Chapter song: My Friends - Red Hot Child Peppers
Kenneth headed back to the town square early that morning in hopes of shaking off the awful dreams he had the previous night.
His first stop after eating a light breakfast provided by the hotel was the training area. Since it was almost 7:30 and the registration grounds were relatively empty, Kenneth thought it would be the perfect time to move his body without having to worry about prying eyes. He made sure to put on his band so the people in charge knew he belonged here and walked towards the racks of weapons ready at his disposal.
He couldn't hide the wild fire in his eyes and the corner of his mouth lifting into a half smile as he browsed the endless options in front of him. His fingers tingled, itching to get his hands on a good blade. He'd wielded quite a few daggers in his lifetime and though he had a knack for them, he always felt the most at home with a firearm. Unfortunately there were no handguns or rifles around so he settled from a short sword, holding it firmly in his right hand.
He started to perform simple movements with the blade, getting himself accustomed to its shape and weight. Once he felt comfortable, his movements became faster, spinning it around, incorporating his own techniques into the mix. Each swing cut through the still morning air with a crisp whoosh. Kenneth's body moved with deliberate precision, every pivot, thrust, and turn executed with the efficiency of someone trained to kill.
He shifted his weight to his back foot, inhaled through his nose, and stepped forward with a smooth, lethal grace. The blade slashed upward in a tight arc before twisting down again. His grip never wavered. There were no wasted gestures, no showy moves—just clean, economical strikes that would've ended a fight before it even began. He pictured an invisible opponent in front of him. A man taller, heavier, advancing fast. Kenneth sidestepped, ducked, and countered with a swift diagonal slash that would've slashed the man's throat clean open. His muscles burned. It was clear this body wasn't used to moving much, but still, the rhythm steadied him.
Each breath drew him deeper into the moment. Inhale, strike. Exhale, block. Spin, pivot, thrust. His mind, that had been restless, cloudy with thoughts, finally cleared. The sounds of the camp, of people, faded until all he could hear was the sharp whistle of the blade cutting air and the steady thud of his boots against packed dirt. The tension in his shoulders eased and his pulse evened out. For the first time since he'd arrived in this world, he wasn't thinking about the death of his team, about this new life that had been thrusted upon him, about what he was going to do from now on. Only the rhythm of movement and the steady control of his breathing mattered right now.
He brought his sword down one last time, killing off his invisible opponent. He imagined his tall muscular frame collapsing to the ground with a loud thud, blood pooling from his wounds.
He strengthened his stance, looking down at the dirt, in an almost meditative state. The faint sunlight caught on his blade, the imaginary blood coated the liquid silver.
That was when he heard footsteps behind him.
~*~
Lucien had returned from his walk, the sharpness in his stomach finally dulled after Alcione's relentless teasing.
He'd come looking for solitude, even blowing off some steam after this morning's disaster. They only had an hour and a half before departure and the one thing on his mind was making it to the training area to get one last practice in before they had to leave for the Academy. But the sight that greeted him at the ground stopped him in his tracks.
The field wasn't empty like he'd expected.
A lone figure stood in the middle of it, hood drawn low, body angled just slightly away. The young man moved with the kind of control Lucien rarely saw—every strike measured, every step grounded. There was no arrogance in his technique like you'd find in most Strikers, no wasted flair. Just quiet efficiency of someone who knew what he was doing.
Lucien folded his arms and watched. How could he not. His eyes were glued, almost transfixed on this unknown man, whose face remained hidden behind his black hoodie. His movements were unfamiliar to Lucien, though they contained a sort of trained rigidity you'd find in military training but with a unique twist of something…foreign. It was practical, the kind of fighting meant to end things quickly.
His brows furrowed as he watched the young man spin again, switching his grip and driving his blade forward in a tight, stabbing motion. It was a textbook close-quarter combat style, but where did he learn it?
The man wasn't in uniform so he wasn't a student from Toleran Academy. He had to be a potential recruit. His gaze then caught on the thin white band around the man's upper arm, marked with a bold, unmistakable A.
His brows rose.
"An Anchor?" he muttered under his breath, watching the last flicker of motion as the young man exhaled and lowered his blade.
Lucien's curiosity had been piqued and he took a few steps forward, wanting to see the face of this mystery man who had the skills to compete with a mid-level Striker even as an Anchor.
That's when the man turned around. Their eyes met, and for a moment, he froze.
Lucien's expression was unreadable, but his eyes carried an intensity to them that made Kenneth hold his breath. He wasn't sure why, but something about this man's presence sent a faint thrill through him. He approached him slowly, his boots crunching against the dirt. The closer he got to him, the stronger that thrill got. They were now just a few inches apart. Kenneth could feel that tingle at the back of his brain, the same tingle he got whenever he sensed someone strong. He didn't move. Didn't lower his blade either. He simply straightened his back, meeting the stranger's gaze head-on.
Lucien said nothing. Simply stared. Kenneth did the same. The morning light fell between them, stretching their shadows long across the training field.
Lucien's pale, sharp yet calm blue-gray, flickered over Kenneth's face. The faint sheen of sweat over his temple, the steady rise and fall of his chest the way his hand gripped the hilt like it was second nature. His gaze went back to his face, noticing the small yet distinct two beauty marks placed under each eye, and it was precisely their colour that caught him off-guard.
Amber, edged with red and fleck of gold that shimmered faintly under the sun, the sun that highlighted his tan complexion. They reminded him of embers, burning fiercely, refusing to be snuffed out. He searched those eyes as if looking for something buried beneath their flames. A spark of recognition, or a hint of fear perhaps. Maybe an explanation for why an Anchor, someone who should only possess mental strength, carried himself like a soldier trained for war—or even worse, an assassin. Whatever he was searching for, he didn't find it. All he could see was a blank canvas. His brows creased.
Kenneth stood still, his breathing steady, every muscle taut. The silence between them thickened, like gravy on a stove, heavy with unspoken curiosity.
Finally, Lucien's lips parted, his voice low and deep, the kind that carried easily even when spoken softly. "Who are you?"
The question hit the air like a command. It wasn't the words themselves but rather the tone. Controlled, demanding, carrying a touch of entitlement, stripping away pretense. Kenneth blinked. For a second, the words didn't compute in his brain. Then his brows drew together slightly. There was something about the way this man said it. Like an order, like he was supposed to or obligated to answer, that rubbed him the wrong way.
He took a cautious step back, his grip on his dagger tightening just enough to restore some balance. His voice came out quieter, clipped, but firm. "Who are you?"
The reaction to his reply was instant.
Lucien's perfectly shaped brows lifted a fraction—not in surprise exactly, but in mild intrigue. The corner of his mouth twitched, like was suppressing a smirk. He hadn't expected the young man to throw the question back at him. His eyes lingered on Kenneth a moment longer, as though reevaluating him.
This one wasn't timid, that he knew for sure.
He let out a soft hum, the sound somewhere between disbelief and amusement. "I asked you first, so it's only fair that you answer first," he said at last.
His tone wasn't mocking, but there was a subtle note of challenge there, as if daring him to prove him otherwise.
Kenneth's eyes narrowed. Was this guy serious? He shook his head. "It's good manners for the other person to introduce themselves first no?"
Lucien studies him for another beat before stepping closer, unhurried, his hands clasped loosely behind his back. Up close, Kenneth could make out the silver ring hidden behind his blue eyes, the sharp line of his jaw, and the controlled grace in every motion. Whoever this guy was, he carried himself like he was someone used to command, someone who knew his power and never needed to prove it.
"You're right, where are my manners?" he said, the corner of his lips curving. "My name is Lucien Saint-James. Captain of the 3rd Division."
Kenneth's gaze flickered to his lips before moving to the insignia on his uniform, confirming his rank.
"Third Division?" He repeated. That explained the authority in his tone. Still, something about this man's presence was unnerving. Not threatening exactly, but uncomfortable. Kenneth almost shifted.
"Yes, Third Division. Unlike regular school, we aren't divided by grade but by division. Though technically I am a third year or a dark grey, my proper rank is third division," he explained, his eyes darted to the band on Kenneth's arm, a white one with the letter A printed neatly on the side. His brows furrowed slightly.
"I believe it's your turn now."
Kenneth finally lowered his breath. "I am Kenneth."
"No last name?"
"Grey." He said flatly.
"You train quite well for an Anchor," he said more to himself than to Kenneth.
The young man wiped the back of his hand across his forehead. "And how exactly are they supposed to train, Captain?"
Lucien's lips curved faintly. "Certainly not like that."
Kenneth titled his head. He couldn't get a good read on this man. Was he complimenting him or insulting him? "Then maybe they've been doing it wrong."
That earned a quiet laugh from him. "You've got a mouth on you."
"Only when spoken to," Kenneth replied evenly.
For the first time, Lucien looked genuinely intrigued. Most recruits either stumbled over their words are shook like fallen leaves around him. But this one, this quiet, sharp-eyed and tongue Anchor was the complete opposite.
He stepped back, his faint smile fading, his expression back to being unreadable. "Keep that confidence up then, Anchor. You'll need it at the Academy."
Kenneth blinked. "...I'll keep that in mind."
The man said nothing, giving Kenneth one last look before walking off, the faint smell of a fruit he couldn't quite place and herbs trailing behind him, leaving Kenneth to stand alone in the training field. He lifted his hand, eyeing his watch.
It was a quarter to 9 and the area had since flooded with recruits ready to head out. His eyes widened. He didn't even notice the flock of people. It was as if time had stopped, his situational awareness shot as his entire focus was on the man before him. He frowned, unable to get his blue-grey eyes out of his head.
Now was not the time to be distracted.
"Can I get everyone's attention please!" Alaric yelled, cutting through his thoughts. "Gather around. We will be boarding the shuttles soon, make sure you have all your belongings with you because we won't be coming back for them."
Exactly ten minutes later, they were guided towards the shuttles, lined up, and entering the aircraft in an orderly fashion.
From the Original Kenneth's memories, Shuttles were the fastest means of travel in this world and were typically reserved for long distances. The one before him was notably large, nearly double the size of an airplane. Shuttles were capable of seating thousands of passengers.
The sleek vessel before him gleamed under the morning light, its surface a seamless blend of glass and silver alloy. Unlike planes, it had no visible wings or propellers—instead, faint blue lines pulsed along its sides, hinting at the propulsion system beneath. The words Boreas Transport was etched near the boarding ramp in stylized script, the letters glowing faintly with each passing second.
As they stepped inside, the air shifted from the cool morning breeze to a temperature-controlled calm, tinged with the scent of ozone and citrus. Rows of individual seats stretched down the wind corridor, divided by transparent partitions that could be tinted for privacy concerns with a simple swipe. Each seat seemed to mold itself to its occupant's frame like memory foam, and at the armrest sat a glossy panel with icons for temperature, entertainment, lighting, and food. This wasn't your run-of-the-mill airline. There was no need for stewards or stewardesses here. Everything you needed was at the touch of a button.
Kenneth's eyes flickered briefly to the compartments at the sides: tiny drawers containing travel-sized blankets, eye-masks, hand and body cream, sanitizing wipes, and small packets of pastel-coloured candies. A round case held what looked like black coins—the Bluetooth "headphones" he'd heard about, designed to adhere to the skin just behind the ears and transmit sound directly through vibration.
He watched as a few recruits experimented with the features, swiping and tapping at the control panel like children testing a new toy. He bit back a laugh. Some seats were built for singles, others arranged in pairs or clusters for those who wanted to ride with their friends. What was absent, however, was a cockpit. There was no flight crew, no visible pilot. Only the faint hum vibrating through the floor as the Shuttle's systems came to life. This wasn't surprising to Kenneth. His own world had been relying on autonomous aircraft for missions that demanded precision and minimal manpower for years now. When it came to things like that, the government could be surprisingly efficient. So the idea of a self-navigating craft felt more comforting to him than strange.
He made his way down the aisle, stopping near the rear where the seats were emptier and the noise from the front dulled. Dropping into his seat, he placed his bag under his feet, exhaled, and allowed himself to sink into the soft material. A few people brushed past him as they searched for empty spots. One of them, a tall guy with brown skin and locs pulled into a low ponytail, was speaking animatedly to a friend, though Kenneth noticed a slight tremor in his voice.
"Man, I'm nervous as hell," he admitted, gripping the strap of his backpack like it was a lifeline. "This is my first time on a Shuffle."
His friend laughed. "For real?"
"Yeah man. I've never had to travel in the air before!"
"Relax, these things barely even move. You'll forget you're even flying."
"...I guess you're right."
His friend shoved him playfully. "These things are designed to keep the comfort of its passengers in mind. We will be at the Academy before you know it. Now chill the fuck out dude."
"Easier said than done," the guy muttered, his voice tight. "Back home, the closest thing I've been on is a bullet train."
"Think of it as the same thing, just…on the air?"
The guy with the locs gave him a deadpan look. Kenneth hid a small smile. It wasn't surprising that he'd never ridden a Shuttle before considering how expensive they were to operate. They were reserved for government use or private institutions like the Academy. Most civilians would never step foot inside one, let alone take a cross-country trip in it. Still, he couldn't help staring at the guy a moment longer. Judging from his clothes, he looked to be pretty well-off. His oversized beige T-shirt was made of high quality materials, and even though he was wearing simple grey sweatpants, Kenneth could tell they were hand stitched and made from quality cotton. But the longer he stared the more he reminded Kenneth of Darren. He'd always been a nervous chatter. It used to piss him off to no end, but he missed it now. His face darkened.
Once the aisle cleared, he adjusted his seat, taking out the circular headphones and placing them behind his ears. A soft tone vibrated at the base of his skull as the system synced. All he needed to do now was request a song and music would be playing in his ears before he knew it.
According to Alaric, the trip to Toleran Academy would take roughly five hours, which was a significant cut from the usual eight it would take by ground transport. The Academy was tucked away on the outskirts of the city of Caelion, in a secluded area reserved exclusively for its students and staff. As the Shuttle doors sealed with a smooth hiss and the hum beneath his feet grew stronger, Kenneth leaned back and let his eyelids flutter shut.
Music flowed through him, clean and resonant, drowning out the murmurs, the nerves, the world. But more importantly, it drowned out a particular black-haired man with blue-grey eyes whose face caused him to react viscerally.