Casia's shoes were pure black rubber, specially designed to minimize footstep noise. Hidden within the soles were short blades, over ten centimeters long, made of composite materials instead of steel alloy, reducing weight without sacrificing lethality. The interior was soft and breathable, designed by experts for comfort. The uppers had been dulled to a matte finish, resembling fuzzy glass, avoiding any unwanted reflections.
His pants and jacket offered strong ballistic protection, though only enough to buffer impacts. White-gold powder bullets at close range could pierce through most materials unless one wore centimeters-thick steel plates. That's why the Blue Silver Bullets were designed—to counter these protections. A .12 caliber round could penetrate a twelve-centimeter steel plate at close range, leaving no defense effective against it.
The suit also featured excellent elasticity, enhancing blood circulation and muscular flexibility.
On his waist hung the rapier, shortened and without a hilt for easier transport during the mission. His perpetual calendar mechanical watch had been pre-programmed to monitor time and climate conditions continuously.
Casia loaded some bullets into the custom clip for his revolvers, arranging them for maximum accessibility. He also inspected his two .12-caliber revolvers, their surfaces still pristine and mottled gray-black, crafted specifically for Blue Silver Bullets.
Lastly, on the bed lay a crow-shaped mask, molded to Casia's sharp facial features, extending from forehead to chin. It filtered and purified the air, shielded against sand and cold winds, and concealed his face.
Standing before the bathroom mirror, Casia hardly recognized the transformed reflection. Three months ago, he had been a poor boy from a small town; now he was a soldier in form and spirit. The tight-fitting combat suit emphasized every contour, and his heart thrummed with excitement rather than anxiety, just as Borong had predicted.
Taking a deep breath to calm himself, Casia stepped out—and noticed a sheet of paper slowly emerging from the cracked wall. It read simply: Third Level Garage, Heavy Truck No. 256, with pickup times clearly listed, along with a warning that missing the designated time meant mission failure.
Outside his room, Atohwan waited by Ye Jielin's door. Selmer was absent—apparently, they weren't assigned to the same team.
"Atohwan, so fast. Which garage are you heading to?" Casia asked as Ye Jielin continued her preparations.
"The first-level garage. You?" Atohwan replied, leaning against the metal door.
"Third level… looks like meeting up isn't easy," Casia said, not expecting to be on the same team—he just wanted to greet him.
"Do you think Big Sister Lin will be on my team? My overall score is pretty high." Atohwan's tone carried hope.
"Maybe," Casia replied, unwilling to dash his friend's expectations. Given that some teams were assigned unique missions, elite students like Ye Jielin would likely be on solo assignments.
When Ye Jielin appeared, she waved her own sheet: it confirmed a solo mission. Atohwan cursed under his breath as they parted—he had been close to Ye Jielin since childhood.
The garage floor teemed with students, all carrying various weapons. The atmosphere was not grim anticipation but a strange, almost manic excitement. Casia realized Borong had been right: this wasn't disciplined focus—it was uncontrolled adrenaline overflow.
Few around them wore serious expressions. Only Ye Jielin's calm composure contrasted the chaotic energy.
"Remember, don't show off. Don't die," she said, her tone flat as she adjusted her gear. She carried a magazine-fed pistol and a short sword, her form outlined perfectly by her combat suit.
Casia headed to the third-level garage, where heavy trucks awaited. Each vehicle could transport large squads. Truck No. 256 had its lights on, reflecting sharply off the steel-plated ground. Two logistics personnel in uniform sat in the cabin.
"Just missing you! Get on quickly so we can depart!" one called, gesturing from the rear door.
Casia maneuvered along the side, slipping through the partially open steel doors into a compartment already occupied by twenty teammates. The interior was bare except for twenty fixed chairs, and the hiss of the steam engine filled the silence.
Casia took the last available seat, noting a bag containing his mission briefing and a specially prepared identity card.
"Has everyone read their instructions?" The voice echoed, swallowed by the steam engine. Casia quickly scanned his sheet.
Key points:
Mission: Capture the arms-smuggling merchant Nolidar, aka "Slick Head," alive or dead. He commanded over three hundred men and had undergone unregulated surgery himself.
Difficulty: Classified as Second Class Soldier rank. The academy ranks missions from Basic, then Soldier, Lieutenant, Captain, and General, each subdivided into three tiers (first being highest, third lowest).
Deadline: One and a half months.
Additional information outlined Nolidar's recent movements. Casia considered the challenge carefully. Facing Nolidar's heavily armed forces meant contending with a full firepower network. White-gold powder bullets, with speeds around 3,000 meters per second, could tear through bodies before the gunfire sound reached them. Only a surgical operative could reliably detect their trajectory.
"Since we're teammates, we should introduce ourselves," a confident voice suggested. "And we need to choose a leader to coordinate our actions."
Casia's stomach sank. The mission hadn't even begun, yet the first dilemma already loomed.