The door had barely closed behind Vice-Principal Jason when the room exploded.
Recruits scrambled toward the wall monitors, talking over each other, fists pounding against benches.
Nobody could sit still.
A junior instructor stepped through the side entrance carrying a metal briefcase. He set it on the front table and pressed his thumb against the biometric lock.
CLICK!
The case opened then revealed ten identical black tablets. Each screen glowed with a red folder marked: OPERATION DUSK FALL.
"Every recruit in this room takes one tablet," the instructor said. His voice was void of any emotion. He spoke in a way a military normally would.
"The mission briefing is pre-loaded. You have exactly sixty seconds to read it before auto-encryption activates."
Micah grabbed the nearest tablet with his good hand. His injured shoulder ached severely, but he ignored it.
He tapped the folder.
The screen filled with text and a single rotating 3D image.
[MISSION: OPERATION DUSK FALL]
[CLASSIFICATION: S-RANK RESTRICTED]
[Primary Target: Malakor — Designated Low-Tier Demonic Mutant.]
[Last Known Location: Abandoned urban ruins, Sector 7, outer perimeter.]
[Threat Assessment: Awakened Soldier-class physical strength. Human-level intelligence. Extreme feral aggression. Approach with lethal force only.]
[Reward: Top-performing recruit receives exclusive access to Advanced Flux Manuals.]
Micah read it twice. Then one more time.
’Awakened Soldier-class,’ he thought. His countenance dropped.
He was just a basic Soldier, which was the absolute bottom of the ladder. An Awakened Soldier was two full tiers above him.
Fighting something like that wasn’t dangerous. It was a funeral waiting to happen.
He looked around the room.
Dexter was reading his tablet with so much enthusiasm. He read as fast as he could with a serious face.
Myra stood beside him without any form of expression on her face. Yet, she read between the lines, catching the deeper meaning hidden behind some of his words.
The other recruits murmured amongst themselves, trading nervous glances.
Then the instructor spoke again.
"Your target, Malakor, is not a beast." He paused, allowing the weight of what he said sink in. "He was once human."
The room became as silent as a graveyard.
"Fourteen months ago, Malakor was a decorated Vanguard operative. During a classified field operation in Sector 7, his genetic structure was violently corrupted by residual apocalyptic contamination in the environment."
The instructor clicked a button on his collar. A holographic image came to life above the table.
The creature might have been a man once. It was hard to tell. Its skin was grey and cracked, pulled tight over muscles that seemed too large for its body. Its fingers had stretched into long, pale claws, and its jaw had split down the middle. When it opened its mouth, rows of crooked teeth filled the darkness inside.
It had a grey skin that was covered with bulging muscles that seemed somehow larger that its body. It had long fingers, claws and a split down the middle of its jaw. You could see its crooked teeth whenever it opened its mouth.
But its eyes were the worst part. They were still human!
"Demonic mutants retain full human-level cunning and tactical intellect," the instructor continued. "They can set traps. They can coordinate attacks. They can think, plan, and adapt. But they possess the raw physical power and feral aggression of the most dangerous high-tier mutated beasts."
He clicked the image off.
"Working together in a synchronized tactical formation is the only logical way to bring one down. Solo engagement is strongly discouraged."
The room broke into chaos.
Recruits immediately started grouping up. Everyone shouted proposals and began desperate negotiations.
"Dexter! You and me, obviously. We’re the top two. We take point."
"Myra, I need a scout. Your tracking skills are elite. Join my squad."
"I’ve got forty-two percent Flux Unlock. Who here can match that?"
Micah stood perfectly still against the wall while he simply watched.
Dexter turned to Myra with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
"We should co-lead the primary strike team," Dexter said without stuttering. He held out his hand like he was offering a business deal.
"My power, your precision. We combine our strengths, nobody else even comes close."
Myra studied his face for a long, uncomfortable moment. Then she took his hand.
"Acceptable," she said. It was just a word, but it was heavy.
Within minutes, the remaining eight recruits had formed three squads.
Nobody looked at Micah. Not even once.
A tall recruit named Daemon walked past him, glanced at his bloodstained bandage, and actually laughed.
"Don’t bleed on the mission brief, prick," Daemon muttered loud enough for everyone to hear.
Two recruits behind him snickered but Micah said nothing. His expression didn’t even change.
He only watched them cluster together, drawing routes on their tablets, assigning roles, dividing loot they hadn’t even earned yet. Their voices were loud and confident. They were completely full of themselves.
’Even if someone offered to team up with me, I wouldn’t take it,’ Micah thought but he meant it.
These people just hated him. It was as if they even wanted him gone. If they could drag him along, he’d be used as bait at best or abandoned at worst.
’I’m doing this alone.’
Nobody noticed Micah slip toward the door.
He moved quietly, pressing his back against the wall, sliding past two recruits who were too busy arguing over weapon assignments to look his way.
His boots made no sound on the metal floor.
He reached the door. Opened it just enough to slide his body through and then closed it behind him without a sound.
The hallway outside was empty and for the first time since waking up in that arena, he could actually breathe.
He had one week before the ranking tournament.
Just one week to get stronger. Strong enough to survive Dexter or even worse in a ring. He had to be strong enough to hold his first-place rank.
The abandoned ruins outside the academy walls were infested with mutant beasts. Low-tier, Mid-tier. Some things even worse.
Micah turned left and headed toward the academy’s logistics bay.
The bay was located in the eastern wing. It was a huge warehouse filled with standard military supplies. Two bored quartermasters staffed the front counter, one picking at his teeth with a wooden splinter while the other flipped through a dirty magazine.
Micah pushed through the double doors. Rows of metal shelves stretched from wall to wall, packed with supply crates, field rations, and basic equipment. The fluorescent lights overhead buzzed like dying insects.
He grabbed a grey tactical backpack from the nearest shelf and started loading it.
Two water canteens. Four packs of dried military rations that tasted very salty. A roll of bandages. A small bottle of antiseptic. A fire starter kit. A short combat knife with a serrated edge.
The knife wasn’t much. It was about six-inches with cheap leather handle. But it was lighter than the rusted broadsword from the arena, and in tight spaces between collapsed buildings, speed mattered more than reach.
He also grabbed a thin grey hooded jacket from a rack near the back. It was two sizes too big, but it would cover his bloodstained uniform and bandaged shoulder without drawing attention.
He slung the pack over his good shoulder and headed for the exit.
"Hey! Hello ohhh!!"
Micah stopped.
The female quartermaster looked up from her magazine. Her eyes were half-lidded with boredom, but there was a flicker of suspicion underneath.
"Where do you think you’re going with that gear, recruit?"
"Field training exercise," Micah replied. His voice was laced with sarcasm. He raised his good arm to elbow level and gave a dismissive gesture, his face practically saying, Isn’t that obvious? Only, he was lying.
The woman stared at him. Her eyes then dropped to his bandaged shoulder, then lingered there for a second. Finally, it came back to his face.
"Field training? With a busted shoulder? Who authorized this?"
"Vice-Principal Jason."
She shrugged one shoulder and went back to her magazine. The name carried so much weight that she couldn’t even protest further.
"Sign the logbook on your way out."
Micah scribbled a barely legible signature in the worn logbook, pushed through the double doors, and walked straight toward the academy’s eastern perimeter.
The sun was setting. Guards patrolled the perimeter in pairs. Their boots struck the pavement in predictable rhythms.
His predecessor’s memories surfaced again. The eastern fence had a section behind the old generator building where the concrete foundation had cracked, creating a gap just wide enough for a slim recruit to squeeze through.
The fence above it was supposed to be electrified, but the power cell had been dead for three months. Nobody had bothered to fix it.
Typical academy maintenance.
He waited until the nearest patrol pair rounded the corner, counted to fifteen, then moved.
He was quick, quiet and he stayed low to the ground.
He slid through the gap.
"ARGHHH!"
A fresh pain started as the rough concrete scraped against his injured shoulder and the restraints holding him. Fresh blood warmed his skin beneath the wrapping, but he gritted his teeth and kept moving.
Three minutes later, Micah was standing outside the walls.