Zero Shift: Second Gear: A Superhero Academy LitRPG, page 1
ZERO SHIFT
Second Gear
ZERO SHIFT
BOOK 2
GEORGE BACH
CONTENTS
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Group Sharing
PROLOGUE
WINTER 1943, EASTERN FRONT
The cold bit through Viktor Volkov’s coat like hungry teeth through flesh. Twenty-one years old and already tired of war. Already tired of watching good men and friends die in the snow.
He crouched behind what used to be a T-34 tank. Now it was just twisted metal and frozen blood. The German advance had been grinding forward for weeks. Methodical. Relentless. Like a machine that fed on Russian men and spat out corpses.
Viktor leaned out, fired twice toward the muzzle flashes flickering in the treeline. One shadow fell. Another answered with a burst that smacked into the tank’s hull inches from his head.
His rifle clicked empty. Again.
“Blyad,” he muttered, fumbling for his last magazine. His fingers were numb. Everything was numb except the fear in his gut. Not even full—seven rounds, maybe eight if one stuck in the chamber.
He held it in his palm for a heartbeat, kissed it twice—double tap, the way his grandfather had before hunting wolves—and whispered a prayer no priest had ever taught him. Then he slammed it home.
All around him, his unit was falling apart, one by one. Petrov took a bullet through his throat an hour ago. Still gurgling when the medic finally gave up on him. Mikhail got cut in half by machine gun fire. Just... cut in half. Like he was made of paper. His flesh eviscerated by the pummelling bullets tearing through him.
The crunching sound of German boots on frozen ground was getting closer. That steady gnashing that meant death was on its way and coming to collect. Viktor had been hearing it in his nightmares for months. But now it was real. Now it was here for him.
He thought about Alexei. His older brother, safe behind the lines with his beautiful pregnant wife. Little Katya with her belly full of hope and new life. Viktor’s job was simple. Buy them time to run. Buy them time to live.
The Volkov family didn’t retreat. Grandfather used to say that. Back when Viktor was small and the world made sense. Back when war was just stories old men told to scare children.
“Come on then, you fascist bastards,” Viktor whispered. His breath made clouds in the bitter air. “Come and take it.”
The first German soldier rounded the tank wreckage. Young face. Scared eyes. Probably had a sweetheart back home too. Probably wrote letters about coming home safe.
Viktor put a bullet through his forehead.
The boy dropped like a sack of grain. Blood steamed in the snow. Viktor felt nothing. You couldn’t feel anything and still fight. Feeling was for after. If there was an after.
More boots. More voices shouting in German. Viktor shifted position, using the tank’s bulk for cover. His hands were steady now. Funny how that worked. When death was certain, everything got simple.
He picked off two more before they figured out where he was. Clean shots. Center mass. His grandfather would be proud. The old man had fought in the Great War. Knew what it meant to stand your ground when the world was ending.
But there were too many of them. There were always too many.
A grenade landed three feet away. Viktor dove, but the explosion picked him up and threw him like a child’s toy. His ears rang. His vision blurred. Blood ran down his face from somewhere.
When the ringing stopped, he could hear them talking. German voices. Calm. Professional. Like they were discussing the weather.
Viktor tried to move. His left arm wouldn’t work right. Something was wrong with his ribs. Each breath felt like swallowing glass.
A shadow fell across him. German officer. Clean uniform. Polished boots. The kind of man who sent boys to die while he stayed warm and safe.
“This one’s alive,” the officer said in accented Russian. “Tough little bastard.”
Viktor spat blood. “Go fuck yourself.”
The officer smiled. Not a nice smile. The kind of smile that meant bad things were coming.
“We’ll see about that.”
The rifle butt came down hard. Viktor’s world went black.
THE TRANSPORT
Viktor woke up in the back of a truck. His head felt like someone had split it with an axe. His mouth tasted like copper and dirt.
He wasn’t alone. Maybe a dozen other Russian soldiers, all bound with rope. All looking like they’d been through hell. Some were unconscious. Some were crying. One kid couldn’t have been more than seventeen. Still had baby fat on his cheeks.
“Where are they taking us?” the kid whispered.
Viktor didn’t answer. Couldn’t answer. His throat felt raw. But he knew it wasn’t anywhere good. Prisoners of war went to camps. This felt different. This felt wrong.
The truck bounced and rattled through the night. No one talked much. What was there to say? They were alive when they should be dead. That was either a blessing or a curse. Time would tell which.
Viktor closed his eyes and tried to think of home. Tried to remember Alexei’s laugh. Katya’s smile. The way she hummed while she cooked. Simple things. Good things. Things worth dying for.
The truck stopped.
German voices outside. Orders being shouted. The sound of boots on gravel. Then the tailgate dropped and harsh light flooded in.
“Out,” someone barked in broken Russian. “Move.”
They stumbled out into a courtyard. High walls. Guard towers. Searchlights that turned night into day. But this wasn’t like the prison camps Viktor had heard about. This was something else. Something clinical.
Clean buildings. Men in white coats walking alongside soldiers. The smell of chemicals and antiseptic. Like a hospital. But hospitals were supposed to heal people.
Viktor had a bad feeling about this place.
They were herded into a processing building. Stripped. Hosed down with freezing water. Given numbers instead of names. Viktor became Subject 247. The number was tattooed on his forearm with a needle that felt like fire.
“Welcome to your new home,” a German doctor said in perfect Russian. He was older. Gray hair. Kind eyes that didn’t match the uniform. “You’re going to help us with some very important research.”
Viktor wanted to spit in his face. Wanted to wrap his hands around the bastard’s throat and squeeze until those kind eyes went dark. But the guards had guns. And Viktor was smart enough to know when to wait.
“What kind of research?” the twenty-one year-old asked.
The doctor smiled. Same smile as the officer. Same promise of bad things coming.
“The kind that will change the world.”
MONTH ONE
The cell was eight feet by six feet. Concrete walls. Steel door. A bucket in the corner that stank like death. No windows. No way to tell day from night except when they brought food.
If you could call it food.
Thin soup. Stale bread. Sometimes meat that might have been rat. Just enough to keep you alive. Just enough to keep you hoping.
Viktor tried to stay strong. Tried to remember who he was. Viktor Volkov. Russian soldier. Brother to Alexei. Uncle to the baby that was coming. A man with a family. A man with a purpose.
But the isolation was eating at him. Humans weren’t meant for this. To be alone… Weren’t meant to sit in the dark with nothing but their own thoughts for company.
The guards only spoke German. Even when Viktor tried to ask questions, they ignored him. Like he wasn’t even human. Like he was just another lab rat waiting for the next experiment.
Sometimes he heard screaming from other cells. Sometimes he heard crying. Sometimes he heard nothing at all, which was worse.
The doctor visited once a week. Always polite. Always asking questions.
“How are you feeling today, Viktor?”
“Tell me about your family.”
“What did you fight for?”
Viktor told him to go to hell. Every time. But the doctor just smiled and made notes on his clipboard. Like Viktor’s hatred was just another data point to be recorded.
“You’re angry,” the doctor said during the fourth visit. “That’s understandable. But anger won’t help you here. Cooperation will.”
“I’ll never cooperate with you Nazi bastards.”
“We’ll see.”
The doctor left. The lights went out. Viktor was alone again with the dark and the stink and the sound of his own breathing.
He tried to do exercises. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Anything to keep his body strong. But the food wasn’t enough. He was getting weaker. Getting thinner. Getting desperate.
By the end of the first month, he was talking to himself just to hear a human voice.
MONTH THREE
Viktor’s hands shook as he picked them up. Pictures of Russian soldiers hanging from trees. Bodies in ditches. Mass graves filled with men in Soviet uniforms.
And there, in the middle of it all, a picture of Alexei.
His brother’s face was swollen. Beaten. But it was definitely him. Definitely Alexei with his crooked smile and his gentle eyes. Except his eyes weren’t gentle anymore. They were empty. Dead.
Viktor screamed. He threw himself at the door until his fists bled. He cursed God and Stalin and everyone who had ever lived. He cried until there were no tears left.
When the doctor came, Viktor was sitting in the corner. Staring at nothing.
“I’m sorry you had to see that,” the doctor said. His voice was soft. Almost kind. “Your brother was executed as a traitor. Along with his wife. The baby too, I’m afraid.”
Viktor looked up. “You’re lying.”
“I wish I was. But Stalin has declared all captured soldiers to be enemies of the state. Your own government ordered their deaths.”
The doctor set down more photographs. Official documents with Soviet seals. Orders signed by commissars. Evidence that Viktor’s own country had abandoned him. Had murdered his family for the crime of being related to a prisoner.
“This is what you fought for,” the doctor said. “This is what your sacrifice bought you. Nothing.”
Viktor stared at the pictures until his eyes burned. His brother. His sister-in-law. The baby that would never be born. All dead because Viktor had failed to die when he was supposed to.
“Why?” Viktor whispered.
“Because the Soviet system is broken. Because Stalin cares nothing for individual lives. Because you were expendable.”
The doctor knelt down beside Viktor. His voice was gentle. Fatherly.
“But you don’t have to be expendable anymore. You can be something greater. Something important.”
Viktor looked at him. Really looked. The kind eyes. The soft voice. The promise of purpose.
“What do you want from me?”
“I want to give you a chance to matter. To be part of something bigger than yourself. Something that will outlast Stalin and his lies.”
Viktor nodded slowly. What else was there? His family was dead. His country had betrayed him. He was alone in the world except for this man who offered him hope.
“What do I have to do?”
The doctor smiled. “Just listen. Learn. Let us help you become who you were meant to be.”
MONTH SIX
The lessons came every day now. History. Philosophy. Science. All of it filtered through the lens of German superiority and Soviet failure.
Viktor learned about the Jewish conspiracy. The Bolshevik betrayal. The natural order that placed Aryans at the top of the human hierarchy. It all made sense when you looked at the evidence. When you saw how the world really worked.
His Russian identity was a lie. A prison built by inferior minds to keep superior ones in chains. But he could be free. He could be more.
The doctor was patient. Kind. He answered Viktor’s questions without judgment. He brought books and maps and photographs that showed the truth about the world. The truth that Soviet propaganda had hidden.
“You’re not Russian,” the doctor explained. “Not really. Your bloodline traces back to Germanic tribes. You have the potential for greatness. The potential to serve a higher purpose.”
Viktor felt something shift inside him. A weight lifting. A fog clearing. The anger and grief that had consumed him for months began to fade. In their place came understanding. Clarity. Purpose.
He wasn’t a prisoner anymore. He was a student. A willing participant in his own transformation.
The cell got bigger. Better food. Books to read. Even a radio that played German music. Classical pieces that stirred something in his soul. Something that felt like coming home.
“How do you feel?” the doctor asked during one of their sessions.
“Better,” Viktor said. And he meant it. “Clearer.”
“Good. You’re ready for the next phase.”
Viktor nodded. He trusted the doctor now. Trusted the process. Whatever came next, he would embrace it. He would become whatever they needed him to be.
The old Viktor Volkov was dead. Had been dead since the moment he saw those photographs. What remained was raw material. Clay waiting to be shaped into something useful.
Something pure.
MONTH TWELVE
The transformation was complete. Viktor looked in the mirror and saw a stranger. Clean-shaven. Well-fed. Wearing a crisp uniform with symbols that meant something. That stood for order and purpose and the natural way of things.
He couldn’t remember why he’d ever resisted. The old thoughts seemed foreign now. Primitive. Like memories from someone else’s life.
The doctor had become more than a teacher. He was a father figure. A guide. Someone who had seen Viktor’s potential when Viktor himself was blind to it.
“You’ve come so far,” the doctor said. “I’m proud of you.”
Viktor felt warm inside. Valued. Important. “Thank you, sir.”
“Are you ready for the final step?”
Viktor nodded without hesitation. Whatever they asked of him, he would do. He belonged to something greater now. Something that would reshape the world according to natural law.
“There will be pain,” the doctor warned. “But pain is just weakness leaving the body. You understand that now.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Then let’s begin.”
They led him to a chamber deep beneath the facility. Ancient symbols carved into metal walls. Machinery that hummed with power. Scientists in white coats preparing equipment that looked like it belonged in an H.R. Giger nightmare.
But Viktor wasn’t afraid. Fear was for the weak. For the unenlightened. He was beyond such things now.
“Lie down,” the doctor instructed.
Viktor did as he was told. Straps secured his arms and legs. Electrodes attached to his skull. Needles slid into his veins, carrying substances that burned like liquid fire.
“The entity, my master, the great Cataclysm, has existed since before recorded history,” the doctor explained. “He offers power to those worthy of receiving it. You are worthy, Viktor. You have been chosen.”
The pain started slowly. A tingling in his extremities. Then heat. Then agony that made him arch against the restraints. But he didn’t scream. Screaming was for the weak.
Something was changing inside him. His bones felt like they were melting and reforming. His muscles swelled and contracted. His very DNA was being rewritten by forces beyond human understanding.
And then came the tentacles.
Skin tore open with wet, ripping cracks, bones splintering like brittle glass as metallic tendrils erupted from his wrists. They coiled through raw, pulsing flesh, veins bulging and tearing around the invading steel, blood mixing with oily residue. Agony fused with a twisted ecstasy, every nerve screaming as the metal serpents became one with him, extensions of his fractured will, beautiful yet grotesque in their deadly perfection.
He could feel them as clearly as his own fingers, controlling their writhing with a mere thought, sensing the cold touch as they reached out. But the connection burned, flesh rotting at the edges where metal met skin, pus weeping from the wounds. He screamed, the violation deepening, the tendrils hungry, probing deeper into his body, promising more horror with each pulse.
The pain faded. In its place came strength. Power. Purpose.
Viktor Volkov was dead. Had been dead for months. What rose from that table was something new. Something much darker.
Something that would serve the Reich until the end of time.
“Designation: Obsidian Coil,” the doctor announced. “Welcome to your new life. You are the first of many to come in a grand army of supersoldiers.”
Obsidian Coil nodded. The name felt right. Felt like truth. The beginning of something greater. He was ready to serve. Ready to kill. Ready to cleanse the world of weakness and impurity.
The old world was ending. A new one was about to begin.
