The heat was oppressive, the sun sinking toward the horizon, its fiery light glaring off the endless sand sea.
The students squinted as the sand-laden wind blew. Each of them clutched their weapons and jumped down from the heavy truck. The logistics personnel from the academy remained silent, leading the students into the small, sun-scorched, dilapidated station. A thick layer of sand had accumulated inside, burying the legs of the few remaining wooden tables.
The wood was cracked, iron fastenings rusted, and the surfaces coated with fine dust. As Casia and the others followed the two staff inside, the dust stirred, filling the quiet interior. Everything inside the station felt like sand itself: dry, brittle, lifeless. Empty glass cups were filled with fine particles, and water bottles had long since dried through the gaps in their lids.
The station resembled a bar more than a functioning building. Faded paint murals clung to the walls, peeling and fragmented from decades of desert dryness.
The logistics personnel approached cabinets filled with cups and clay jars. Brushing away the sand covering the lower panels, they revealed the doors underneath. Inside lay long-neglected steel shovels, unoxidized and uninfested, though still radiating the heat of the desert they had endured.
"Time to work! Time to work!" one staff member shouted, dragging a large bundle of shovels outside. They moved toward a rusted, sand-buried iron box-like building nearby.
"Dig. Your first task is to acquire basic desert supplies; without them, completing the mission will be near impossible," the staff explained, shoveling sand away while gesturing for the twenty students to follow. "This is your starting point. How you execute the mission from here is up to you. Even with surgery enhancements, surviving the desert sun reaching seventy to eighty degrees in this gear without becoming jerky meat is a tall order."
"This is a small, abandoned military supply station. According to records, some desert survival supplies remain inside." Sand whipped into small whirlwinds at the entrance, the day-to-night temperature swing creating gusts trapped by the station's walls. Only a few students wore protective masks; preparation and interpretation of the mission varied individually.
The sand, airborne like a fine gray haze, persisted long into the night. Small mounds obscured the metal doors until finally, under the starry sky, the team unearthed them.
Mechanical watches now indicated ten o'clock.
Inside the metal doors, the air was lifeless and dry, the temperature plummeting to minus five degrees. The desert's cold and desiccation hit their throats. From the unseen yellow horizon came occasional wolf howls, a reminder of the desert's untamed dangers.
Stone steps led to a short corridor descending to a subterranean storage room, partially covered with sand. The staff, wielding strong lights, walked ahead. At the corridor's end, the underground storage opened into a spacious chamber.
Inserting access cards, the machinery groaned like aged bones, gears squealing as power returned to the dormant facility. Ceiling mercury lamps flickered to life, the stored electricity animating the room after long neglect.
Casia and the students finally took in the storage room's modest size. The logistics staff only tended to water and steam lines, replenishing the heavy truck's systems. The base had been sited above a subterranean desert river, ensuring water and steam sources in this parched land.
"The supplies you need are in those corner iron boxes. Make your preparations; time is short," one staff member reminded, before departing with the hoses.
The boxes were tightly sealed, the final remnants of a forsaken supply point welded shut.
"I'll handle it," Gustin said, stepping forward. Opening the boxes would not only secure the supplies but assert authority for forming sub-teams.
With precise footwork and controlled strength, Gustin's short sword struck the iron boxes. Sparks flew as the blade scored the metal. Within moments, the boxes were pried open, the sword still gleaming, without signs of wear—testament to both craftsmanship and Gustin's skill. Casia observed silently, noting the effectiveness of high-ranking students.
Inside were water bags, sand masks, backpacks, sun-protective clothing, tents, compasses, miniature thermometers, detailed maps, high-top boots of various sizes, ropes… enough for twenty people with supplies to spare.
The team quietly chose items suited to themselves, adjusting their outfits as needed.
Time passed swiftly. By night, the temperature had dropped to minus fifteen degrees. Sand rolled across the desert under the wind, producing a soft murmuring like countless tiny footsteps.
The truck's systems restored, the logistics staff started the vehicle, giving a final warning: "Depart early. Don't reach the Gren Oasis zone under the full moon; it will be a headache. Good luck!" Then they vanished into the blowing sand, lights fading.
The team now faced the desert alone. No food had been given, and all preparation was in their hands.
Opening the maps, they saw only sand as far as the eye could see. A twisting river of blue divided the desert, with a crescent-shaped inland lake at its center, dotted with greenery—the Gren Oasis marked clearly.
Their starting point, the abandoned station, was numbered 7734. Estimating the distance using the map scale, the journey was over three thousand kilometers, with thirteen days remaining until the full moon night. In unison, they silently marked this in their minds.