The clerk's body lay twisted like a broken doll, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. Vanessa Blaze crouched beside him, her crimson eyes tracing the symbol smeared in blood on the wall—a staring eye within a palm.
"Same as Breaking Dawn, the hands of the divine are moving too boldly," she muttered.
Four Sentinel guards stood rigid behind her, their obsidian armor absorbing the dim light. Garrick, their hulking leader, tightened his grip on his halberd. "No signs of forced entry. Killer moved like he belonged here."
Vanessa pried the clerk's fingers open. Broken nails. Flecks of skin beneath them. "He fought back. Knew his attacker."
A voice cut through the silence: "Gods...what happened?"
Vice-Captain Mater Kael stopped as he was walking past, his usually sharp green eyes wide. Too wide. His shock felt staged, like a poorly fitted mask.
Vanessa rose slowly. "You were reported missing. Not at the club morning drills. Not at your quarters. That's unusual for you."
Kael rubbed his wrist where a faint bruise circled the skin. "I was...cross-referencing combat manuals in the restricted archives. The new resonance blade schematics required—"
Garrick stepped forward. "Your wrist." A faint bruise circled the pale skin. "Looks like fingernail marks."
Kael laughed—a hollow, forced sound. "Torin's grip is heavier than it looks. I had a spar with the Captain last night."
Vanessa held his gaze a beat too long. "We'll verify that."
As she turned to leave, she caught it—a ripple along Kael's jawline, skin warping like pond water after a stone's toss.
Impossible.
She blinked. It was gone, almost like it never happened.
But Vanessa Blaze didn't survive nine danger-zone campaigns by ignoring her instincts.
Something's wrong with Kael. She'd keep her eyes on him before reaching any conclusion.
---
The Vanguard's administrative office smelled of oiled steel and burnt ozone. Captain Torin Rook—a mountain of scar tissue and muscle—glanced up as Drake entered.
"You lost, kid?" Torin's voice was gravel wrapped in velvet.
Drake slid the sealed envelope across the desk. "From Sir Duron."
Torin's brows lifted. He tore it open, scanned the contents, then exhaled through his nose. "Duron's never recommended anyone before." His gaze sharpened. "And you? I don't smell Aether on you. Not a whiff."
Drake didn't flinch. "Don't need it to kill."
Torin leaned back, the chair groaning. "Kid, the Vanguard trains warriors to slaughter Null Beasts and Core-enhanced mutants. Not play soldier." He tapped the letter. "But if Duron says you've got potential..." A sigh. "Fine. You're in. Start at the bottom—gear scrubbing and dummy repair. Earn your place."
Drake clasped the black-and-gold armband handed to him—the Vanguard's insignia, a sword entwined with Arachis's serpent.
"Prove me wrong," Torin said.
---
The training hall roared like a caged beast finally unleashed. At its center, Ryan Poseidonis of class 1-B, the undisputed top first-year who'd already reached Viscount-rank, danced through combat with wild-eyed glee, his twin axes carving glacial arcs through the charged air. Water whirled around him in living ribbons as he fought three first-year opponents—all elite, all already outmatched.
"COME ON!" Ryan laughed as the serpent-eyed boy lunged, deliberately taking a shallow cut across his cheek just to taste his own blood. "That all you've got?" He froze the boy's feet to the floor with a wink.
The hydrokinetic girl came next, her water spear trembling in her grip. Ryan drank it in through his pores, then spat it back as needle-sharp ice that peppered her skin red. "BEAUTIFUL!" he roared, spinning to face the telekinetic prodigy.
Six floating swords? Ryan shattered them with a shockwave that made the walls tremble. "MY TURN!" he howled, axes blazing with fresh ice.
"[Ice Style: Winter's Cut]!"
The frost crescents carved a jagged line between his panting opponents. The watching students went wild:
"POSEIDONIS! POSEIDONIS!"
"Gods—he's not even breathing hard!"
"That's not a first-year—that's a fucking war machine!"
Then Ryan saw Drake.
Their eyes met across the carnage.
Ryan's grin turned feral, fresh ice crackling along his axes. "NEW MEAT!" he bellowed, making the entire hall erupt in laughter and cheers.
Alexis materialized beside Drake, smelling of ozone and arrogance. "Told you you'd join," he said, draping an arm over Drake's shoulders. "Now let's see if you survive Ryan's welcoming party."
Drake shrugged him off just as Mr. Leo's voice cracked like a whip: "Enough, Ryan."
The battle maniac lowered his weapons with theatrical disappointment. "Apologies, Instructor," he said, though his eyes still burned with unrestrained bloodlust. He winked at Drake. "Later, newbie."
For a fleeting moment, Drake locked eyes with Mr. Leo—a silent exchange of unspoken warnings.
Great. Another watchdog.
Not surprising.