The afternoon sun cast long amber streaks across the cobblestone road that wound through a quiet rural town. Along that sun-dappled path marched three young men, their polished boots clicking in near-perfect rhythm. Each proudly wore the blue, gold, and white uniform of the nation's supplementary military corps, a program designed for upper-year students of the prestigious Vertices Academies scattered across the country.
These were not just ordinary students; they were on the cusp of graduation, the final year of their rigorous training marked by real-world assignments. Their very presence turned the sleepy village into a stage for something larger.
The way they walked—backs straight, shoulders squared, eyes fixed ahead—betrayed more than simple pride. The determined expressions etched into their youthful faces suggested purpose, a silent proclamation: We have a mission. The question lingering in the warm afternoon air was, What mission could bring them here?
Locals, caught mid-task or on their way to afternoon errands, slowed to watch. The townsfolk were simple, their routines rarely interrupted by anything beyond the seasonal festivals or an unexpected storm. Whispers rippled among them as the uniformed visitors passed.
"I guess it's that time of year again," muttered the fish seller at the front of the market. His hands—broad, weather-worn, and dusted with salt—gripped a hefty cleaver. On the wooden table before him lay a freshly decapitated cod, its silver scales catching the light like tiny mirrors.
He raised the cleaver and brought it down with a practiced motion, the blade splitting the fish with a wet, decisive thunk. The sound carried across the small market, punctuating his words.
A woman standing nearby, a basket of vegetables slung over her arm, tilted her head toward him. "Wait a minute. If they're roaming the town already instead of being with the local forces for a few days… that means that event is about to happen soon, doesn't it?"
"Looks to be the case," the butcher replied gruffly, wiping his hands on a stained apron.
"Do you think we'll be lucky again this year? I mean, we haven't had an incident in—how many years now?" She asked, her voice edged with unease.
"It's been six years, no seven since we last had anyone affected by the wave so we've been lucky so far. Hopefully it continues like this for as long as possible," offered another woman who stood on the other side of the fish stall. She clutched a small purse tightly, as though the conversation itself carried weight. She, too, was here to buy fish for her family's dinner but now seemed caught up in memories she'd rather leave buried.
"That long ago, huh—" The first woman's comment was abruptly cut off by another heavy thud of the cleaver splitting a different fish. The sound was sharper this time, echoing like a warning.
"You ladies are right," the butcher said, his tone cooling to a dangerous calm. He didn't look up from his work as he spoke, the blade flashing under the sunlight. "But I think you're focusing on the wrong event."
"We are?" The two women spoke almost in unison, their contemplative faces turning toward him.
The butcher exhaled slowly, then lifted his gaze. His eyes, usually steady and indifferent, now held a faint shadow. "If we have a repeat of seven years ago then I'd still consider us lucky but a stroke of bad luck would be what happened twelve years ago"
At his words, a sudden heaviness fell over the stall. The bustling sounds of the market—the murmur of bargaining voices, the clinking of coins, even the distant call of a crow—seemed to dim around them. The two women's faces drained of color as grim recognition set in. Their shoulders stiffened as though an old wound had been reopened.
"Yes… that," whispered the second woman. Her voice trembled, each syllable fragile.
"That was such a dark time for the entire town," the first woman said quietly. "Jasmine, I think her name was, was loved by everyone. A very brilliant girl who we all believed would have a very bright future… only for it to be cut short when she turned sixteen. And it's all thanks to her being a Foc—"
A sudden, distant chatter shattered the heavy silence, pulling all three at the fish stall from their dark reminiscence. Heads turned instinctively toward the sounds. Down the main road, where the cobblestones narrowed between two rows of aging timbered houses, a commotion was stirring.
The three visitors from the supplementary military corps—who until then had been striding with effortless confidence—had stopped, their formation disrupted. A young villager had stumbled directly into them.
"Sorry about that!" a voice called, breathless and high with nervousness.
Xander, the tallest of the uniformed trio and clearly their unofficial leader, staggered half a step back. The impact wasn't enough to move someone of his build, but his pride flared hotter than any bruise could. His gloved hand flew to his chest as if checking for damage that wasn't there.
"What's the big idea, huh?!" he barked, his voice echoing sharply off the stone façades.
The boy he'd collided with—a wiry, sixteen-year-old with messy jet-black hair and striking bluish-grey eyes— flinched but quickly recovered. A strip of white cloth was tied across the lower half of his face, leaving only his eyes and tousled hair visible. He straightened, bowing his head slightly.
"I—I'm so sorry, sir," the boy stammered, brushing at Xander's pristine uniform with one hand, a gesture meant to show respect but which only aggravated the officer. "I wasn't watching where I was going. I hope I didn't hurt you with that bump."
"Get your hand off me—" Xander's snarl cut through the air. His fingers twitched toward the boy's wrist, ready to shove him away, but in that instant, something—perhaps pride, perhaps suspicion—halted him. His brow furrowed as he glanced down at the scrawny youth.
A slow, scornful grin replaced the scowl. "Hurt me? You think that measly bump from such a frail body could so much as *scratch* me?" he sneered, his voice dripping disdain.
The boy gave a small, nervous laugh. "I guess you're right. Forget I said what I did. If we're done here, can I have my hand back? I was hurrying home—still am, actually." His tone carried a subtle eagerness, a suggestion that he wanted this encounter over as quickly as possible.
Xander's comrade on his left, Samuel, cocked his head, his amber eyes narrowing. Something about the boy's appearance had caught his attention. "What's with the rag on your face? And why's there dirt on the nose area?"
Marcel, the third member of their group, furrowed his brow, echoing Samuel's curiosity with a silent, skeptical glance.
"Oh, this?" the boy said, gesturing vaguely at the cloth. "It's… uh… I guess you could call it something that helps with a breathing problem I have." His words sounded rehearsed but unconvincing. "If that clears things up, can I be on my—woah!"
Marcel had reached toward the cloth, fingers poised to tug it aside, but the boy reacted with startling quickness. In a single fluid motion, he leaned backward, the breeze catching the lower edge of the cloth so that it fluttered briefly. Marcel's fingers grasped only empty air.
Marcel blinked, genuinely impressed despite himself. "That's some quick reflex."
Samuel nodded slowly, intrigued. "Yeah… I was watching his eyes. He didn't even notice your hand until the last second, but somehow he still managed to dodge fast enough to keep from being touched and his face hidden."
The boy chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his head. "I wouldn't call my reflexes that fast. Just got startled, that's all. Anyway, could you let me go now? I really do have to go home and look after my sick… umm, cat. Yes, my cat. She's all alone at home, sick and needs my care right now."
Xander's jaw tightened, irritation still flickering in his expression. But the low murmur of townspeople watching from a distance reached his ears. A handful of villagers had stopped to observe, their curious whispers threading through the warm afternoon air. Xander felt the weight of their stares pressing on him—outsiders from the military couldn't afford to look like bullies on their first day in town.
With a sharp huff, he clicked his tongue and rolled his eyes. "Whatever," he muttered, releasing his grip on the boy's wrist. "Just watch where you're going next time."
"Thanks for the advice," the boy said with a small salute, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a hidden smile beneath the cloth.
"Alright then. Get out of here," Xander ordered.
The boy nodded once, turned, and began walking away at a measured pace. But after covering several paces, his stride subtly lengthened, doubling in speed once he was sure their eyes might drift elsewhere.
For a moment, Xander watched him go, then dismissed the thought with a small shake of his head. He turned back to Samuel and Marco, and the trio resumed their previous hushed conversation.
"Even if we find the replacement," Samuel whispered, keeping his tone discreet, "do you really think she'll cooperate? If she doesn't, then the four years we spent getting here will be wasted—and who knows what that'll mean for the future?"
Xander's lips curled into a confident half-smile. "Don't worry. We just have to trust that she continues to act as naïve as she's been so far."
Marcel exhaled slowly, tension threading through his voice. "Good thing we ran into that brat when we did. If not for him, I don't know how we'd have gotten out of this mess. The chieftain wouldn't have let things rest until someone was blamed."
Xander let out a light chuckle. "All it took was a simple trade and—" He stopped abruptly, his expression tightening.
"What is it?" Marcel asked, catching the shift in Xander's demeanor.
"Yeah, Xander. What's wrong?" Samuel's eyes darted toward his friend's uniform, noting the way Xander's hands patted at his waist.
"It's my carrier," Xander said, his tone low but edged with anger. "I can't find it."
Samuel stiffened. "You can't find your what?"
"Did you drop it somewhere? Or leave it back at the lodge?" Marcel asked, scanning Xander's belt line and jacket.
Xander's glare snapped toward them. "Do you two fools think I, of all people, would be that careless?"
In that instant, both young men realized he was right—Xander was meticulous, not the type to misplace something so important.
"Then where could it be?" Samuel whispered. "It's not like it just leapt off your buckle and walked away."
A beat of silence hung in the air before Xander's eyes widened. The memory of the boy's collision—and his desperate attempt to leave—flashed in his mind like a spark of lightning.
"That bastard!" Xander hissed. "He pickpocketed my carrier!"
"The brat with the rag on his face?" Marcel asked, spinning to look down the road. "How did he manag that under all our noses?"
"It's those quick reflexes of his" Samuel commented.
Xander's glare fixed on the retreating figure now only a distant blur. "Sick cat my ass. That bastard is a thief!"
"Hey, brat!" Xander roared, his voice cutting through the market like a blade.
The boy halted, turning his head slightly. For a heartbeat, his bluish-grey eyes met Xander's furious stare. Then he sighed, almost theatrically.
"Well," the boy muttered to himself, "guess I better bolt."
In the next instant, he launched into a sprint, his feet hammering the cobblestones.
Xander's anger flared hotter. "This bastard thinks he can run away? He's dead when I catch him!" he growled, and without hesitation, he sprinted after him.
Samuel and Marcel exchanged a quick, knowing glance—one that conveyed equal parts exasperation and resolve—before breaking into a run themselves, their boots pounding the road as they joined the chase.
The boy darted through narrow alleys and twisted backstreets, weaving between hanging laundry and stacked crates. The trio kept pace, but as the chase dragged on, they realized something unsettling: the distance between them wasn't shrinking.
"How is he so fast?" Marcel panted, his stamina as steady as when they started running.
"I know," Samuel replied, his breath quick. "It's absurd to think that he's able to keep us at a constant distance even though none of us have formed a spectrum yet."
"Forget how fast he is," Xander snapped. "He can't hold that speed for long. We can outlast him."
Ahead, the boy rounded a corner and ducked behind a row of houses. Just as he shot towards a modest wooden door a few meters ahead, it creaked open, and a young woman stepped out carrying a bucket of foamy water.
Remaining by the doorway, she tipped the bucket, sending an arc of white suds spilling across the path.
Hearing fast incoming footsteps she cocked her head to the left and her eyes widened in shock as she spotted the running boy hurtling toward her, the water forming a shimmering barrier in his path while she was safe standing at the corner
In the split second before getting drenched, the boy's gaze flicked across the environment, calculating. Maintaining his momentum, he dove low, tucking his chin and throwing his hands forward to break his landing. He rolled—not once but twice—beneath the falling water, a seamless series of barrel rolls that carried him clear of the splash. Then, springing back to his feet, he continued sprinting without losing stride.
As he rolled, however, the cloth slipped free from his face, fluttering to the ground and staying there.
The girl's eyes followed his athletic movement, and when his face was revealed, she gasped. Her breath caught in her throat as recognition struck.
"Orion?" she whispered, blinking rapidly in disbelief.