April 3, 2103 — 10:45 Imperial Standard Time
The Grand Hall looked like a battlefield that had lost its purpose.
Blood streaked the white stone in uneven arcs. Footprints overlapped—running, slipping, dragging. Prestigious academy uniforms were torn, stained, clinging to bodies that had expected theory and received violence instead.
A boy from a ministerial family sat slumped against a pillar, arm hanging uselessly, staring at nothing.
A girl with braided hair—noble lineage, judging by the crest on her collar—pressed both hands to her ribs, breathing shallowly, teeth clenched to keep from screaming.
Some applicants stood. Many did not.
Then the doors opened.
No speech followed. No acknowledgment of what had happened.
A calm, neutral voice echoed through the hall.
"Remaining applicants. Proceed to the exit."
That was all.
Ichiro rose with the others.
As he walked, the floor beneath his boots shifted. The stone shimmered faintly, almost liquid, as microfractures sealed themselves.
Blood darkened—then thinned—then vanished, drawn into the material like ink into water.
By the time he reached the midpoint of the hall, it was as if the fight had never happened.
Imperial attendants moved efficiently among the fallen. The injured who failed to stand were lifted onto stretchers—quietly, quickly—and carried out through side corridors.
No urgency. No ceremony.
They looked less like patients than casualties.
The Empire did not linger over loss.
Ahead, the exit corridor narrowed into a checkpoint.
A scanner stood there.
Tall. Oval. Black alloy frame humming with restrained power. A vertical pane of light rippled inside it, colors shifting subtly, never settling.
Applicants were processed one by one.
Step forward.
Light.
Tone.
Color.
A girl entered.
BLUE.
A soft chime. An arrow lit on the floor, pointing right.
She hesitated—then obeyed.
Another applicant stepped in.
RED.
The sound was sharper. Almost accusatory.
Left.
Murmurs spread, hushed and confused.
Ichiro slowed when Akira stopped beside him. Mitsui hovered close, eyes alight with curiosity he wasn't bothering to hide.
Another applicant—one of the more aggressive fighters from earlier—entered the scanner.
RED.
Two more followed.
RED. RED.
Ichiro's gaze sharpened.
He began to notice the pattern.
Those marked red were bloodied. Bruised. Breathing hard. Still vibrating with adrenaline.
The blues, by contrast, looked intact.
Composed. Eyes already calculating the room.
Akira leaned slightly closer. "They're not checking strength."
Mitsui hummed. "Nor mercy."
Ichiro said nothing.
He stepped into the scanner.
The light washed over him—cold, invasive.
It pressed inward, cataloging response times, thresholds, reflex suppression.
He felt it brush against places he kept locked down.
The hum deepened.
No pause.
RED.
Immediate. Final.
The tone cut through the air.
Ichiro stepped out, jaw set.
Mitsui glanced at the result, then at Ichiro, lips twitching. "Well. That answers something."
Akira stepped forward next.
The scanner enveloped her.
The light pulsed—
BLUE.
For a fraction of a second, relief flickered across her face.
Then the pane stuttered.
The hum warped.
The color destabilized—flickering violently—
RED.
The tone snapped, sharper than before.
The arrow shifted directions.
For the first time, the process faltered.
The proctor nearest the scanner frowned.
Two guards exchanged a glance—brief, alert. One tapped something on his wrist console.
Akira stood very still.
Then she stepped out.
No one said a word.
Mitsui blinked. "…That's new."
Ichiro watched the guards, not the scanner.
Mitsui entered last.
The light settled around him like a polite question.
BLUE.
A soft chime.
Right.
The floor lit, pulling them apart.
Red to the left.
Blue to the right.
Officials appeared with quiet efficiency, guiding groups along their respective paths. No explanations were offered. No questions answered.
Akira looked down the red corridor. "This isn't housing."
"No," Mitsui said lightly. "Feels more like… sorting."
Ichiro stared ahead. "Or preparation."
A red-marked applicant ahead of them was shaking. Another wore a thin, almost satisfied smile.
No one knew what waited beyond either path.
An official approached, expression blank.
"Red candidates," he said, gesturing left.
Another mirrored him for the blue.
For a moment, the three stood together, suspended between directions.
Mitsui exhaled. "Well. Guess we'll compare notes later. Assuming we're allowed to."
Akira inclined her head slightly.
Ichiro met Mitsui's gaze. "Don't trust anything they tell you."
Mitsui grinned faintly. "I never do."
Akira took a step toward the red-lit path, then paused.
"…This isn't the end," she said quietly.
Ichiro answered without looking at her. "No."
It was the beginning.
They separated.
Red and blue light swallowed them whole.
Behind them, the scanner hummed on—indifferent, precise.
And somewhere deep within the Falcon, unseen systems recalibrated.
The Empire had begun to decide what each of them was for.