Tarrin woke to a sharp bolt of pain stabbing through his side, his head pounding with the dull weight of last night's drinks. A groan slipped out before he could stop it.
'Bloody hell. Had to run my mouth, didn't I?' The memory of Celith's face in that final moment came rushing back, and with it, a deep, simmering regret.
He reached over and tapped his Telcom. 4:12 AM. Five hours of sleep. Not nearly enough—but it would have to do.
With a reluctant sigh, he slid out of bed, moving carefully. Too much noise and his lovely roommates would start chucking whatever was within arm's reach.
After a quick, cold shower that did little to shake the fog in his skull, he suited up in his uniform, cinching it tight with methodical fingers.
The corridor outside was quiet, the station still asleep. Perfect.
He made his way to the public training grounds, the air crisp and biting. His breath came out in soft puffs as he crossed the lot. No one else in sight. Just the way he liked it.
Grabbing a training blade from the rack, he stepped into position. His stance settled. Muscles remembered. And then—motion.
A smooth arc, then another. Again and again, body falling into rhythm.
The next hour passed in silence, save for the hiss of his blade through the air and the quiet strain of breath.
By the end, sweat clung to his back, his arms hung limp and heavy, and his lungs burned. But he kept going until his body refused to obey.
He didn't need strength today, anyway. Not real strength. Today wasn't about the physical.
Today, they'd be diving into illusion.
When he finally returned to the usual meeting point, the group was already gathered—alert, unusually early, and very much staring at him.
Riko raised an eyebrow, arms folded. "Where you been? Don't tell me you're cheating on us."
Tarrin gave a tired grin, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. "Yeah," he said. "With the training grounds."
Riko clicked his tongue. "Harsh."
Tarrin just shrugged and leaned against the wall, letting the burn in his muscles settle.
Tarrin felt the weight of a stare and turned, expecting Felix. Instead, he locked eyes with Celith—pale, silent, and visibly exhausted.
She looked like she hadn't slept a minute.
'Am I really worth losing sleep over?' he thought, a bitter taste forming at the back of his throat.
He approached casually, schooling his features into something light. "Hey."
No response. Just that same unreadable stare. Like she was still trying to figure out whether what happened last night had been real—or just another dream she regretted having.
Tarrin scratched the back of his neck, a familiar gesture of discomfort. "About yesterday…"
Celith cut him off. "Don't. It's fine." Her voice was softer than usual, but steady. "I'm sorry for coming down so hard on you. My life's been a parade of liars trying to marry into my family's name. You hit a nerve."
A strange tug echoed in his chest—unwelcome, too sharp to ignore—but he shoved it down like he always did. "It's alright," he said with a shrug. "If I were you, I'd probably be twice as paranoid."
There was a moment of silence, not quite comfortable, but not hostile either.
"Anyway," he added, clearing his throat, "you know what we're doing today? I heard something about illusions?"
Celith studied him a second longer, then gave a slight nod. "Simulated battlefield. Newest model they've got. Even lets you use your Gift—assuming they scan it first."
Her voice remained steady, but her fingers tightened briefly on the edge of her sleeve, a small crack in her usual calm.
Tarrin's eyes lit up. "Fancy tech," he said, grinning. "Sounds like fun."
Before she could reply, a familiar presence rolled in like a stormcloud.
Tarrin didn't even have to turn. He felt it—the way the air seemed to sharpen, the slight tingle of pressure across his neck.
Then came the shine—blinding off a bald dome that could guide ships home in a fog.
Vincent.
Same scowl. Same silent judgment.
'Some things never change,' Tarrin thought.
The man spoke without preamble. "Listen up. Got something juicy for you today. Line up. Move."
No insults. No threats. Just efficient irritation.
Tarrin gave Celith one last glance, caught the subtle shift in her eyes, then turned and made his way to the front of the line. She followed a step behind, silent as ever.
The route was different this time—longer, winding away from the familiar training fields and into the military sector proper. Real grounds. Restricted territory.
The kind of place they usually weren't allowed to breathe near without someone barking orders.
After a thirty-five-minute march across paved roads and under watchful turrets, they reached it: a sleek, cold-looking building clad in reinforced alloy.
It gleamed like it had something to prove.
'That's some high-grade metal. Whatever's inside better be worth drooling over.'
Tarrin glanced over his shoulder at the others. Most looked curious.
A few looked nervous. His own pulse was starting to pick up—but not from fear. If Celith was right about what was coming, then today might actually be fun.
Really fun.
At the front, Vincent approached a small pillar beside the door. Without a word, he scanned his eye, his hand, then swiped a black military ID across the panel.
A soft beep. The door slid open with a whisper. No creak. No hiss. Just silent, seamless luxury.
Tarrin stepped in first—and immediately locked eyes with a scowling guard who looked like he'd already filed three complaints about his existence.
'Alright, no need to glare like I walked in here carrying a ticking briefcase. What am I, Scarlet Creed[1]?'
Behind him, footsteps echoed in. Vincent's voice followed, clipped and dry.
"Step inside. And be very fucking careful what you touch. You break anything, you're in debt till your great-grandkids die of old age."
A few cadets actually gulped.
Tarrin just rolled his shoulders and moved forward, already bracing himself for another machine to crawl into his brain.
Last time it nearly flatlined him for ten seconds—but hey, maybe this one came with a warranty.
Vincent waved toward the array of pods lining the far wall—sleek metal coffins, each humming faintly with dormant power.
"This is the newest NeoPhant system," he said. "Each pod costs more than a house. Over a million Lunars apiece. You break it, you breathe debt."
Tarrin whistled low under his breath, eyeing the pods like they were venomous.
'Over a milli each? Damn. These things better not try to eat me alive… though by the looks of them, I wouldn't bet on it.'
He stared at the nearest pod—dark, sleek, and ominously open. It looked like it was waiting for him.
And he had every intention of stepping in.
Vincent didn't miss a beat. "Each take a seat in an open pod, and act like fucking adults. I don't want to hear a damn peep today."
Tarrin didn't wait for a second opinion. He dropped into the nearest pod with the energy of a kid handed a birthday gift, eyes flicking across the interior like it might unfold into a hidden weapon vault.
Across the room, Vincent's voice boomed. "Okay. Everyone's in. Starting in five."
Tarrin's heart thudded in his chest. Anticipation coiled in his gut, sharp and eager. He was ready to feel it again—that climb, that surge of something more.
The pod hissed shut.
Darkness swallowed him.
Then, blue text flickered into view across his vision:
"Activate the full extent of your Gift. No reservations. Full output is required for accurate calibration."
Tarrin obeyed.
First, the charisma—the charm woven into his bones. He found it easily, the familiar place in his mind where it flowed like silk. He reached for it.
Nothing.
He felt it rise, only to slam against a barrier. Suppressed before it even touched the air.
'Alright. That's... actually kind of impressive.'
Next came the dread. The pulse of fear that sat deeper, colder.
Same result.
And then—the third one.
Tarrin inhaled slowly. This one still unnerved him. He focused, not just on the power, but on the intent. The command. One word. One target. The will to shape response.
He imagined someone in front of him, imagined the obedience, the stillness—and said it.
"Stop."
Nothing.
He exhaled through his nose, calm. 'Okay. First try, whatever.'
Again. "Stop."
Again. "Stop."
Again.
Again.
"Last thirty seconds." The blue text returned, sharper now, like a countdown etched in warning.
Tarrin's eyes narrowed.
"Stop."
"Stop. Stop. Fucking stop!"
3
2
1
"F—" he barely got the word out before the system yanked his consciousness loose.
And the darkness morphed into color.
The frustration from failing to activate his Gift evaporated the moment Tarrin lifted his head.
He was no longer in the pod.
He was in the center of an army.
All around him—heads. Packed shoulder to shoulder, thousands of soldiers filled the field, an ocean of bodies stretching beyond sight.
Breathing, shifting, bracing. A tide of flesh and steel.
'Wait... they just dropped us into a charge?'
He turned in place, scanning the mass of people sprinting forward with no formation, no discipline, no cover. Just raw momentum and chaos.
'What the hell is this tactic? Hope we trample them with sheer confusion?'
Then the sound came—not through his ears, but through the soles of his feet.
A low, rhythmic thunder that rattled up his bones.
Tarrin leaned forward, peering between helms and shoulders until he saw it.
At first, it looked like a moving house.
Then it moved again, and his brain caught up.
Not a house. A Scarbane.
Massive. Ten meters at least. Its skin like twisted armor, limbs too long, spine bent in places that defied human anatomy.
It lumbered across the battlefield like a walking fortress, every step shaking the ground.
And then—his eyes drifted past it.
They landed on what followed behind.
And Tarrin's blood turned to ice.
[1] A respected church of the past, currently labeled as a domestic terrorist organization within Luna. Often associated with the bombing of the Lunar Palace.