A full year had passed since the catastrophe in the outskirts. A year since Graves had first stepped into the cold, clinical halls of the NHF military school.
An immense amount of progress had occurred over the past twelve months. Graves had successfully absorbed a vast wealth of knowledge about the modern world; he was finally educated, capable of reading seamlessly and operating advanced computers without any guidance. He had even managed to form a small circle of friends. He was far more comfortable sleeping on his mattress now, no longer tempted to crawl onto the tile floor.
Yet, some things never truly changed. His mind still heavily revolved around his mother. In some of his nightmares, a ball would roll across the floor toward his feet, but when Graves reached down to pick it up, it would morph into his mother's severed head. In other dreams, the very devil that had devoured her would tower over him, laughing hysterically at his helplessness. He frequently woke up screaming, drenched in a cold sweat, causing Apollo and Julius to bolt upright from their own slumbers.
Other constants remained. Apollo relentlessly requested more stories about the badlands, leaving Graves constantly anxious that he would soon run out of fabrications. And, of course, he never forgot about Old Man Lee. Over the course of the year, Graves had desperately researched ways to bring the old trader inside the Wall. Unfortunately, the NHF strictly mandated that cadets could only sponsor biological relatives. Even if Graves dared to lie and claim Lee was his blood, the military enforced mandatory DNA testing upon entry. Lying to the high command was a capital offense. He was left with no choice but to wonder if the old man had successfully migrated to another sector, or if he had already been devoured by the horde.
Having survived a year in the academy, Graves had ascended slightly in the ranks. While he wasn't a full-fledged soldier yet, he was now a senior among the incoming classes—possessing the authority to practically issue orders to the newer juniors.
And speaking of full-fledged soldiers...
"Move, move, move!" orders barked out from a uniform-clad man in his mid-forties. He was of average height, possessing rigid brown hair, piercing dark eyes, and a thick mustache. This was Drill Sergeant Milestone.
Over the past year, Graves had climbed the academic ladder, making this brutal live-fire military drill the absolute final test required to graduate into active combat duty. He had managed to scrape through the comprehensive theory examinations with just enough points to pass.
But reality was beginning to catch up to him. The other cadets participating in this graduation drill possessed genuine, unlocked latent talents. They inherently commanded superior tactical judgment, raw physical strength, and athletic attributes that left Graves completely outmatched.
But he couldn't cry out to anyone because he had entered the school with false talent identity.
Straping on his heavy combat vest, Graves reached into the rack to pull out an standard-issue military rifle and a few spare magazines. He quickly inspected the weapon's components to ensure it was in perfect operational condition.
In truth, there was barely a need for a manual inspection. Modern weapons were engineered never to jam. They didn't fire conventional, old-world ballistic bullets; instead, they were entirely powered by the harvested crystal cores of slain devils. The higher the tier of the core utilized to manufacture the chassis and the ammunition, the more devastating the weapon became. However, no matter how advanced a human rifle was engineered, it could never withstand the raw crystal core energy of an S or A-Class devil. If a soldier attempted to chamber a high-tier kinetic payload into a standard firearm, the rifle would simply violently explode in their hands.
"Move it, boy! We don't have time for your sluggishness, brat! Get out there and fall into the assembly line outside!" Sergeant Milestone roared, his voice bouncing off the armory walls directly at Graves.
Graves moved instantly, marching swiftly out of the reinforced armory doors.
Reaching the courtyard, he found the cadets perfectly arranged in crisp, uniform rows. Scanning the crowd, he immediately picked out a few highly familiar faces: Apollo, Julius, and Winter.
Winter, of course, wasn't one of his roommates. Being female, she resided in the women's quarters, but they had originally crossed paths in the cafeteria when Graves had accidentally spilled a tray of steaming food all over her uniform. Instead of erupting into a violent rage, she had simply smiled and brushed it off. The reaction had given Graves the absolute creeps. Having grown up in the brutal lawlessness of the outskirts, Graves knew that offending someone usually meant a swift, unforgiving retaliation. Because Winter had shaken the insult off so effortlessly, Graves had spent months actively avoiding her, thoroughly convinced she was harboring a secret grudge and waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike him down even harder.
But his frantic attempts to avoid her had utterly failed. Winter had developed a strange, persistent interest in Graves, seeking him out whenever the schedule permitted. Her constant presence had caused his roommates—especially Julius—to raise their eyebrows and smile sheepishly whenever she approached.
Damn that fool, Graves muttered internally.
Winter caught his eye and waved her hand enthusiastically toward him. Seeing her standing alongside Julius and Apollo, Graves realized he had no choice but to jog over and fall directly into their designated assembly line.
Of course, Winter wasn't his only acquaintance.
Pat!
"Damn it... speak of the devil," Graves murmured under his breath.
The individual who had just heavily slapped him on the crown of his head was exceptionally tall—nearly matching Apollo's towering stature. She looked almost like a dark, female mirror image of Apollo, possessing an incredibly thick, commanding voice. It was Gamby.
He had met Gamby around the same time he met Winter, though he couldn't quite remember the exact details of their introduction—or rather, his subconscious actively preferred to block the memory out.
"How are you doing, my little pumpkin?" Gamby boomed, playfully patting his head with an iron grip.
Julius immediately bit his lip, desperately trying to stifle a massive laugh as mock tears pricked his eyes. Apollo simply smirked, turning his head away to maintain his military composure, while Winter's cheeks flushed with a soft blush.
"Can you please stop patting my head, Gamby?" Graves grumbled, desperately trying to pull her massive hand away from his white hair. But alas, he simply lacked the genetic strength to budge her arm. Defeated, he could only stand rigid in the assembly line, silently enduring the heavy, affectionate pats.