After about fifteen minutes, the hall was packed wall to wall—nearly a hundred cadets, all wide-eyed and stiff-backed.
Fresh meat lined up for the grinder. Every face carried the same look: some shade of awe, fear, or quiet disbelief. Tarrin just kept watching.
Then a figure stepped up to the podium, eyes cold as the void itself, a middle-aged man oozing with power.
No flourish. No introduction. Just a voice, sharp as a blade, booming through the hall like thunder.
"Welcome to the Gate."
A beat of silence. The voice continued.
"That's what they call this place in the holos and pamphlets. A 'gate' to greatness. To glory. To the future. It's not."
His tone dropped, colder now. Cutting.
"This is a filter. And most of you? You'll be flushed."
The air seemed to drop a few degrees. No one moved. No one breathed.
"You are not chosen. You are not special. You are potential. Raw. Fragile. And already starting to rot. Our job is to burn away everything that isn't worth keeping."
"Some of you will die here. In training. Before you even lay eyes on the Mainland. That's not failure. That's efficiency."
"If—if—you survive, you'll be thrown into a world that doesn't give a damn about your Gifts, your scars, your sob stories, or your dreams."
"On the Mainland, only one thing matters: power. You don't have it. Not yet. But maybe, just maybe, one of you will bleed enough to earn a Legacy."
"And that… that's the only time this world might remember your name."
A pause.
"Until then? You're nothing but Scarling meat."
The silence that followed felt alive. Heavy. The cadets barely dared to blink. Even the instructors stood like statues, cold and unmoved.
Tarrin tilted his head slightly, suppressing a smirk.
What a bloody nice welcome.
The man turned and left the stage like the speech meant nothing. Like they meant nothing. Just another batch to be sorted and sent off to die.
Whispers crept through the crowd—hushed voices from recruits who had already found their cliques, trying to convince each other they were different.
Tarrin ignored them. He knew better.
Then another figure stepped up to the podium—a woman this time, sharp in a black uniform dress that looked more executive than military. Her voice was precise. Clipped.
"We will now begin post assignments," she said, without even pretending to smile. "Step forward when your name is called."
No wasted time. No hand-holding.
"First up—Cadet Martin Frederick. Step onto the stage."
A boy moved through the crowd, stiff-legged and pale, nerves painted across his face even from across the hall.
When he stepped up, she shook his hand like she'd done it a thousand times.
"Martin Frederick," she said, clear and formal. "Forty-Seventh Battalion."
The boy mumbled a quiet thanks and shuffled off the stage.
A pair of staff members guided him toward a side door—probably to get dumped into some barracks or shoebox-sized dorm. Tarrin didn't bother watching too long.
The woman on the podium kept the names coming, efficient and lifeless. Ten cadets in, and then—
"Klein Carter. Thirty-First Battalion."
The room tensed. Just slightly. Enough for Tarrin to notice.
One of the instructors even frowned, muttering something under his breath. Another stiffened like he'd just smelled blood.
Tarrin couldn't help the smirk tugging at his lips.
'Well, guess I know where I'm heading.'
The ceremony dragged on, cadet after cadet stepping up, most of them trying not to trip over their own nerves.
A few scowled when their friends got split off to different battalions. But this wasn't school, and no one here gave a damn about your feelings. Not even the walls.
Then—
"Tarrin Vex. Please step onto the stage."
He didn't hesitate. Didn't pause. His stride was smooth, practiced. Like he'd done this before.
Confidence dripped from every step—though inside, his stomach twisted just enough to make him feel alive.
He walked up the stairs, flashed the woman a grin. Her perfume hit him the moment they were close—sharp, clinical, expensive.
He took her offered hand and gave a firm shake. She raised a brow, just slightly.
"Cadet Tarrin Vex," she said. "Thirty-First Battalion."
His smile cracked. Just a flicker.
'I was kidding. Joking, you gods-damned witch. Why the hell'd I jinx it?'
He gave a sharp nod, then turned, stepping off the stage like he hadn't just been sentenced to something grim.
The staff waiting at the side gave him a look—not cruel, not mocking, just... grim.
'What the hell is up with this battalion?'
They didn't say a word, just motioned toward another door. Tarrin followed, pushing it open and stepping into a smaller hall, quieter now, with a reception desk at the far end.
A woman sat behind it, all smiles and protocol.
"Hello," he said. "I'm supposed to do something here, right?"
"Of course," she chirped. "Can I see your military ID?"
Tarrin handed it over without a hitch. She scanned it with a sleek, unfamiliar device, fingers flying over the interface.
A few seconds later, she pulled out a compact gadget, not too different from the phone he used back in Merlen—just cleaner, colder, and probably rigged to track everything he did.
"This is your Telcom. It contains your assigned quarters, schedule, and essential notices," she said with that plastic smile. Tarrin took it and returned a polite nod.
"Thanks," he said, then turned and walked off.
He crossed the hall without looking back, already flipping open the Telcom.
He tapped into the map function, and a little house icon pinged on the screen—a kilometer away, on the far end of the base.
'Of course. These assholes couldn't put it next door.'
Tarrin stepped out of the building, pausing for a moment as the sheer scale of the base hit him. It stretched out in every direction, an endless sprawl of concrete, steel, and cold efficiency. Honestly, it might've been bigger than Merlen. A kilometer-long hike didn't feel that absurd anymore.
No point stalling.
He started walking, his eyes sweeping the area as he moved. Muscle memory kicked in—scan, assess, memorize. A dingy-looking bar tucked between two blocks. Administration to the right, stacked high with satellite dishes and armed guards. He clocked everything, even the stuff that didn't seem important. Especially that.
Fifteen minutes later, he found it.
The barracks loomed ahead like a fortress. Ten stories tall, all concrete and steel with thin windows like slits. Just one of many, no doubt. A place meant to house soldiers, not comfort them.
Tarrin pulled out his Telcom, flicking through menus and cluttered notifications. Schedules, guidelines, daily reminders, a few threat assessments he probably wasn't supposed to see. Then he found it—Room 64, Fourth Floor.
He sighed.
The door scanned his face before he even touched it. Subtle clicks echoed from the walls—automated locks, biometric reads. Felt less like entering a dorm and more like walking into a prison with good lighting.
What an age to live in.
He stepped into the lobby. The receptionist barely glanced up, slouched in her chair with a cigarette scent that hit like a punch. She looked like she hadn't smiled in years.
Tarrin beat her to the punch, already sliding his military card across the desk with a grin.
"Hey. Room sixty-four. Can I get the key?"
She gave a long blink, then slowly reached for the card like it physically pained her.
"Sure, darling." Her voice was rough, the kind that came from a lifetime of smoke and zero patience.
The scanner she used looked borderline alien, but it did the job. A soft beep, a flicker of light, and she handed him a thin access card.
"Sync it to your Telcom," she muttered, already turning back to her screen.
Tarrin gave a lazy two-finger salute and stepped away.
Where the hell does society even get this much tech? I've seen more scanners in two days than I have in my entire life in Merlen.
A short ride up the elevator followed—just long enough to get side-eyed by a few cadets who clearly didn't like his face. Tarrin ignored them.
He reached the fourth floor and stopped in front of Room 64.
According to the mail, his luggage had already been delivered. Now that's what I call service.
No hesitation.
He scanned the keycard, and the door clicked open with a soft hiss.
But before he could even step inside—
A fist came flying straight at his face.