The Federation stretched across continents, but unity was just a word on paper. In truth, it fractured into three fronts the elusive North, the republic East, and the imperial West, each with its own power structure and governing power. The Western Front stood as the largest, with over a hundred cities and thirty core megacities, governed by a strict military hierarchy and an imperial regime that valued control, loyalty, and conquest. Here, authority descended from command chains, and powerhouses both political and martial. Elite solders were bred in academies scattered across the heartland.
In contrast, the Eastern Front leaned toward a republican-federal system, layered with bureaucracy and compromise, favoring civic development and distributed command. The Northern Front remained the most elusive a cold and silent power with veiled motives, where decisions came down from unseen councils and operatives. Technologically and strategically, all three stood on equal footing. It was in philosophy, rule, control and freedom—that they clashed.
Within the sprawling fortress academy selection tests began.
The testing yard shimmered with defensive barriers. Dozens of weapon racks lined the outer walls, and artificial combat drones, shaped like old-world knights fused with angular cybernetics stood in neat rows. That silence shattered the moment Instructor Rael stepped in. A man built like a giant ape, with a voice that carried command.
"Next," Rael shouted, not even glancing at the datapad in his gloved hand. "Kieran Voss. Barrack Nine."
A tall cadet with rough black hair and pale eyes stepped forward. His body was lean, and well defined, built not just for power, but motion. He carried himself with the quiet confidence of someone used to surviving.
Kieran adjusted the steel ring on his wrist, an activation device. With a hiss of cold air, a pair of thin crescent-shaped blades [Moon Cyclones], extended along his forearms, spinning with subtle and silent hums.
"I'll keep it clean," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.
Instructor Rael clicked his fingers. The puppets activated.
Five units shot to life, their synthetic joints groaning as they surged forward. A blur of motion, each drone adjusted mid-run, tracking Kieran's biometric readout in real time. These were not mere dummies they learned, adapted, predicted.
The drones were mainly used for tracking and giving feedback to the nano array for the final evaluation.
Kieran didn't flinch. He launched forward with a step so fast it cracked the ground, twin Moon Cyclones carving silver arcs through the air. The first puppet swung a heavy right aimed for his head. He ducked low, twisted, and brought the cyclone blades up in a backward arc. Sparks exploded as steel met reinforced alloy. The puppet reeled.
The second came in from his flank, arms rotating into twin batons. Kieran stepped into the strike, shoulders low, then surged upward with a spinning elbow into its core, crushing its torso. He flipped backward to regain distance as the remaining three adapted spreading out, repositioning and working in tandem.
"Fast," Rael muttered under his breath.
Kieran feinted left, then slashed right, the Moon Cyclones flashing in a high-low cross that split a puppet's head unit from its frame. He rolled between the other two, reversed the grip on his weapons, and plunged both into the final units' central cores. The entire fight lasted under twenty seconds.
The puppets clattered to the ground in sync.
A moment of silence followed. Then Rael tapped his datapad.
"Combat score: 91.6. Improvised counter-rate: 84%. Lethality rating: blue-tier." He looked up. "You've trained outside the modules."
Kieran nodded, wiping sweat from his brow. "Family was militia. Western Borderlands."
Rael noded and simply moved on. "Next. Caleb Murn. Barrack Nine."
One by one, the other rookies stepped forward. Caleb, short and solidly built, relied on kinetic gauntlets, his strikes were slow, but brutal, snapping limbs clean off the dummies. Zane moved like smoke, thin and tall with a nervous edge, his knife-work relying on misdirection and speed. Cole fought with a brutal rhythm, fists and elbows honed like street brawls turned into martial form. Levi was the quietest, his weapon a mono-blade staff that extended and contracted mid-swing more defensive, but with a cold, assassin-like precision.
Each cadet left marks on the arena. None quite matched Kieran's flow, but they stood out in their own ways.
Then came Veyd the last to step forward before the final test. His presence alone quieted the murmurs. Tall and sharply featured, with a noble bearing that stood in contrast to the others' rugged stances, Veyd moved like he was born to the blade. His armor bore the crest of a minor Western house. His weapon was a sleek, thin longsword glowing faintly blue with an internal energy conduit—a [Voltfang] model, reserved for higher-rank dueling units.
When the puppets activated, Veyd didn't wait. His footwork was immaculate each step calculated, each strike laced with precision. The sword cut through joints and motors like water through paper. Where Kieran overwhelmed with adaptability and motion, Veyd danced with structured elegance, his tempo like an unbroken rhythm. Not one strike wasted. He ended the simulation in nearly the same time.
Rael's gaze flicked with rare acknowledgment. "Score: 91.3. Impressive and efficiency."
Then it was Luke's turn.
There were many reactions to his name being called anticipation, confusion, and even a few scoffs. Some cadets leaned forward, eyes narrowing with interest, while others exchanged looks that ranged from unimpressed to dismissive. A few tilted their heads, trying to remember if they'd even seen him train.
In the far corner, Veyd cracked his knuckles, a smirk showing at his lips not from malice, but from the quiet thrill of competition. He didn't view Luke as a rival, not yet, but there was something in the air that told him this wasn't just another formality.
Cole, always sharp-tongued, leaned toward Zane and muttered just loud enough to be heard, "You think he'll be as good as Veyd or Kieran?" His tone wasn't curious but sarcastic.
Zane didn't answer. He just watched, brow furrowed. "He's good, i have seen him train but i doubt he is as good."
Caleb scoffed audibly. "He's got no gear. No enhancements he doesn't use a correct stance either. This'll be quick."
Levi, from his place in the shadows, said nothing, but his gaze sharpened. He recognized something different not in Luke's weapons or form, but in his stillness. The kind of calm that didn't come from arrogance, but experience.
Even the instructors monitoring from the far console seemed to glance toward the arena with renewed focus.
There were no theatrics as the main character stepped forward. His file had no noble tags, no advanced gear. Just standard issued combat armor, a pulse-thread dagger and a calm expression. His presence didn't draw awe but it held weight.
When the drones activated, Luke didn't adopt a stance. He simply stood, daggers loose at his side, breathing calmly. The first three units converged in textbook flanking formation - left, right, center. Luke stood unwaved, then slid his left foot back half a step. Not a dodge but an inviation.
His dagger snapped with precise bursts disabling the legs, pinning limbs and cutting through the ocular cores. There was no raw strength, no showing off just smooth and precise moves that felt almost cold and identical. By baiting them into a trap he finished the fight with a sweeping arc that caught the final puppet mid-lunge and pinned it to the arena floor.
"Score: 89.9. Risky, but effective," Rael said, almost thoughtfully.
The cadets of Barrack Nine gathered again as the tests concluded. The results mattered little for now. Their next steps were already set—the Bio-Core injunction would be administered within the week. Whether they excelled in numbers or instinct meant nothing if they couldn't endure what came next.
Beyond the training yard, the announcement rang out across the speaker network:
"Next unit: Barrack Thirteen. Proceed to Sector C for initial simulation trials."
The group moved out. Their movment each carrying their own weight of expectation.
---
Upper Command Chamber— Western Front, Imperial Academy Core Tower
Behind tempered-glass windows overlooking the training fields below, two men stood.
The first was wrapped in ceremonial obsidian-black, a cape fastened with golden bands and a visor helm tucked under his arm with multiple stars High Martial Dain Veymar, the Butcher of Caltris and supreme overseer of the Western Front's elite programs. His frame was statuesque, every movement deliberate, the air around him sharp with the kind of authority that required no voice.
Beside him, dressed in silver-blue officer's armor and an old sword buckled to his side, stood Centurion Ramos di Nolan, former tribunal tactician and now liaison to internal security.
"They're holding up better than last year's batch," Ramos said, eyes scanning the latest scores on the display wall. "That Kieran one is natural reflex user. Veyd's from a minor noble house. And the spear boy, Luke… he doesn't fight like a soldier. He fights like someone who's calculating and precise, like every move is measured."
High Martial Dain Veymar didn't respond immediately. His eyes lingered on Luke's post-combat footage. "He's from City 17. The border breach zone."
"Ah. That explains it." Ramos paused. "And what of the Bishop?"
"Still under high level interogation." Dain Veymar turned, voice lower now. "The Tribunal deems him dangerous. But I don't trust them."
"He's a Rank 7, isn't he? A Flame Reader. They say he never accepted a Divine Ember."
"No," Dain said. "He uses something else. Liturgical resonance. The old kind. His abilities are... inconvenient."
Ramos glanced sideways. "You're worried he might be a liability?"
"Afraid you forget who I am," Dain said coldly. "We're fighting a war no one understands, handing unstable tech to children like it's salvation."
They both fell silent, staring out as the next group of cadets stepped into the test arena below unaware of the choices being made far above their heads.
This was the first meeting of Barrack 9 cadets.
Luke stepped forward first, offering a short introduction. "Luke. Scavenger from city 17."
Cole's laughter cut through the tension. "Scavenger? That is what we're calling gutter rats now?" He rolled his shoulders, showing the faded gang tattoos on his back. "Cole Rhys. Won my spot here by putting three Silver Talon enforcers in the ground." His smirk dared anyone to challenge the claim.
Zane's knife never stopped moving between his fingers. "Zane Ilros. Former city guard of city 27."
Levi's shadowed form barely moved from his corner. When he spoke, his voice carried a hint of machine. "Levi-7. Area 001."
Kieran leaned against a bunk, testing the edge of his Moon Cyclone with his thumb. "Kieran Voss. West Border Militia." A bead of blood welled where the blade bit flesh. "We don't have ranks there. Just survival."
All eyes turned to Veyd. The noble didn't bother looking up from polishing his Voltfang. The energy blade hummed as it passed over his silk handkerchief. "House Veyd. Fourth lineage." His smile showed perfect white teeth. "You may refer to me as 'sir.'"
Before any one can talk, the barracks' comm system crackled to life: "All Barrack 9 cadets report immediately to section 5. Non-compliance will be met with disciplinary measures." The message repeated twice, then added: "Cadet Seth has been reassigned."