Julius Chadnovski — the second-in-command of the Roosevelt Fortress.
Half-augmented, with a side of his body still painfully human and the other rebuilt with old warsteel, Julius was a man of contradictions.
Unlike Arthur, who had long since become more machine than myth, Julius clung to both flesh and flaw.
Cain called him Uncle J — an odd kind of mentor who wore a suit like a con man but trained killers like a drill sergeant.
Uncle J taught him the birds and the bees, sure — but also acting, trade, accounting, gambling, stealing, and scamming.
That's right… Gambling, stealing, and scamming.
"You don't know the enemy — "
Julius would say it while rifling through his belongings — stealing everything, skimming through his personal information, even swiping the redeemable codes off their coupons.
Only to put it all back like nothing happened.
" — unless you saw what's in their pockets."
"I'd also recommend getting a holo-terminal. It would've saved you from all this trouble."
Julius taught him that battles weren't won by the strongest, but by the one who laid the scheme, struck with enough strength to pull it off, and played the crowd like an instrument.
It wasn't just theory or clever words — Julius made sure every lesson left a mark.
Strategy was engraved in with pressure, risk, and consequence.
Cain didn't learn how to think — he learned how to move, when to strike, and how to bleed without flinching.
His training wasn't solely with intellectuality — it was physical trial by fire.
High above the world, where clouds broke against metal and exhaust funneled into the stratosphere, Cain trained under the brutal watch of Julius.
Through the massive exhaust chambers of the four-kilometer-long Roosevelt Fortress, Julius tied the boy with nylon — weak and breakable
"Uncle J… This… This will not hold."
Cain said with a pleading voice, before unleashing a volley of rubber bullets from his automated training drones.
Cain dangled like a kite, twisting midair as rounds zipped past.
When the line broke — and it always did—
"Uncle help me…"
Cain needed to climb back up — no assistance and no sympathy.
Flight magic only lasted a few kilometers before full exhaustion set in — after that, it was bare fingers clawing through turbines and plating.
To survive, Cain turned to magic.
He began practicing Fortification and Solidification — basic spells publicly available, he never looked down on these spells.
"There's no such thing as mediocre. Even a twig can split the sea — in the hands of a true swordmaster, no?"
Reinforcing the nylon thread, bracing it with elemental rigidity.
"Haha! Uncle J! I can —"
Before Cain could finish, Julius caught on fast.
The old man changed tactics — shooting the rope mid-swing.
"You were what now, kid?! I didn't hear you."
He cupped a hand to his ear, then burst out laughing as the kid fell over.
Cain had to chase the fortress across the landscape before finally clinging to a stubborn stump of mud.
The next day was better. It only took him an hour to cling to the fortress this time. Just as he was about to sigh in relief, he heard a quiet sound.
"Hehe."
He tensed — but too late.
A paintball nailed him dead center on the forehead.
"Take care now, little Cain."
"Uncle J! You — "
This went on for three brutal months.
The day Cain finally solidified a thread of air — turning wind itself into a foothold.
Julius smirked and gave a pat on the shoulder.
But combat wasn't everything.
At age eleven, Cain faced the Global Primary Knowledge Exam — an entrance requirement for the school in the world.
The exam wasn't held in schools but in automated, sealed environments monitored by surveillance drones. Even a bug crawling nearby could void the session.
The subjects included calculus, vector math, and optimization theory. There were also physics modules on multi-force systems and applied mechanics, along with geopolitics focusing on military treaties, battlefield logistics, and cyber-warfare simulations.
He passed.
Not just passed — Cain placed in the top 0.1% globally.
A feat, yes — but it was just one of many requirements to earn a place in the Top Five Academies, where barely a tenth of the entrants ever reached the graduation stage.
"I hope I get to a school before I turned sixty."
With this credential, any career was open to him — as long as he was glib enough and sharp enough to survive the interviews.
But entry into the academies came with strict rules — only those under sixty were eligible.
Any older, and you were disqualified on the spot. Worse still, every failed attempt pushed you further down the ranks, placing you below those who passed on their first try.
It was a brutal system — unforgiving and merciless.
Cain stood before Arthur, heart still pounding from the rush of passing the exam. The old man, with a rare glimmer of pride, handed him a sleek, obsidian case.
Inside were two pistol devices — twin-etched, matte black with a faint, pulsing line of blue cutting through the center like a vein of raw magicules.
Arthur never believed in giving luxuries for free — everything had to be earned, and he never gifted anything extravagant.
Not out of coldness — but because on the battlefield, survival depended not on rarity but reliability.
The boy needed to master what he could find again, not worship artifacts too rare to replace.
These pistols were high-end in performance but utilitarian in design — firm in grip, lightweight in feel, and built for function over flair.
The true value lay in their core they could store up to twenty preloaded spells and maintain up to ten complete configurations.
Each slot could be switched via a rotating menu system, either digitally or through a tactile analog wheel etched beneath the trigger guard.
These were meant for instant response — zero casting time if preloaded properly.
Their frame could latch seamlessly into a long-barrel rifle chassis, making transitions between close and mid-range combat as fluid as breathing.
For Cain, this was more than a reward — he understood how good instant-cast slots were, especially ones powered by such stable cores.
Some spells were too expensive to cast freely in a pinch, draining reserves in seconds.
But here, he could store life-saving incantations — shields and heavy ammunitions without using without draining himself.
Twenty spells, if used right, could save him twenty times over. He felt grateful, not for the weapon itself, but for the lesson behind it.
Julius had added his own touch to the training.
He taught Cain how to exploit edge-case spell physics — like casting Weightless mid-fall to survive a drop, or using Airstream to change direction with the firearm device.
Sometimes, he only half-triggered a spell to fake a shot or use half the power.
Cain marveled at how these tricks weren't in any manual.
"Cain, my boy, these tricks aren't listed because the devices aren't made for idiots. If you're too dumb to figure them out, you're better off not using them at all."
Cain nodded, quietly taking mental notes of his uncle's tips.
He kept his mind open — these devices had quirks, and if he wanted to master them, he'd have to treat each one like a puzzle worth solving.