes the blood in the veins of even the most seasoned warrior?”

Sheral slowly descended to the floor, intimidated by his ferocious presence. Fear flickered in her eyes.

Kaelen saw it and a grim satisfaction crossed his face. “The fate of my soldiers will not rest on the shoulders of an untested little girl. I will be the one to decide if this… so-called champion is ready.”

With a swift, brutal motion, he drew his vibro-sword from its sheath. The weapon hummed with lethal energy. Before Valerius could cry out, Kaelen brought the vibro-sword down in a devastating arc at the Superwoman.

Instinct, honed by a week of intense training, took over. In a flash of movement, Sheral’s hand shot out. Her bare hand closed around the humming, deadly vibro-blade just inches from her shoulder.

The humming stopped abruptly. The crystalline structure of the vibro-sword, designed to slice through hardened alloys, shuddered and then shattered in her invulnerable grip, disintegrating into a shower of harmless, glittering shards.

Kaelen stared, his face a mask of stunned disbelief. The fury in his eyes was momentarily eclipsed by something akin to awe.

“Impressive,” he conceded, his voice low and grudging. He looked at the remnants of his shattered weapon. “But one display of raw power does not win a war.” He gave Sheral a hard, assessing stare, his dislike still palpable. “Go to Aethel, girl. We will see if your power works against the blood and steel of The Hoard.”

He turned and strode from the chamber, leaving Sheral shaken but strangely empowered by the unexpected test. Elara stepped forward, her gaze knowing.

“He may not trust you yet, Sheral. But the people of Aethel will. Go to them. Be their hope.”