The bus hissed as it rolled to a stop beneath the shadow of the Processing Tower. No announcement. No welcome. Just the groan of brakes and a dry voice over the intercom: "Welcome to Vireon Academy." Asher blinked against the sunlight as the doors folded open. Wind scraped against the glass. The air felt sharper here—less dust, more pressure. Vireon Academy loomed ahead: spires of stone and steel knifing up from the desert, banners fluttering red and gold across cables overhead. Gun turrets tracked their arrival. Not decoration. Real. Alive.
"Grab your bag," Ryvak muttered. "Heads up." He wasn't kidding. They were told to carry their uniforms and duffels overhead as they disembarked. Standard protocol, no shouting. No barked orders. Just silence and procedure. That made it worse somehow. Like they weren't even worth yelling at. The Processing Tower stood like a severed finger—black stone polished smooth, no windows, only one slit-cut archway lined with sensors. A mural crowned the entrance. A forgotten god etched in white, holding a serpent at bay with a spear of light. The serpent's eyes shimmered. Asher noticed it first he nudged Ryvak and motioned to the mural. Ryvak whispered, "That thing gives me the creeps." They didn't stop. The line moved.
Inside: two paths. Nobles peeled off toward the upper levels. Marble floors, glass walls, soft lighting. The rest of them were funneled downward—sub-levels of metal staircases and reinforced bulkheads. Down they went, boots ringing on steel, until they hit Sub-Level Two. The door slammed behind them. Open bay. Like prison. No partitions. Just sixty bunks, thirty rows. Bare concrete. Rows of flickering bulbs. One mirror. One sink. Zero privacy. Beds had numbers, not names. Footlockers were already labeled. Asher dropped his bag onto the bottom bunk of row twelve. Ryvak groaned and fell onto the bed beside it. "This feels like a prison." Asher didn't respond. He glanced out the narrow window at the entrance arch. The mural was still there. But the god's arm… was it lower now? He looked again. Couldn't tell.
Lights snapped on at 0430. Cold and fast. The overhead bulbs buzzed like angry wasps. Air was damp and sharp. Every kid in the bay flinched or groaned. Then came the boots—slow, echoing. Sgt. Nix didn't shout. He just stood in the doorway with arms crossed, half his face scarred like dried wax. His voice scraped through the stillness. "Outside," he said. "Now." They filed out through the tower's rear door. The air hit colder this time, biting the sweat from their necks. Fog rolled low across the stone courtyard. Five open cages waited in a half circle. Steel bars, pitted with rust. Dried blood crusted at the hinges. The dirt inside was packed hard, uneven, and stained deep in places.
Nix pointed. "Everyone pick a pair of gloves. No weapons. No powers. Hand-to-hand. Winners march first. Losers carry stretchers." They didn't cheer. No one even spoke. You could hear the thud of heartbeats if you listened hard enough. Asher's gloves didn't fit right. Too stiff. Too clean. He flexed his fingers anyway. He was paired against a tall kid with arms like fence posts and eyes that didn't blink. The kid grinned like he already saw Asher bleeding. The cage shut with a heavy clang. Ryvak clapped once from the side. "You got this!" The fight started fast. The kid charged like a drunk bull. Asher moved like a memory—sidestep, pivot, drop low. A feint to the left, a sweep at the ankle, then a knee to the chest. The impact thudded. Wind left the kid's lungs in a wheeze. Asher rose as his opponent hit the dirt, coughing and stunned.
Ryvak's match was chaos. The kid across from him looked ten times meaner but half as balanced. Ryvak ducked, squealed, swung wild. He took a jab to the jaw, stumbled, spun—and landed a lucky uppercut. Then a knee, accidental or not, landed square in the groin. The boy dropped like a broken puppet. Ryvak wiped his nose and grinned. "Told you. Born for this." "You're a menace," Asher said. "I'm alive," Ryvak replied. Some kids didn't stand back up. A few bled from the mouth. One girl's arm bent wrong. Medics came—gray jackets, hard eyes. They moved quiet, like janitors. Loaded stretchers. Didn't look anyone in the eye. Nix didn't say a word. He just turned. "March."
The Dining Facility (DFAC) smelled like metal and reheated starch. Rows of steel benches. Steam rising off plastic trays. Soldiers with tasers watched from each corner. Asher picked at something that looked like eggs but smelled like rot. It didn't taste good—but he ate it like it was a gift. Not because it was hot. Not because it was filling. But because it was free. Real. Not scavenged. Not stolen. It was his. He didn't smile. But he ate slow. Intent. Every bite a reminder: he wasn't hungry anymore. Ryvak wolfed his down like it was a feast. "I think I cracked a rib, but damn this hits." Across the hall, nobles sat behind glass partitions. Their food looked real. Fresh fruit. Clean water. Soft bread. One laughed. Asher glanced up at the mural beyond the glass. Same god. Same serpent. But the spear was chipped now. And the serpent's head? Closer. "Didn't that look different yesterday?" he asked. Ryvak chewed. "What?" "Never mind."
They were marched from DFAC to the Grand Hall. A wide auditorium lit by braziers and etched with old Empire symbols. Statues lined the walls—Void creatures frozen mid-roar. At the far end, a raised dais stood beneath a banner of black and crimson. There, a single figure waited.
The Arbiter.
Oryn Vireon. Cloaked in steel-gray robes, his face half-shadowed beneath a high collar. No medals. No weapons. Just presence. When he spoke, it was without amplification, yet every voice fell silent.
"Welcome to Vireon Academy," he said. "I am Arbiter Vireon. I oversee this institution. I am not your commander. I am not your judge. I am the wall between your ignorance and extinction."
He stepped aside and motioned to the three figures behind him. "The Houses will speak. Listen well. They will not repeat themselves."
Three figures stepped onto the stage. Warden Malvek Durn stepped forward first. "House Vetrax," he growled, voice like sand grinding metal. "We are the fire-takers. The ones who strike first, bleed first, die last. Our symbol is the eagle diving through flame. We don't wait for orders. We move." A pause. Heavy boots echoed as he turned. "We were the first House formed when the Academy was carved from the ruins. Built by soldiers who survived the first Rift storm and refused to kneel. You want glory? Take it. You want rank? Earn it. But fail—and we leave you behind."
Next came Warden Vei. "House Solvaris," she said, voice like cold glass. "Our emblem is the coiled serpent, wrapped around the scroll. We value precision, knowledge, and control. Most of you will never belong." She stepped closer, eyes scanning the room like she already knew who'd betray her. "House Solvaris was founded by the Emperor himself. He chose scholars, tacticians, and medics from across the fallen nations—those who could think when others only fought. We are the mind of the Empire. We don't waste motion. We don't waste minds." Last came Warden Korr. He didn't walk. He limped. "House Drifter," he muttered. "Yeah. That's us. A dying rose strangled in barbed wire. Not poetic—just accurate." He scratched his beard and pointed lazily at the back row. "We're the throwaways. The ones who don't fit. Failed nobility. Criminals. Farmers. Ghosts. And you know what? We survive." A pause. Then he smiled. "Started when a few failures refused to die. Hid under the floors when the beasts came. Took them apart piece by piece with broken tools and stolen shards. We learned one truth: no one's coming to save you."
The wardens bowed and stepped back as the Arbiter—Oryn Vireon—took center stage once more. His presence quieted the room. He continued without pause, voice low and deliberate. He told the story of the Rift War. How, eighty years ago, the Void opened and bled monsters into the world. How entire continents were swallowed by rifts that cracked the sky and boiled the oceans. How the Emperor emerged from the chaos—not as a politician, but as a warlord—and forged the last alliance of mankind. He built the first strongholds, cities carved from ruin, walls powered by shard-energy. Fortress Vireon became the southernmost of them all, the final shield between the human race and what still creeps across the redline.
Then the rules: No killing. No sabotaging other students work. Everything you do is for the survival of the human race. Four trials would determine your House: Physical aptitude. Mental compatibility. Tactical simulation. Mutation stability. They begin tomorrow. The Arbiter raised a hand. "Each trial strips you bare. You are not your family name. You are not your past rank. What remains is who you are."
Back in the bay, night settled cold. Kids snored, coughed, whispered. Asher sat up in bed and looked out the narrow window. The mural. The god was gone. Only the serpent remained. Its eyes glowed faint red. And this time, he was sure—it was looking back.