The Order's armored vehicle, though not as powerful as the V-zero at the front, moved with the fury and speed of a projectile, cutting through the darkness of the night. The sounds of battle — the clashes of weapons and fists — quickly receded into a distant roar, muffled by the transport's armor. Neale was crushed between the students, who, though calmer now, still trembled with fear. The smell was a suffocating mix of hot metal, sweat, and gasoline — all mixed with adolescent panic.
Neale fumbled at the arm where the strange mercenary's blade had scratched him. The wound was superficial, but it burned as if cauterizing while still searing under the cut — a cold fire like the sensation the mercenary transmitted to Neale. He looked at the cargo ramp now upright, sealing the vehicle and blocking anyone inside from seeing out.
Neale was inside, finally heading to Kirden, but for some reason that odd mercenary wouldn't leave his mind — worse, because the man had been looking specifically for Neale.
The cabin was dark and claustrophobic, lit only by a single ceiling light that blinked slowly between white and red.
Most of the students were crying or murmuring, some expressing regret before they'd even become soldiers or witnessed the same terror Neale had.
From a distance you could still make out four students who remained stoic — tense, fists clenched, faces set. If they kept that up, they'd likely become strong and reach high levels of mastery and technique with the Justa Irá that might awaken in them.
He had to blend in while keeping his focus as strong as — or stronger than — those four. Though the light made it hard to see clearly, two of the four looked like siblings.
Standing in the center of the cabin like a statue of bronze and steel was the soldier who had saved him from being stabbed: his lightweight tactical uniform was wine-red with silver and bronze accents, very different from the faded yellow of Kirden's soldiers.
It looked new, fitted close to his body and emphasized his muscles, and the Order's symbol on his right shoulder reflected the alternating red and white light.
The aura of Justa Irá emanating from him was oppressive — even the unawakened felt a pressure, along with a dense, invisible heat that made the air inside vibrate.
This officer certainly didn't look like a common supervisor.
With a quick, sharp motion, the soldier slapped the side of the vehicle with his palm — a loud sound that made every student sit up on the benches and curl inward.
"Silence, academicians!" His shout was authoritative, cutting through the novices' panic like a blade.
"This isn't a picnic! You are the next generation of Kidernia! If you can't keep your composure under an attack from mere rats that crawl out of their holes for money, how will you fight bigger things like the absolute races? The attack is over. In two days we'll be in Kirden. Keep your posture and behave."
The cabin fell into a tense, heavy silence. The soldier walked slowly among the students, his gaze burning with Justa Irá as if assessing each of them before any trials had even begun. His eyes landed on Neale, who was curled near the wall, the overcoat of his mother tightened around his waist.
"You, boy," he said, his voice low and deep but echoing through the cabin. "You were attacked moments ago, right? Are you hurt? And don't forget to introduce yourself."
Neale straightened, forcing a look of courage without hesitation or a blink. "I am… Neale. Neale Sanchez R. Sir, thanks to you it's just a scratch."
The officer nodded, his gaze fixed on the pale streaks in Neale's hair now visible after so long hidden. For a brief instant, the soldier's Justa Irá seemed to intensify; Neale only felt the earlier pressure increase, prickling him superficially. The soldier seemed to be searching for something deeper.
"You look all right to me. The wound will feel like it's burning, but it'll last only a few hours — that blade was laced with Justa Irá," the soldier said, still looking at Neale.
"You smell different, Neale Sanchez R. Like someone who's been close to the darkness and what it carries," the soldier commented. "But that doesn't matter. You're here now. Keep your eyes wide open. War crawls everywhere — Valerium was just a basic test, you could even call it a baptism for you. Kirden's route is where soldiers leave behind the weak who give up on themselves and humanity."
The soldier turned away, leaving Neale alone, but the message was clear: everyone there was under constant observation and testing. Neale felt a chill. He hadn't just boarded a vehicle; he'd entered a rolling test cage, only two days from his destination. He already needed to find his place in the academy — here and now.
The journey had only just begun.
Then the officer spoke again. "I almost forgot — routine check. Everyone, remove your shirts from the front of your chest. The girls — future women — you may lower your collars as much as possible without removing the shirt. Time to show the Order's mark that proves you're students of Kidernia. Anyone without that mark will be thrown off the moving vehicle — and depending on the case, I might even kill them."
The soldier's expression turned serious and closed.
Neale trembled internally, eyes wide and cold sweat on his brow, remembering the force that soldier possessed.
"A mark?... What mark?" Neale wondered to himself, his mind shrouded with tension and nerves.