Sitting down at the metal cafeteria table, Graves smoothly exchanged pleasantries with the team. To his immense relief, his lingering anxiety about explaining his reckless actions quickly began to evaporate. The squad was in incredibly high spirits—especially Julius, who was firing off a steady stream of dry jokes that actually managed to be genuinely funny.
When their food arrived, Graves completely abandoned his table manners, ordering a massive portion and shoveling it down with ravenous speed. Even when Winter gently nudged his elbow, quietly telling him to stop rushing before he choked, he barely slowed his pace.
"So, are you actually feeling alright?" Apollo asked, his sharp eyes narrowing as he scrutinized Graves's posture.
"Yeah, I'm completely fine," Graves replied, swallowing a massive mouthful. "Just some residual body aches, but the military pain pills are doing their job. I'll be back to a hundred percent in no time." He offered them a reassuring smile, trying to project a silent wave of 'Guys, seriously, stop worrying about me.'
After his response, an abrupt, heavy silence settled over the table. The lighthearted atmosphere vanished in an instant.
"Alright, let's cut the crap," Julius spoke up, leaning forward. His usual playful smirk was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, penetrating gaze. "Why in the hell did you blindly engage those devils solo?"
To be completely honest, Graves could have sworn this was the absolute first time he had ever seen Julius look at him with such dead, unyielding seriousness.
Rubbing the bridge of his nose with the tips of his fingers and brushing his white hair, Graves let out a slow, heavy sigh. He had known this moment was inevitable. He had to give them an explanation, but he was walking a razor-thin tightrope. If he confessed the absolute truth—that he was a completely unawakened "no-talent" driven by raw, suicidal grief—he feared he would lose all control over their reactions. Worst-case scenario, they might feel obligated to report his biological condition to the higher ups. But if he refused to speak, the resulting wall of distrust would inevitably tear their bond apart.
This time around, Gamby didn't step in to rescue him. She sat quietly, her intense gaze proving she wanted answers just as badly as Apollo and Winter did.
"You see... I grew up in the harsh realities of the outskirts," Graves began, nodding his head slowly as he structured his words. "I've come into direct contact with devils more times than I can count. Honestly, anyone who survives the outskirts carries their own heavy share of profound trauma."
He paused, ensuring his voice remained steady before continuing. "Out there, we hunted minor devils for their meat and harvested their crystal cores just to trade for NHF coins and scraps. That was our everyday survival." Every single word he was saying was fundamentally true, but he was carefully arranging the facts to shield his deepest secret.
"So, you see... those Spider Devils were a distinct, common enemy to us. To the children of the outskirts, it was a mutual hunt—we hunted them, and they relentlessly hunted us. I've carried that bitter enmity with me all the way into the academy. But that wasn't the only reason I snapped when Winter described them." Graves lowered his eyes, his voice dropping an octave. "A massive horde of those exact same multi-armed devils completely annihilated my home sector. They slaughtered and destroyed everything in their wake. I was caught in the crossfire and barely managed to escape with my life, but I didn't get away unscathed. I still carry severe psychological trauma from that day."
He glanced up to gauge their expressions. Winter's face had completely softened, her eyes shimmering with profound pity. Apollo had leaned back in his chair, folding his massive arms across his chest; he was a man who respected a raw, gritty backstory. Julius looked momentarily worried, then amused, his handsome features shifting through a complex wheel of emotions. But it was Gamby who made him truly uncomfortable—she was offering him a warm, immensely proud smile. Graves shifted uneasily in his seat, unconsciously touching the top of his head to make sure her heavy hand wasn't about to drop down and mess up his hair.
"When Winter gave that description over the comms, everything just came rushing back," Graves concluded, cracking open a can of water and taking a long swig. "I completely lost control. I thought that if I could just kill one of them—or any number I could lay my hands on—maybe the crushing hatred inside me would finally lessen."
"Wow..." Winter spoke in a soft, awe-stricken whisper. "I completely understand why you ran now. It's incredibly tragic that people are still trapped out in the outskirts, brutally fighting for their lives every single day."
"And that is exactly why we have to do our absolute best to eliminate every last devil on this planet," Gamby added fiercely, slamming her fist onto the table.
"You do realize you can't realistically kill all the devils, right?" Julius countered with a smirk, before turning his gaze back to Graves. He shook his head in mock understanding. "Well, no wonder, roomie... that explains it. That brutal outskirt upbringing is clearly where you inherited your legendary ugliness from."
Graves gritted his teeth in irritation, which immediately triggered a loud, booming laugh from Gamby. Her violent amusement caused the entire metal table to vibrate, forcing several nearby cadets to turn their heads toward their group.
"Either way, we made it," Apollo spoke up, his eyes staring blankly at the ceiling as if reminiscing over their journey. "We passed the threshold. We are officially full-fledged soldiers now."
"Wait, there's no formal graduation ceremony?" Graves asked, raising an eyebrow in confusion.
"The high command canceled all formal ceremonies for this year's batch," Apollo replied. "We only performed the standard military oath and signed our official documentations."
"It all happened while you were trapped in your little coma, sleeping beauty," Julius teased. "So next time, don't do something incredibly reckless so you don't miss out on all the fun." Apollo offered a rare, genuine smile at the banter.
As the squad raised their cans to toast their survival and their official ascension into the military ranks, a wave of bittersweet wistfulness washed over Graves. He was not going to be a combatant. Because of his volatile actions in the eastern sector, he would never stand on the front lines as an assault soldier again. But as he thought deeply about it, a cold truth surfaced: if he had relied solely on the pathetic point score he accumulated during the exam, he probably wouldn't have even qualified for the medical team. The silver lining was undeniable—he wouldn't be stationed on the absolute front lines, constantly putting his fragile, unawakened life at extreme risk.
That wasn't to say the medical corps didn't face danger; medics routinely deployed into active hot zones. But there was a massive tactical difference. A devil driven by predatory intellect would always prioritize eliminating an immediate threat—a soldier actively discharging a high-caliber rifle—before targeting a medical personnel.
Well ofcourse not all devils had that intelligence.
Catching himself spinning deep into these thoughts, Graves looked up at the joyful faces of his friends. A strange, fleeting thought crossed his mind. He was finding a twisted sense of solace in not being part of their dangerous combat unit. Maybe I'm just being incredibly selfish, he thought with a quiet sigh, gulping down another long sip of his drink.
Suddenly, Gamby reached beneath the table and pulled out a sleek, rectangular metallic container that closely resembled a high-tech briefcase.
"And now, for the best part of graduation," she said, a wicked grin spreading across her face. She slid the case forward. "Graves, do you know what this is?"
Graves's eyes widened to the size of saucers. While every cadet had been extensively taught the theoretical logistics of advanced military hardware back in the academy, seeing the physical object in person hit completely differently.
It was a Soldier's Personal Combat Suitcase.
The advanced armor system functioned via a direct, localized genetic synchronization link with its designated user—which was the exact reason individuals without an opened Gene Lock were strictly banned from joining the military. To wage war against the apex devils, humanity couldn't rely solely on raw physical attributes. By combining the utilized alien tech with synchronized gene-fusing, a soldier could bind their biological signature to the armor, allowing the suitcase to deploy instantly upon detecting their unique genetic frequency.
Instructor Han had once humorously likened the technology to an ancient, pre-fallout piece of media from the old era called "Iron Man," where the main character's armored suit deployed directly out of a portable briefcase. Granted, the military's specialized suits were significantly lighter, lacking any sci-fi thrusters or built-in energy weaponry. Instead, they acted as a soldier's ultimate defensive shield—engineered to absorb devastating kinetic blows and safely dissipate raw thermal energy.
It was the exact same high-tech armor worn by the elite soldier who had saved Graves's life back in the outskirts all those years ago.