The transport hissed to a halt before a monolithic gate of grey steel. Beyond it lay the Academy of the Rising Sun. It wasn't a campus of sprawling green lawns and ancient architecture; it was a fortress, a Brutalist scar of concrete and reinforced plasteel carved into the side of a mountain. Its purpose was not education in the traditional sense. It was to forge weapons from flesh and bone.
Lucian stepped out of the transport and into a new world. The air was clean, crisp, and cold, a stark contrast to the thick, chemical-laced smog of the Outskirts. He was herded with two dozen other new arrivals—Sleepers—into a vast processing hall. There were hundreds of them, all teenagers, their faces a mixture of awe, terror, and desperate hope. He saw the stark difference between those from the inner city, with their clean clothes and confident postures, and the handful like him, from the fringes, with their wary eyes and worn-out expressions.
He was stripped of his ragged clothes, given a sterile grey uniform, a number, and put through a battery of physical and psychological tests. He performed adequately, pushing his body to its limits but never revealing the true, cold intelligence that lay behind his eyes. He was just another piece of data, another potential casualty. It was best to remain unremarkable for now.
His new home was a long, sterile dormitory lined with fifty identical bunks. He was assigned one at the far end, a small, private space in a room filled with nervous chatter. He ignored it all, his focus singular.
The routine was grueling and monotonous. Wake-up call was at 0500 hours, followed by a brutal physical conditioning drill that left his muscles screaming. Meals were served in a massive, noisy mess hall—bland, grey nutrient paste that tasted like chalk but provided all the energy a growing body needed. Afternoons were spent in lecture halls, where stern-faced instructors detailed the horrors of the Dream Realm. They were shown grainy images of Nightmare Creatures—Carapace Scavengers, Tyrant Brutes, Soul Eaters—and taught basic survival theory.
For most, it was terrifying. For Lucian, it was confirmation. Everything he knew from the novel was real.
The true test began in the combat halls. The instructor was a scarred veteran named Master Tahan, an Awakened whose left arm was a prosthetic of gleaming chrome. He was a harsh, unforgiving teacher.
"You are here because you are infected," Tahan barked at the room of novices on their first day. "You are lambs being prepared for the slaughter. Our job is to give you teeth. Most of you will still die. But some of you… some of you might learn to bite back."
Their first lesson was with a simple wooden quarterstaff. Lucian, whose only real combat experience was desperate brawling in the alleys of the Outskirts, was clumsy. His body was weak, his movements unrefined. He was knocked down again and again by larger, stronger students during drills.
But he never stayed down. Each time he was struck, he learned. He felt the ache in his muscles, the sting of the splintered wood against his skin, and he committed it to memory. He focused on Tahan's instruction, breaking down the movements, the stances, the balance. While others grunted and flailed, relying on brute strength, Lucian focused on efficiency. He practiced long after the official training sessions ended, his muscles trembling with exhaustion in the empty hall, until his hands were raw and his uniform was soaked with sweat.
That night, lying in his bunk, he stared at the metal ceiling, feeling the deep, satisfying ache in his bones. This was real. This was progress. For the first time in his life, he wasn't just surviving. He was building himself into a weapon. The Nightmare was coming, a dark cloud on the horizon, but for the first time, he felt he might be able to forge a blade sharp enough to face it.