The training field of the Space Exploring Officer Academy was a marvel of human engineering. Beneath a vast, transparent dome that offered a panoramic view of the star-dusted void, the field itself was a landscape of polished alloy and humming technology. Artificial gravity maintained a perfect 1G, while floating sensor drones hovered like silent, mechanical insects, their lenses capturing every twitch, every failed parry, every moment of panic. Rows of deactivated combat drones stood in silent ranks, and holographic projectors lay dormant, waiting to paint the air with threats.
Class 7-B stood in a ragged semblance of a line. The division was palpable. The Upper Group stood with an air of bored entitlement, their custom-fitted uniforms a silent protest against standardization. The Rebel Group slouched, their postures radiating defiance, while the Common Group tried to make themselves as small and unobtrusive as possible, caught in the crossfire of social strata.
Ignis stood before them, devoid of any teaching aids save for a simple, flat command slate in his hand. His presence was a live wire in the sterile environment.
"Lesson one," his voice cut through the low murmur, needing no amplification. It was a statement, not an introduction. "Combat readiness." He paused, his gaze sweeping over them, seeing not future officers, but a collection of flaws. "You think the title 'Space Exploring Officer' means a comfortable chair in a climate-controlled bridge? That it's about inputting coordinates and delegating tasks to subordinates?"
He didn't wait for an answer. His thumb pressed an icon on the slate.
A low hum filled the air as a shimmering, blue-tinged holographic barrier snapped into existence around the perimeter of the entire field, sealing them in. A few students yelped in surprise, stumbling back from the energy wall.
"Today," Ignis continued, his tone utterly flat, "we test a fundamental skill. One your previous instructors have clearly neglected. We test how quickly your minds can adapt when the comfortable illusions of safety and status are stripped away."
He turned his back on them, his instructor's coat swaying with the motion. He didn't need to see them to command their attention. His voice, calm and final, echoed in the enclosed space.
"Simulation start."
The change was instantaneous. The rows of training dummies didn't just activate; they unfolded. Limbs of reinforced metal twisted and locked into combat stances. Energy cores housed within their chests glowed with a menacing orange light. With a synchronized, whirring click, dozens of Level 3 combat drones—models typically reserved for advanced cadets, not first-day instructor evaluations—detached from their racks and began to advance. Their movements were not the slow, predictable patterns of basic trainers. They were aggressive, adaptive, and fast.
The line of students shattered.
Screams, curses, and panicked shouts erupted, a chaotic symphony of fear.
"What the hell!?"
"Those are Level 3s! He's trying to kill us!"
"Somebody turn them off! This isn't in the curriculum!"
Ignis had turned back to face the chaos, his arms folded across his chest. He was an island of absolute calm in the storm of his own making. His expression was unreadable, his eyes analyzing the disintegration of their composure with clinical detachment.
"Your task is simple," he announced, his voice cutting through the din without effort. "Survive. For ten minutes. Demonstrate a shred of the competence your files claim you possess." His eyes, for a fleeting second, seemed to glow with an inner, ember-like heat. "Fail, and I will personally provide you with a practical, and undoubtedly painful, reminder of why arrogance is a luxury you cannot afford when the vacuum outside is one hull breach away."
Then, he simply watched.
It was a brutal spectacle. The Upper Group, who had relied on their names and wealth to command respect, completely fell apart. Robin shouted incoherent orders that no one followed, his face pale with a terror he had never known. They were isolated, picked off one by one as the drones efficiently broke their clumsy, individualistic defenses.
The Rebel Group fared slightly better, but their defiance was their downfall. They charged in recklessly, trying to prove their strength, only to be overwhelmed by the drones' coordinated tactics. Their unorthodox moves were useless without a foundation of discipline.
The most surprising performance came from the Common Group. With no illusions of superiority and no rebellious pride to uphold, they fell back on the most basic of instincts: solidarity. They formed a rough, defensive circle, watching each other's backs, using their limited skills in a desperate, unified effort to simply endure. They were pushed back, battered, and bruised, but they held. Their formation bent but did not break.
Ignis's gaze lingered on them, a flicker of something akin to approval in his eyes. Potential. Flamme had seen it in the institution, and he was seeing its raw, unrefined spark in these overlooked students. But potential was fragile. It needed to be tempered, and to be tempered, the slag of arrogance and complacency first had to be burned away.
He let the simulation run for eleven minutes. The extra sixty seconds were a deliberate, calculated cruelty. It was the time it took for the last vestiges of pride to be utterly stripped from the Upper Group, for the Rebel Group's energy to be spent into exhausted despair, and for the Common Group's cohesion to be pushed to its absolute limit.
When the drones finally powered down, retracting into their dormant forms, the field was a scene of devastation. Not of broken equipment, but of broken spirits. Students lay gasping on the floor, uniforms torn and smudged, their bodies aching. The air was thick with the scent of sweat, ozone, and shattered ego.
Ignis stepped forward. The sound of his boots on the alloy floor was the only noise.
"Lesson two," he said, his voice now softer, but carrying even more weight. "You are all equally worthless. Your names, your families, your attitudes… they are irrelevant data points. The moment you step onto a bridge or set foot on an alien world, they mean nothing. You stop thinking as a team, you start dying as individuals."
His eyes found Robin, who was struggling to his feet, his body trembling with exhaustion and humiliation.
"Especially you," Ignis said, the words not a shout, but a pinpoint strike. "A commander who cannot inspire unity is a liability. A liability gets people killed."
Robin opened his mouth, a retort born of a lifetime of privilege on his lips, but the words died. He looked into Ignis's eyes and saw no anger, no malice, only a cold, hard truth that his wealth could not refute. He lowered his gaze, utterly defeated.
Ignis let the silence hang for a moment longer, allowing the lesson to sear itself into their minds. Then, he sighed softly, a faint sound of exasperation. He turned and began walking towards the exit.
"Tomorrow," he said without looking back. "We start again. Same time. Don't be late."
The holographic barrier dissolved. As he exited the field, a few of the students—mostly from the Common Group, but a few from the Rebels as well—watched his retreating back. Their expressions were no longer filled with fear or resentment, but with a dawning, fierce awe. They were bruised, exhausted, and humiliated, but for the first time, someone had looked past their social labels and seen only their performance. Someone had held them to a standard, however brutal, and in doing so, had implied they were capable of meeting it.
Perhaps, just perhaps, the hopeless case that was Class 7-B had finally encountered the one force in the universe capable of forging them into something greater: an instructor who was not afraid to break them completely, in order to rebuild them properly.