Another six months passed within the training facility. A year and a half had gone by since our training had begun, and now, our drills had evolved beyond endurance and survival. They had started teaching us proper close-quarters combat—offensive and defensive techniques designed for real combat. Up until now, we had relied on self-taught methods or whatever knowledge we had picked up before coming here.
We were also given basic instruction manuals detailing how to gather and store spiritual energy within our bodies—a fundamental requirement before we could begin training in the Knights.
I remembered being told that by the end of the third year—halfway through this brutal seven-year program—we would finally begin proper training in piloting a Knight. But only if we survived until then.
Three months ago, the training had taken another deadly leap in difficulty. Ninety children had been removed from the program—some after sustaining injuries too severe to continue, others after dying outright.
A sharp bell rang out through the facility, its chime cutting through the afternoon air. I stood in the training yard with a few others, having just finished a gruelling five-kilometre sprint.
"Hmm?" The instructor frowned. "There wasn't anything on the roster for today..."
His hesitation lasted only a second before his voice sharpened into command. "Cadets! Line up in rank!"
The twenty-three of us snapped into position. I stood at the back.
"Head toward the main hall!"
We moved without question, led by Rank-1 Cadet Samuel at the front. As we marched, hushed conversations flickered between the others.
"What do you think is happening?"
"Maybe they're giving us more stimulants."
"No way. They always tell us the day before."
It took only minutes to reach the hall. We were the last group to arrive and filed into formation, lining up third from the left.
Once everyone had gathered, the Major General stepped forward.
"Congratulations, cadets," he announced, his voice reverberating through the room. "The Empress has recognized your efforts and worth. As a result, she has decided to grant you all an opportunity to improve under the tutelage of some of the finest Knight pilots in the Empire!"
Twelve men and five women in formal military attire stepped forward onto the stage.
"After a private inspection conducted under the Empress's directive, it has been determined that Fallen Moon not only has the highest number of cadets among the ten training facilities but also some of the most promising. With her approval, and following my own petition, you will now train under senior Knight pilots until the selection of your personal Knight.
"The seventeen pilots behind me will call out your rank number. Once your number is called, step forward and follow them out of the room."
The Major General stepped back, and a woman moved forward to begin reciting numbers.
"Ranks three! Sixty-six! Thirteen! ..."
Major General's Perspective
It had been a surprise when I received the message on my phone—directly from the Empress's attendant—confirming her approval of my request.
The Empress was pleased with the facility's results. That much was clear. She had allowed me to bring in active-duty pilots to train the cadets directly.
Fallen Moon's guardsmen weren't among the top brass of the military, but they were formidable enough. Even so, I still didn't know how the inspectors had managed to infiltrate the facility to evaluate our progress without my knowledge.
Regardless, their conclusions were promising.
With real Knight pilots training the cadets for the next year and a half, we had a genuine chance of producing pilots on par with the elite Valkyrie forces. Perhaps even an Omega-ranked warrior.
The hierarchy of Knight pilots in the Nymphas Empire followed a strict ranking: Ordinary Knight, Tactical, Valkyrie, Omega, Seraphim, and finally, Constellation.
Right now, these kids were still unproven—merely Ordinary in rank because none of them had set foot inside a Knight. But in terms of raw skill and spiritual energy, they were already brushing Tactical-grade.
Perhaps, just perhaps, we could even produce a Seraphim.
Samuel, our Rank-1 cadet, had the highest potential. But Rank-23... there was a possibility there as well. A slim chance, but not impossible.
Being a combat Knight pilot made one a living weapon on the battlefield. But to go beyond that? That would be a gift to the Empire itself.
The last cadet had been assigned a pilot when I heard a throat clear beside me.
"Ahem, sir."
I turned, following the Colonel's pointed finger to the lone teenage girl standing at attention.
AKP-11,003. The only cadet left unchosen.
She stared at me with an expression caught somewhere between impatience and expectation.
"Right..." I exhaled sharply. I should've known this would happen.
The first thing you saw when opening AKP-11,003's file was one glaring phrase: Defective weapon.
Below that, a cold confirmation of her ranking—903rd placeout of a thousand from a year ago.
She had been enrolled in the Constellation Program, the branch reserved for experimental pilots. And in most cases, children placed in that category didn't last long. It made sense that none of the pilots wanted to waste their time on her.
Their rewards depended on their cadet's performance in the Knight Exam. What use was training a child who was expected to die?
Still... she wasn't that same defect anymore. If she was left untrained now, she'd be a wasted opportunity.
The Colonel spoke again. "What should we do with her, sir?"
I considered training her myself, but that would raise rumours of favouritism. And besides, my days as a pilot had long since ended.
"See if any of the pilots will reconsider. If not..." I exhaled. "Let her use her free time however she wishes. I'll work something out with the Empress's attendant."
"Understood, sir." The Colonel turned toward the girl. "Cadet 903, you are permitted to train privately or rest during this timeframe until further notice. Dismissed."
Without a word, she turned and left the hall, alone.
I sighed. "Try to prove her value using her recent training results, Colonel. Even if Zero-Three was once defective, just because something is broken does not mean it cannot be repaired."
***
Training alone in the field, I cycled between striking the combat dummy and pushing my body through weighted exercises. Monkey bars with fifteen kilograms strapped to my waist, push-ups with twenty on my back, jump squats burdened by twenty-five.
Each movement burned. Each rep was a battle.
I pivoted sharply and drove my knuckles into the spinning wooden dummy. The impact reverberated through my bones, and then—something new. A crackle of unseen force surged through my strike, and with an explosive crack, the top half of the dummy blasted off, splintering into the air before clattering to the ground.
I froze. My breath caught. Did anyone see that?
My eyes darted around, scanning the empty training yard. No one. Good.
When Cadet Rank-4 had shattered equipment for the first time, the instructors had torn into him in front of everyone. Self-control is necessary for a soldier. For a knight pilot, it is absolute.
I had been hammering at these dummies for months. They were built to last. And yet, here I was—having broken one.
This is what Rank-4 did, isn't it? How? I clenched my fists, feeling the raw sting in my knuckles. Was that spiritual energy? The others were already learning how to harness it properly, guided by the knight pilots. Meanwhile, I was left alone.
If I didn't do something soon, I would fall behind. And if I fell behind, everything would go back to the way it was a year ago.
The normal instructors were trying to help, but they were no substitutes for a real knight pilot. There were rumours that the Major-General himself had once been a knight, but he had long since retired. At most, he could offer old war stories, not direct training.
I exhaled sharply and turned back to the remains of the dummy.
"Cadet 903!"
A sharp bark jolted me from my thoughts. I snapped to attention, saluting as the instructor approached. His gaze flickered down to the wooden splinters and the bruises forming on my hands but didn't comment.
"Follow me, AKP," he ordered. "The Major-General has made a special request to the Empress for you."
I followed him through the Fallen Moon facility, passing by training halls where cadets were being drilled by their newly assigned knight mentors.
At last, we arrived at an office. The instructor pushed the door open, motioned me inside, then shut it behind me.
A man sat across from the Major-General, his posture relaxed, his presence anything but.
"Hello, Zero-Three," the Major-General greeted. "This is the first time we've met properly, yes?"
"Yes, sir." I saluted.
"Sit." He gestured to the empty chair beside the stranger. "Allow me to introduce you to your tutor until the end of your third year. He is here by special request of the Empress and is one of her closest allies."
I hesitated for a fraction of a second before stepping forward. As I approached, I tried to get a good look at the man's face.
I couldn't.
The closer I got, the more it blurred—static, like interference in a faulty signal. His features refused to take shape. All I could make out was the wide brim of a fine fedora, a leather coat draped over his shoulders, and the vest beneath it.
As I sat, the man lifted his head slightly. The static surged in my vision, distorting everything, drowning the room in white noise.
Time blurred.
I didn't remember much of the conversation that followed. I knew the Major-General had asked me something. Something about agreeing to be this man's student. I must have said yes.
Because now, I was walking beside him.
The next few minutes passed in a haze, my mind struggling to grasp the details. The Major-General had asked me something—something about agreeing to be this man's student. I couldn't recall my exact response, but I must have said yes.
Because now, this faceless man was walking beside me.
We moved through the halls in silence, the only sound our footsteps tapping against the cold metal flooring.
As we passed one of the indoor dojos, movement caught my eye. Inside, an invited guest pilot was training with one of the female AKPs. She was on the floor, thrown hard enough that I could hear the impact even from here.
"Nine..."
She turned her head sharply, catching sight of me. Her expression twisted into a snarl, a familiar hostility flashing across her face before I turned away and kept walking.
"Someone you know?" The stranger's voice was calm, but there was an unsettling certainty in it. As if he had seen the entire exchange without needing to look directly.
"Yes," I said simply. "She's my sister. Nine. We don't get along, despite both being AKPs."
"Hm." He gave a slow nod. "Sibling relationships are like that. I had two older brothers—respected one, hated the other. It was complicated. We weren't blood-related, but that didn't seem to matter in the end. The second eldest tried to kill me once. And I, in turn, tried to kill him."
His tone was disturbingly casual, as if he were recounting something as mundane as an old rivalry.
If he had told this to any normal child, I'm sure they would have reacted differently. But I wasn't normal. I was artificial. Created, not born. I had been beaten, discarded, and hunted by those meant to be my kin.
So I didn't flinch. Instead, for the first time in a long while, I felt something almost like understanding.
We arrived at the outdoor training field, the vast obstacle course stretching before us.
The faceless man—Traveler—walked to a nearby platform and lowered himself onto it with a quiet grace. Then, turning to me, he asked,
"So, what do you call yourself?"
"AKP-11,003 is my designation," I answered without hesitation. "Everyone calls me Zero-Three after I placed 903 in the skill rankings."
"That's what others call you," he said evenly. "I'm asking what you named yourself. Or what you'd like to name yourself."
I hesitated. "You... are?" I asked instead, thrown off by the way he had phrased it.
He nodded slightly. "I'm artificial. Just like you."
That revelation caught me off guard. None of the invited knight pilots were artificial—at least, as far as I had known. But now that I thought about it, I couldn't actually tell what he was underneath that static-covered face.
"I've been nagged by old friends that it's insensitive to refer to each other by serial numbers," he continued. "Mine is K-011-OS. Yours is AKP-11,003. We could use those—call you Zero-Three, call me K-Eleven—but that dehumanizes you. So, I'll ask differently. What do you want to name yourself?"
I opened my mouth, then closed it. Thoughts floated briefly through my mind, but I couldn't quite grasp any of them. Instead, another question spilled out:
"Why are you... helping me?" I searched his obscured face for an answer I couldn't see. "You've read my file. You know more about me than I do. So why treat me differently? I'm just something that can be recycled."
Traveler tilted his head slightly, the brim of his fedora casting a deeper shadow over where his eyes should have been.
Then, he spoke.
"How cute."
I stiffened. "Wha—"
"I'm helping you because I was asked to, and it helps pass the time," he said with an almost lazy amusement. "And also... I have a soft spot for things that are broken."
I didn't know how to respond to that.
He sighed as if he found my silence predictable. "Most people call me by my title. Some call me Leviathan, others Homunculus. But those close to me? They use the nickname I made for myself." His voice softened slightly. "There's power in choosing a name. Try to think of something that mesmerizes you."
I let his words settle.
Then, slowly, I let my thoughts clear.
A memory surfaced.
A firefly.
A single firefly in a cave. Its delicate glow, small yet unwavering, breaking through the endless dark. I had stared at it for so long, mesmerized by the way it refused to be swallowed by the shadows around it.
Traveler hummed, as if he had sensed the moment I had found my answer. "Seems like you've thought of something. Care to share?"
I raised my head, a rare smile crossing my face.
"Firefly," I said. "Please call me Firefly."