It wasn't only Pash who was transported for training.
Each member of the squad was sent to their respective grounds—where they will hone their craft while awaiting for the final exercise.
Unlike Pash, whose journey began in desolation and survival, the others had already crossed that threshold. They were teens seasoned by fire and purpose, warriors already steeped in the Force.
Each of them had long been told their fate. And so they trained, fervently and relentlessly, sharpening their arts, refining their will, becoming the very embodiment of the abilities bestowed upon them.
---
Country Alpha — Alpine Rejoin
Military Headquarters
Country Alpha stood proud as the foremost among the twenty-six new nations—a bastion of steel and discipline. It was the first wall against the Scryvians' inevitable invasion, a land where war had become culture, and every citizen bore the mark of service.
The land itself was stark and silent, blanketed by endless snow that reflected the pallid light of a gray sky. Within this frozen dominion,In one of the base's buildings a single flicker disturbed the stillness—air rippling like a mirage before stabilizing into human form.
A woman materialized in the center of a stark room.
She was tall, her posture unyielding, her presence commanding. A fiery aura emanated faintly around her, dancing like golden embers against the sterile walls. Her crimson hair shimmered in the artificial light, framing a face of sharp, deliberate beauty—cheekbones high, eyes cool and distant. Her build spoke of discipline: a body sculpted through years of rigorous training, strong yet impossibly graceful.
She looked every bit the warrior princess she was—but her expression remained stoic, her eyes unreadable, her features locked in that same sternness that made lesser soldiers avert their gaze.
(Though, truth be told, that very severity had a strange allure. Some men called it a flaw. Others found in it a dangerous kind of fascination.)
"I thought as much," she said quietly, her tone steady as she glanced around the sterile chamber.
Her gaze flicked toward the door just as it slid open with a mechanical hiss.
A man stepped through.
He wore a military uniform unlike any other—crimson-trimmed and adorned with golden insignias. His hair, once as red as flame, had dulled to a deep, seasoned copper. Long strands fell to his shoulders, framing a face both battle-hardened and dignified. A neatly groomed mustache lent him an old-world nobility, and his eyes burned with the restrained fire of command.
Upon his chest rested an emblem that no other dared to wear—one reserved solely for the Military Supreme himself.
Kyros Helion.
The first among men.
The number one ranked person on Earth.
The room seemed to hold its breath as his boots echoed—
Thud.
Thud.
He stopped a few paces away.
The woman—Hellea Helion—bowed immediately, her movements sharp and precise. Kyros gave a curt nod in return, his face composed but his aura immense, heat radiating from him like a controlled inferno.
"I know you might be surprised to find yourself here," he said, voice calm but carrying the weight of command. "But I made a deal with him—that I would be the one to train you. No one understands our fire better than I do."
The air seemed to hum around him, his words heavy yet laced with something deeper—something paternal, almost sorrowful.
"I see you look different," he continued, eyes scanning her intently. "Have you been able to fully awaken it?"
"No, Father," Hellea answered, her voice steady, head bowed. Her tone was respectful, formal—addressing him not as family but as a superior officer.
Kyros's jaw tightened. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then he sighed, the sound roughened by years of battles both external and internal.
"Hellea…" he murmured, his voice softer now. "It's been so long since we spoke. Since that day. Don't you want to talk to me?"
His eyes—those eyes that once glowed like molten amber—dimmed with a sorrow few ever saw. There was longing there. Regret. A father's quiet ache.
"I'm sorry, Father," she replied, her tone unwavering. "But I believe I was sent here to train. Please… train me."
Still she did not meet his eyes.
Kyros studied her for a long moment, then gave a slow nod. "I understand," he said quietly. "You may proceed to the training ground. I'll join you soon."
"Yes, sir."
She turned crisply and walked away, leaving behind the faint scent of lavender and jasmine in her wake.
When the door sealed shut again, Kyros exhaled a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His shoulders slumped ever so slightly.
"I wish you were here, Sarah," he muttered under his breath. "I don't know what I've done."
His gaze lingered on the spot where his daughter had stood before he turned and walked out, the air distorting faintly from the residual warmth of his power.
---
Training Ground: Frost Arena
Whoosh!
Boom!
Bang!
The sound of destruction echoed across the icy plains of the Alpha Rejoin's northern arena. Here, amidst mountains of frost and snow, the Helions clashed—not as father and daughter, but as master and apprentice.
They fought bare-handed—no weapons, no armor, just raw strength and elemental power. And yet, the devastation was colossal.
Jagged spires of ice jutted from the earth, fractured and reformed in rapid succession. Craters smoldered where flame had met frost. The air shimmered with heat and cold locked in eternal opposition.
Hellea moved like a streak of living fire. Her breath steamed against the freezing air as she leapt from one ice pillar to another, every motion precise and explosive. Her body twisted midair with practiced agility, her fists and feet igniting in trails of orange flame.
At the center of the chaos stood Kyros—motionless, grounded, his expression unreadable. He raised his arm and effortlessly blocked every blazing strike she threw.
The flames broke against him like waves on rock.
She darted sideways, spinning on her heel, then launched into the air. Her leg ignited, a blazing arc slicing through the mist as she aimed a roundhouse kick at his neck.
Kyros moved only slightly—a subtle shift of his stance—and countered with a punch.
Boom!
The air rippled. His fist cracked the sound barrier, the shockwave alone blowing apart nearby ice spires. But Hellea was already gone, flipping backward midair to land lightly on her feet.
Breathing hard, she clasped her hands together. "I need to go all out," she muttered.
Flames erupted around her in a roar, swirling upward like a living inferno. The heat distorted the air, the snow at her feet melting into steam. Even here, in a world of endless frost, her fire burned defiantly.
The fire coalesced, gathering along her arms until it shaped itself into a weapon—a double-edged blade of pure flame. The molten sword hummed, trembling with barely contained energy.
She crouched, and the soles of her feet blazed. In an instant, she launched forward, streaking through the air like a fiery comet.
She swung.
The arc of the sword cut the world itself, turning the snow beneath into vapor, flooding the field with mist and heat.
Kyros's eyes widened faintly—then softened with pride.
"She's improved," he murmured to himself. "To hold the fire like that… that's a feat only a true Nova can manage."
Then, with a low growl, he moved.
The ice beneath his boots shattered as he surged forward. Frost coiled around his arm, spiraling upward in crystalline patterns. The wind screamed, the air biting cold.
He lifted his hand as though gripping an invisible weapon—
and the world responded.
The surrounding frost pulled inward, snow and ice condensing in a swirl of glittering particles. A blade took form—its hilt carved from solid ice, its edge shimmering with pale blue light.
Where her sword burned, his froze.
And then—
Clash!
Sword met sword.
Flames against frost.
The explosion that followed painted the sky in twin colors—orange and azure, dancing and devouring one another. The ground quaked, sending waves of energy rolling across the white expanse as mist covered the sky.
*******