The dawn light barely pierced the thick mist hovering over the training camp as an alarm blared, calling all soldiers to gather near the central assembly hall. The heavy boots of thousands stomped against the metallic ground, forming a chorus of tension and anticipation. A sea of 7,600 soldiers stood shoulder to shoulder, their eyes fixed ahead, waiting for the day's orders.
The same commander who had ignited patriotic fervor just the day before stepped forward again, his voice echoing across the grounds.
"Today," he declared, "you will be divided into sixty separate batches. Each of these batches will undergo a series of rigorous trials—trials designed to push your minds, bodies, and spirits to the edge."
Murmurs broke out in the crowd. The tension was thick enough to cut through.
"From each batch," the commander continued, "only six soldiers will rise as elites. These six will serve directly under one of the six ruling families. You will become symbols of strength, leadership, and loyalty."
He paused, his eyes scanning the crowd.
"Elites will be given the finest accommodations, the most luxurious clothes, and the richest food. But beware—luxury can be a poison. Never forget who you are. Never forget your place. You serve your captain and your mission."
The crowd stood in stunned silence. Luxury was a concept foreign to most of them. It sounded like a dream—but for Judas, it sounded like bait.
"Each batch will be overseen by an instructor, who will lead your training. That is all. Dismissed."
With mechanical precision, soldiers were sorted into their respective batches. Judas found himself assigned to Batch 16. He glanced around. The group consisted of 1,266 soldiers—men and women of varying builds, backgrounds, and expressions. Many looked excited, some indifferent, others nervous. Judas stood silently, his eyes dull yet sharp.
The batch was herded to the base camp. As they settled in, a broad-shouldered man with a scar stretching from his jaw to his temple approached Judas. The man's gaze was disdainful, and his lips curled into a sneer.
"Ha! Even kids get drafted now?" he laughed loudly, drawing the attention of those nearby. "Tell me, little boy, what pathetic family did you crawl out of that they're sending infants as their soldiers?"
Judas didn't flinch. "We're not supposed to reveal our affiliations," he said, his tone ice-cold.
"So the baby soldier can talk tough! Think you're something special just 'cause you put on a uniform early?" the man growled, grabbing Judas by the collar.
"Let me go," Judas warned.
The crowd laughed, but it died down quickly when Judas slammed his forehead into the man's nose with a sickening crunch. Blood spurted, and the soldier collapsed to the ground with a moan.
Gasps filled the air. The big man stumbled up, enraged, and swung a fist at Judas. Judas caught the punch mid-air and drove his knuckles into the man's ribs, then jaw, then stomach. Another soldier tried to ambush him from the side, but Judas twisted and delivered a punishing elbow.
A third lunged in, but Judas met him with a savage fury. One by one, soldiers fell around him. The crowd began to back away.
He had become a storm.
His breathing grew heavy, and a crazed laugh erupted from his throat.
"Anyone else want to fight?! Come on! Come at me!" he roared, eyes wild, blood dripping from his knuckles.
Then a new voice rang out. Calm but firm.
"I'm looking for a fight."
Judas turned to see a young man with stark white hair, tall and composed, stepping into the makeshift ring. Without warning, Judas swung. The white-haired soldier caught his fist with ease. He retaliated, but Judas caught his punch too. They locked eyes, unmoving, muscles tense.
Before the standoff could escalate, another voice thundered over the scene.
"Stop fighting!" a man shouted as he entered the base. He was imposing, with a hardened face and sharp glare. The soldiers immediately froze.
"I said, STOP!" he barked again.
Reluctantly, Judas and the white-haired soldier stepped back.
"I won't tolerate disorder in my batch," the instructor continued. "You want to kill each other? Do it when you're deployed. Not here. Not under my watch."
The soldiers stood still, chastised.
"For the next three months, you'll be trained to ride space warcraft, to fight in varying gravitational pulls, and to endure conditions unlike anything you've known. Your enemies won't show mercy, so neither will I."
He paused. "The six who meet my expectations will rise. The rest—will remain fodder."
He stared them down.
"My name is RadHawk. I am your instructor. Welcome to hell, Batch 16. Now, disperse."
The soldiers slowly exited the area. As Judas turned, RadHawk stopped him.
"Think you're a hero? You're nothing but a strong piece of trash. I've seen hundreds like you. You'll break eventually. And when you do, I'll be watching."
RadHawk turned and walked away.
Judas smiled—a sinister, satisfied grin.
"So you'll be watching me?" he murmured. "Good. Watch closely. Watch as I tear through everything you've built. Watch me trample this batch."
He let out a low laugh.
The fire inside him was far from extinguished.
It had only just begun to burn.