"Attention!"
Suddenly, a thick, commanding voice cut through the noise like a hot knife slicing through butter. The entire assembly line fell instantly silent, every single cadet rhythmically stamping their boots together and locking into a rigid stance.
Drill Sergeant Milestone looked over the vast congregation of cadets who were soon to be named soldiers. "We have Colonel Wraysford with us today. He will be having a brief word with you all, so you had better behave," the sergeant shouted, stepping aside to yield the center stage to the superior officer.
If words could accurately describe Colonel Wraysford, he was a man defined by fierce, uncompromising determination and absolute discipline. He was of average height, with short, dark hair, a prominent mustache, and a jagged, highly visible scar that tore vertically across his face from the upper forehead down to his jawline. Graves couldn't help but wonder what kind of horrific battle could have caused such a mark.
"That's a Colonel? He's probably an A-Class... damn, his aura is heavy," a muffled voice whispered from somewhere in the rows, triggering a wave of hushed murmuring and silencing among the cadets.
"He's so manly. I like him already," a female voice caught Graves's ear from a neighboring row, causing his face to reflexively contort into a grimace.
"What a weird thing to say," Apollo commented silently under his breath, his eyes fixed forward.
"You can't blame someone for having their own desires," Julius interjected, a small, knowing smirk playing on his lips.
"Graves is more handsome than him anyway," Winter suddenly spat out, causing Graves's eye to violently twitch.
"Did you hear that, little pumpkin?" Gamby whispered from behind, a teasing smile spreading across her broad face. "Winter thinks you're better looking than an A-Class elite soldier. I wonder what the Colonel will do to you when he hears that a former outskirt kid is being compared to his rank. He might just crush you."
Graves shuddered at the thought, keeping his head perfectly straight.
"My name is Colonel Wraysford," a calm, resonant voice suddenly flooded the entire assembly courtyard. It was surprisingly soothing, yet carried an undeniable undercurrent of power that caused the final whispers in the crowd to die down instantly.
"I am in charge of overseeing this entire graduation operation. Now, let me correct a fatal misconception here: this is not just another training simulation. In fact, it is officially your very first active mission. This time, you will not be fighting harmless, holographic devils that cannot mutilate you when you make a mistake or put your life on the line. This time, you will be facing real devils. True abominations that actively yearn for your blood and want nothing more than to devour your flesh."
The Colonel paused, allowing the brutal weight of his words to sink into the quiet crowd.
"Some of you standing here today will not return alive. This process is designed to completely weed out the weak among you. For all your years in this military school, you have sat in clinical classrooms, writing and passing comprehensive theory exams. But truth be told, those textbook definitions will do absolutely nothing for you when adrenaline is the only thing coursing through your veins. In the field, you will have mere split seconds to make decisions that will either destroy your life, get you killed, or save your skin."
In Graves's current year group, the number of admitted cadets hovered around five thousand. Before today, roughly a thousand had already dropped out or been forced to repeat the year due to failing grades and poor aptitude reviews. It was easy to wonder why the military would willingly risk the lives of future soldiers in such a lethal, seemingly reckless exercise. But the command's logic was devastatingly simple: if you could not handle live devils within a controlled, monitored training environment, you were already a walking corpse on a real battlefield.
Furthermore, one might wonder about the S and A-Class talents hidden within their ranks. But the truth was, within the entire five-thousand-cadet,not a single S or A-Class talent existed. Geniuses of that caliber were remarkably rare; the military infrastructure could easily go an entire decade without discovering a single one.
Graves tried to steady himself as a thick bead of sweat rolled down his pale face. His fingers were visibly trembling on the chassis of his core-powered rifle. He wasn't the only one feeling the weight of the moment—everyone in the courtyard was gripped by a baseline terror. But the other cadets possessed an anchor of hope: they all had their Gene Locks successfully open.
Except for Graves. He was standing in the line under a completely fabricated identity.
When the trial began, the others would possess a genetic advantage in endurance, stamina, raw physical strength, and reaction speed. Graves, by contrast, was nothing more than a basic, fragile human.
"Are you okay, Graves?" Winter asked softly, her sharp eyes noticing the slight tremor in his posture.
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine," Graves responded, his voice tight. "Just... a bit nervous."
"Don't be nervous, okay?" Winter replied, her tone fiercely supportive. "We're a squad. We are here for you, and you are here for us. We will protect each other out there."
Apollo and Julius gave silent nods of affirmation from the line. For the first time in a very long while, Graves felt a genuine wave of solace wash over his anxiety.
"Thank you," he murmured.
"Therefore..." Colonel Wraysford's voice boomed across the stage once more, continuing his speech. "What you must do out there is use your wit. Think strategically. Target the known weak spots of the various devil variants. Remember exactly what you were taught in the lecture halls and apply it..."
"Isn't he completely contradicting himself now?" Julius muttered under his breath, referencing the Colonel's earlier dismissal of classroom theories. No one responded, keeping their focus locked on the stage.
"We will be tracking and assessing all of your movements, combat patterns, and vital signs individually," the Colonel explained, gesturing toward the command center. "Do not mistake your large numbers for a shroud; no one will escape our monitoring network. We will record how well your body adjusts to acute combat stress, the precise strain on your internal organs, and every single tactical detail. Of course, we have deployed veteran vanguard soldiers at strategic positions throughout the training zone to rescue those who fall into a critical state. You are permitted to call for a withdrawal if you face a life-threatening challenge you cannot overcome. But note this carefully: the moment you surrender and are rescued, you are automatically terminated from the academy. You will only be permitted to reapply after three long years."