The eastern training yard was nothing like Bright expected.
He'd imagined a hall full of recruits shouting in rhythm, maybe the clash of weapons and the hum of energy grids.
Instead, he found silence — and sand.
The entire courtyard was a flat, sun-baked expanse bounded by high walls. Metal posts marked an open circle at its center. Beyond that: nothing. No benches, no observers, no teachers.
Except for the man sitting cross-legged in the dust.
Bright recognized him from archived files.
Hailen.
The stories said he once fought bare-handed against machines that crushed tanks. The stories said his body was more scar than skin. But those were all stories.
Now he just looked old.
"Recruit," Hailen said without opening his eyes. His voice carried, flat but calm.
"You're late."
Bright froze. "I was told to—"
"Late," the man repeated, rising in one slow motion. His frame was lean, his left arm mechanical from shoulder to wrist, the metal darkened from use rather than shine.
