The children's muscles burned, sweat slicked their skin, and breath came in ragged gasps as the final moments of physical training ended. The drills had been ruthless—relentless in their intensity. For a brief thirty minutes, the children were allowed to rest. Some slumped against the cold walls, barely able to stand. Others sat silently, wiping the sweat from their brows, unwilling to show weakness.
But the moment was fleeting.
Harsh voices shattered the fragile calm. Guards stormed down the hall, shouting,
"Assemble! Classroom time!"
No one dared resist. The memory of what happened to those who disobeyed was still fresh—broken bodies, harsh punishments, and whispered screams. Even the strongest barely managed to steady their legs. Many could hardly walk after the ruthless training, but none wanted to witness the consequences of defiance.
AB-774's legs trembled beneath him; he barely managed to stand. The guards were brutal—one shoved him roughly from behind, another kicked his ankle, forcing him forward. Pain and exhaustion weighed heavily on him, but there was no mercy here. No one dared to speak or protest as they were herded toward the classroom.
The researchers, watching silently, felt no excitement. AB-774 had been touted as the anomaly, the sleeping storm. Yet today was just his first full rotation under standard protocol. Very few children awakened their full potential this early—O-Class and R-Class sometimes flared in their first month, but those were rare anomalies. To the staff, AB was a file in a long archive of hopeful data.
Inside the classroom, silence reigned. The walls were cold steel, unyielding, like everything else in Karnell. No child dared to speak as Marla entered, her fiery red hair a striking flame against the lifeless gray around her. Four guards flanked her, as always. She did not greet them.
Instead, her voice cracked across the room.
"Today we learn geography."
She stood still, arms behind her back. Her tone was cold, mechanical, yet under it burned something personal—pride, perhaps. Contempt.
"There are four great powers on Earth. The Stella Empire stands supreme. We rule the northern regions, led by His Majesty Arkanos Stellare III—visionary, conqueror, god of progress.
"To the west lies the Majin Empire."** She paused, her lip curling. "Their artillery and airships rival ours in scale, but they wallow in myth. Rumors linger that the Mozia bloodline—their royal house—traces back to a union with a girl from Elemor. Some say her child bore the mark of sorcerers. But no signs of magic ever surfaced. Mere superstition. No evidence."
A silence followed. Y-906, seated in the second row, turned slightly. Her ocean-blue eyes—clear and cutting—locked onto Marla for a moment. Unreadable.
"In the center lies Bohia. A neutral land, democratic in name. It borders all three major powers and claims to serve peace. They pride themselves on their medicine, their academies. His Majesty studied there in his youth. It gave him wisdom—and showed him the rot behind their smiles."
Then her voice dropped, colder than steel.
"And to the south, Uran. A republic ruled by fear. Orman Crest claims to be elected, but power there is held by force, not will."
She stepped forward, eyes scanning them like data points.
"Geography is not about land. It's about power. Control the map, and you control the future."
The lesson ended. No applause, no dismissal. Just the chime of a bell. Two hours of free time began.
Children dispersed like exhausted shadows. Some stumbled to the sparring areas, where fists met flesh in silence. Others huddled in corners, sharing fragments of food or quiet talk. But in each chamber, nestled beside the training rooms and dorms, stood a forgotten relic: the library.
Few children entered. Most saw no purpose in paper.
AB-774 moved without hesitation.
The library was dim and still. Four wooden shelves—cracked with age—held perhaps eighty books. Most were over two centuries old, their pages brittle, spines worn. He passed a book on elemental physics, another on military logistics. One title caught his eye: What is Beneath the Heart.
He took it. Sat on the cold floor. Opened the pages.
The book spoke of illusions—those we project to others, but more dangerously, the ones we build within. It drew from ancient wars, forgotten monarchs, deceived lovers. It argued that the first lie we learn is the one we tell ourselves.
AB read silently.
He had never touched a book before. The chambers taught him to read, to speak, to calculate—but this was different. These were not lessons with tests. These were questions with no answers.
Outside, echoes of sparring and laughter lingered faintly. Inside, the words on the page gripped him.
He felt no emotion. No spark. But something in him—something beneath the surface—latched onto a phrase and did not let go.
"The first lie we learn is the one we tell ourselves."
He didn't know why it mattered. But it did.
He closed the book gently.
And when the bell rang and he returned to his room, that phrase—quiet and unfinished—stayed with him, like a thread caught on the edge of a blade.