Location: Jerkin Residence - Jericho's Study / Leo's Quarters
Time: Late Afternoon - After the Ceremony
---
Jericho's Study
The study was a ruin.
Shattered glass littered the marble floor like scattered diamonds. Overturned bookshelves sprawled across the room, their contents splayed open like wounded birds. A mahogany desk—once a symbol of authority—lay in splinters against the wall, its legs snapped like twigs. The curtains had been torn from their rods, and the chandelier above flickered ominously, its crystals swaying from the force of Jericho's rage.
Jericho stood at the center of it all, his chest heaving, his fists bloodied from punching the walls. His expression was one of cold, simmering fury—a storm barely contained within a crumbling vessel.
Lilia sat in a chaise lounge near the window, her posture rigid, her face pale. Two maids hovered beside her, fanning her face with frantic urgency. Her chest rose and fell in dramatic, exaggerated motions—puffing up and down like a bellows.
AI-engineered suit, Jericho thought, his internal voice carrying a note of bitter confusion. Plot-grade armor. That's all it is. That's all Leo has. It can't be real skill. It can't be.
He didn't know what the weave was. He didn't understand the true way. To him, the aethernova was just a tool—a piece of technology that amplified strength and reflexes. And Leo... Leo had somehow gotten a better one. A prototype. A plot-grade model.
That Valerik bastard, he thought, his jaw tightening. He must have given Leo an upgraded suit. Something experimental. Something that made him stronger than me.
He shook his head, dismissing the thought.
No. That can't be right. Father wouldn't allow it. This is one of his tests. It has to be. Leo was secretly given something—something better than what I have. And I need to overcome it on my own. That's the lesson. That's the point.
His expression shifted—demented, determined, desperate.
I'll prove myself. I'll surpass him. I'll—
"Jericho."
Lilia's voice cut through his thoughts like a blade. He turned to her, his expression softening—just for a moment.
"Mother. Don't worry. All that was done to us today—I'll find a way to return it a hundredfold. I swear it."
He reached for her hands, his fingers trembling.
Lilia pulled away.
Her hands shot back as if burned, her expression shifting to one of cold disappointment. Her voice carried a note of quiet devastation.
"I'm really disappointed in you, son."
Jericho's breath caught in his throat. His hands hovered in the air, frozen.
"If your father was here right now... I don't know what he would say."
Jericho's voice cracked. "Mother, I—"
She shook her head, cutting him off. She turned to her maids, her voice carrying a note of sharp command.
"Take me to my chambers. I need rest."
The maids helped her rise, guiding her toward the door. Jericho watched them go, his expression crumbling.
The door closed behind them.
Jericho stood alone in the ruin of his study, his hands still extended, his heart still aching.
---
The door opened again.
A figure stepped inside—one of Jericho's inner circle. A young man with sharp eyes and a sharper tongue. His name was Dorian, and he had been Jericho's confidant since childhood.
His expression was grim.
"Sir. I have news."
Jericho's voice was flat. "What is it?"
Dorian hesitated. Then, quietly: "Your aunt Seraphina has demoted you from your post. She's given it to your brother."
The word hung in the air like a death sentence.
"Which brother?"
"Leo."
Jericho's gasp was sharp—a strangled sound of disbelief. His body trembled. His fists clenched.
"No. No, she can't—"
"She can," Dorian said, his voice carrying a note of genuine sympathy. "And she did."
Jericho's vision blurred. His world crumbled around him.
---
Leo's Quarters
Across the estate, in a different room, the atmosphere was entirely different.
Leo sat in a plush armchair, surrounded by his fellow graduates. Ivan. Irina. Jax. Ilya. Jenna. Jare. And Caspian, seated beside him, his expression one of genuine pride.
The room was warm—lit by soft lamps and the glow of a fireplace. Trays of food and drink covered every surface. Laughter filled the air.
Leo's internal voice was a scream of disbelief.
I'm the b0. I'm actually the b0. If someone had told me days ago—months ago—that I would become the b0 for Jerkin Base, I would have thought they were tripping. I would have laughed. I would have—
He shook his head, a grin spreading across his face.
This is insane. This is actually insane.
Caspian clapped him on the shoulder, his voice carrying a note of warm encouragement.
"Knew you could pull it off, bro. Just don't leave me hanging when you continue progressing up the ladder of the operative world."
Leo laughed—a genuine, joyful sound. "I won't. I promise."
Irina leaned forward, her voice carrying a note of dry realism. "Being an operative is really hard, you know. Cadets frequently get tasked with assignments in military operations—mostly in other countries. We're soldiers."
Ilya nodded. "The army. The navy. The offshore field duties. We're valued for our combat skills. And the Mysterium operatives—they're the top class. The super elite."
Jace—a cadet with sharp eyes and a sharper mind—spoke up, his voice carrying a note of quiet authority.
"There are ranks. D-rank. The level at which the body stops being a limitation and starts being an instrument. Where your physical range exceeds what an opponent can reasonably account for—because the shapes you're making don't belong to any recognizable fighting lexicon. Where a retreat looks like an invitation until it becomes an attack."
Clary—another cadet, quiet and observant—continued.
"B-rank. Edgeform. The level at which precision becomes reflex. Where the difference between thinking an action and executing it ceases to be measurable."
Jace nodded. "A-rank. Vaultform. Where the practitioner stops being someone executing techniques and becomes the technique itself. The body operating as a unified expression of everything that has been embedded into it—all of it accessible simultaneously, none of it competing for the available processing."
Clary's voice was soft. "The psyche hardens past the point of ordinary damage threshold. Fear becomes raw material rather than an obstacle."
Ivan leaned forward, her voice carrying a note of sudden excitement.
"Hey, don't know about you guys, but I heard a very funny rumor. Elijah Isley used to be a Mysterium elite soldier."
The room went quiet.
Irina's voice carried a note of disbelief. "No way. Do you believe it's true?"
Caspian shrugged, his voice carrying a note of thoughtful speculation. "Who wouldn't think it to be true? Maybe Elijah decided to join the other side. Our country's military and intelligence agencies—the Office of Special Investigations—with the Mysterium clan through their global proclaimed operations... they've made lots of enemies. From Sovik in the east, to Frostlanders in the north, and even tensions as we speak with the Huxain state."
Ilya's voice was quiet. "In the past, it was just civil diplomatic disagreements. Each side not agreeing with their differences. But since the aethernova went public... things have been going haywire."
Jare nodded slowly. "Maybe Huxai secretly allied with Sovik. Maybe the Frostlanders—with good pay—got to Elijah's heart. Maybe now he's targeting the Mysterium clan's investor families in Crestwood. The three families."
The room erupted into argument—hypotheses flying back and forth like sparks from a fire.
Leo tried to maintain his composure. His expression remained calm, his posture relaxed. But his eyes...
His eyes gave him away.
Caspian noticed. His voice carried a note of confusion.
"Hey, Leo. What's wrong? You look upset."
Leo's internal voice screamed.
Seriously?! Why did you have to bring this up?!
Caspian's voice grew more insistent. "Guys, seriously—like, did you all forget Grace Barlow?"
Irina's brow furrowed. "What about her?"
Caspian's voice carried a note of heated defensiveness. "Sheesh! She was my bro's girl!"
Leo's cheeks flushed. His fists clenched. His internal voice was a storm of embarrassment and frustration.
Seriously, Caspian?! Why?!
---
The door burst open.
A graduated trainee—a young man with wild eyes and blood on his knuckles—stumbled into the room. His body was thrown forward, as if he had been pushed. He crashed onto the table, sending food and drink flying in a chaotic spray.
The room fell silent.
Caspian shot to his feet, his expression one of cold fury. His voice carried a note of sharp challenge.
"Hey now! What's the big idea?!"
The trainee groaned, his body crumpled among the debris. Blood dripped from his nose. His eyes were glazed with pain and confusion.
Behind him, in the doorway, a figure stood.
Her silhouette was sharp against the light. Her eyes blazed with cold fury. Her voice carried a note of quiet menace.
"I think it's time we had a word, Leo Jerkins."
The room held its breath.