The first light of dawn painted the horizon when a sleek military truck, levitating a meter above the cracked roads, glided into the slums. Its armored chassis hummed faintly, a stark contrast to the groaning structures around it. The vehicle's pristine steel plates and glowing insignia were so out of place here it seemed almost unreal.
Normally, a machine of such value would attract cutthroats and scavengers like vultures. But the truck bore three words across its side in bold letters.
Imperial Military Force.
No thief in the slums was foolish enough to test those words. Stealing from the military wasn't just a death sentence—it was suicide with extra steps.
The vehicle hissed as it lowered, and its doors opened with mechanical precision. Two men stepped out, both built like walls. One was bald, his skin gleaming under the early sun. The other carried a jagged scar circling his neck like a noose that had failed to finish its job. Their hardened eyes scanned the surroundings, the kind of gaze born only from years on the battlefield.
"That's the one," the scarred man muttered, pointing to a crumbling apartment block. "Cain Laurifer's home."
"Yeah," the bald soldier replied, frowning.
By all rights, Cain should have been waiting outside, ready for transport. Every recruit received their orders days in advance. Yet the entrance was empty, windows silent, the air too still.
The two soldiers exchanged glances. The Imperial Military Academy might have been a training institution, but it was no playground. Discipline was the lifeblood of soldiers, and those who ignored orders began their careers with black marks they would never erase.
Before either man decided who would drag Cain out of bed, a round, pudgy youth waddled from the truck with a smile that was far too eager. He clasped his hands together and bowed repeatedly.
"Sir Tristan, Sir Lodon," the boy said, addressing the bald man and the scarred one. "There's no need for men of your stature to trouble yourselves. Allow me. I know Cain personally—one could say we were schoolmates. I'll fetch him for you."
The boy's sycophantic grin made his motives plain. His eyes glittered with anticipation, as if he had been waiting for this chance.
Tristan and Lodon, veterans of war, needed no psychic powers to read the intent. The boy wanted to cause trouble for Cain. Normally, such childish games wouldn't be tolerated. But Cain's absence was already a breach of conduct. If the boy dragged him out, it would hammer home a lesson in discipline.
The two soldiers stepped aside. "Do it, then," Tristan said flatly.
The fat youth's grin widened as he lumbered toward Cain's apartment. He didn't bother knocking. Instead, he lifted one stubby leg and smashed the door open with a clumsy kick that splintered the lock.
"Cain, you garbage!" he bellowed, striding inside as if he owned the place. "How dare you make Sir Tristan and Sir Lodon wait!"
He made it three steps before something slammed into him like a thunderbolt. The boy's mouth opened, blood spraying as he was hurled backward through the air. He crumpled before he even realized what hit him.
Lodon cursed under his breath and lunged, catching the youth before his skull cracked against the pavement. Tristan's eyes narrowed.
A figure burst from the apartment like a hunting beast. The boy lunged straight for the fat youth again, eyes blazing.
Tristan didn't hesitate. His Wave Cloak flared alive, sky-blue light wrapping his frame. He thrust his palm out.
"Boom."
Compressed air roared forward, hammering into the attacker's chest. The youth flew back, rolling across the ground until he skidded to a halt.
Cain Laurifer staggered upright. His teeth bared as his Wave Cloak flared to life. But it wasn't blue like theirs. His was dark purple, jagged and violent, crackling faintly as it coated his body.
Tristan and Lodon froze.
"An Astral Wave Cloak," Lodon muttered, astonishment flickering across his scarred features.
Their records described Cain as little more than a slum rat, a boy with trash talent barely worth notice. Yet here he stood—not only a Wave Warrior, but one walking the Astral Rebirth Path.
Rare. Dangerous.
Humans carried dormant bloodlines in their veins, sometimes awakening without warning. It wasn't common, but it wasn't unheard of. What disturbed them wasn't Cain's sudden rise. It was the savagery in his gaze—the unrestrained fury of someone barely leashed.
Tristan's aura deepened, blades of air manifesting at his feet, slicing cracks into the pavement. His stance made it clear: one wrong move and Cain wouldn't rise again.
The threat jolted Cain's instincts. Training, discipline, and survival hammered his emotions back into their cage. The haze of rage cleared, leaving clarity—and shame.
He had lost control. Again. The fat youth's intrusion during his training had triggered his unstable bloodline. If not for Tristan and Lodon's intervention, he might have killed the boy outright.
'I need to fix this,' Cain thought bitterly. 'I can't keep relying on sheer willpower to contain it.'
He forced himself to inhale slowly, then exhaled, letting his Wave Cloak dissolve. His shoulders lowered, and he bowed respectfully.
"I apologize for my behavior," Cain said, voice steady but contrite. "I let my temper get the better of me. It won't happen again."
Of course, he would never reveal the truth—that the Lightning Lupus bloodline clawed at his control. That weakness was his secret to bear.
Tristan studied him in silence. Lodon, too, eyed Cain with suspicion. They knew the boy wasn't telling the whole truth, but digging deeper wasn't their responsibility. Their orders were simple: deliver recruits.
"Gather your things," Tristan said at last, his tone clipped. "Then get in the truck." He turned away, signaling the matter was over.
But the fat youth, pale and trembling, found his voice again.
"Sir Tristan! That garbage attacked me! You should punish him!" he wailed. His words cracked with desperation. How could he accept that Cain, the boy everyone mocked, had dared to strike him? He still believed the soldiers would side with him simply because Cain was a nobody.
Tristan's gaze turned toward him, cold and flat.
"He is a Level 1 Astral Wave Warrior," Tristan said. His voice was sharp enough to cut. "I wonder what your talent must be to call him garbage."
The fat youth's jaw snapped shut. His face drained of blood. Memories of every insult and humiliation he and his friends had thrown at Cain came crashing back—and for the first time, he realized the tables had turned.
Fear gnawed at him. Fear that Cain would repay every cruelty in kind.
But Cain wasn't even looking at him. In Cain's mind, the boy was already irrelevant—too insignificant to waste anger on. Cain had greater enemies to face, greater battles to fight.
Without another word, Cain returned to his apartment. He packed his few belongings and then walked out to join the soldiers. His path was no longer that of a bullied orphan in the slums. The military awaited.