Jet didn't linger. She never did.
The door of the black G-Wagon shut with a dull, final thud, a sound that felt uncomfortably like a coffin lid closing. The engine hummed, a low-frequency vibration that rattled Zain's teeth, and then—it was gone.
No farewell. No "good luck." Just the smell of ionized exhaust and the sudden, heavy weight of absence.
Zain watched the taillights vanish, his hands buried deep in his pockets.
"Abandoned already," he murmured, his voice airy. "And here I thought we had something special. I'm wounded, Sunny. Deeply."
Sunny didn't respond. His eyes were already fixed on the massive, fortress-like structure ahead. He looked like a man expecting an ambush.
"Focus," Sunny said shortly.
The Intake
A crowd had gathered near the primary reinforced gates. It was a sea of young faces, all of them wearing the same haunted, restless expression. They were the survivors—the ones who hadn't died screaming in their sleep during the First Nightmare.
At the front stood the instructors. Even from a distance, the difference was visceral. They didn't need uniforms; they carried authority in their soul. Their presence was heavy, sharp, and suffocating—the unmistakable weight of high-ranking Awakened.
One of them stepped forward. He was a mountain of a man, his face bisected by a jagged scar. When he spoke, his voice didn't just carry; it cut.
"Line up."
There was no debate. The teenagers moved instinctively, driven by a primal fear. Zain joined the back of the line, his movements deliberately, provocatively slow.
"Authority issues," he whispered to himself.
"You're going to get noticed," Sunny hissed from beside him.
Zain's smile widened. "I'm counting on it."
The Sermon of Shadows
The scarred instructor's gaze swept over them like a searchlight.
"You're here because you survived your First Nightmare," he began. "That doesn't make you strong. It makes you lucky. In the Dream Realm, luck is a currency that runs out. This Academy is the forge. We are here to see if there is steel in you, or if you are merely glass waiting to shatter."
Zain tilted his head, looking unimpressed. "He's a riot. I bet he's great at parties."
The instructor continued. "The curriculum is divided into three pillars. You will choose your specialization today. Choose wrong, and you are dead before the first expedition."
The Selection
They were ushered into the heart of the facility—a brutalist dream of cold steel and glowing terminal screens. The "Opportunities" were laid out with clinical precision:
Combat Theory & Practical Application: Mastery of weapons, Aspect integration, and tactical execution.
Wilderness Survival: Flora/fauna identification, essence management, and the art of not being eaten in the wild.
Support & Logistics: Healing, memory maintenance, and strategic coordination.
Zain moved past the Support kiosks without a second glance. "The 'stay alive while others do the interesting part' category. How charmingly dull."
Sunny was reading the descriptions with obsessive intensity. "You need something balanced, Zain. Something that fits your Aspect."
Zain stopped. He turned, his shadow stretching long across the sterile floor. "And what exactly do you think my Aspect fits, Sunny?"
Sunny hesitated. "Something... complicated. Dangerous."
"That's the nicest way anyone's ever called me problematic," Zain laughed.
He stepped up to a terminal. His fingers danced across the glass.
Main Focus: Combat (Advanced CQC & Aggressive Tactics)
Secondary Focus: Wilderness Survival (Extreme Environments)
The system chimed. [Selections Locked. Path: Vanguard.]
Sunny stared at the screen. "You picked the two most gruelling tracks. The mortality rate for those classes is double the others."
"I didn't come here to breathe," Zain said, his voice dropping an octave. "I want to see who breaks first—the Academy, or me."
The Welcome Party
A chime sounded. Assignments confirmed.
"So," Zain said, rolling his shoulders. "When does the training actually—"
The lights didn't just flicker; they died.
In the sudden, absolute darkness, the air didn't just grow cold—it grew heavy with the intent to kill. There was no warning bell, no "begin" command. Only the sudden, rhythmic clack-clack-clack of combat boots hitting the metal floor at high speed.
Thwip.
A blunt training projectile whistled past Zain's ear, shattering a screen behind him. From the shadows of the rafters, dark figures—senior students or perhaps combat droids—descended like spiders.
"Ambush!" someone screamed, but the cry was cut short by the sound of a heavy blow to the solar plexus.
The room erupted into controlled, professional chaos. This wasn't a riot; it was a culling. The "Combat" students were being singled out immediately. Two figures cloaked in tactical weave blurred toward Zain, their movements fluid and inhumanly fast.
Sunny dropped into a low crouch, fading toward the edge of the room. "I told you!"
Zain didn't retreat. As the first attacker swung a weighted baton aimed at his temple, Zain's eyes didn't just light up—they sparked with a manic, hungry brilliance.
He ducked the swing by a hair's breadth, the wind of the strike whistling over his head. Instead of backing away, he stepped into the attacker's reach, his hand snaking out to grab the assailant's wrist.
A quiet, delighted smile spread across his face in the dark.
"Now this," Zain whispered, his voice trembling with genuine excitement. "This is exactly what I paid for."