CLANK. CLANK.
The sharp ring of metal on metal echoed through the training chamber. Sparks flared in the air as two figures danced across the worn floor—one tall and broad, wielding a long steel spear; the other, lithe and quick, a boy no older than fifteen with a curved training sword in hand.
Major Elric spun his spear with precise, punishing rhythm, using its reach to keep the boy at bay. Sweat glistened on his brow—not from exertion, but focus. Across from him, Luke circled with practiced steps, golden eyes narrowed, his breath steady despite the rapid exchange.
"You're improving," Elric called out mid-swing, voice gruff but not unkind. "But you're still too reactive!"
He lunged suddenly. The spear shot forward like a bolt of lightning. Luke barely deflected it, sliding to the side, but left himself open. Elric swept his leg low.
"Watch your footing—!"
WHAM.
Luke hit the ground hard, rolling just in time to avoid another brutal thrust. He sprang back to his feet, boots skidding across the scuffed floor. Elric was already on him, pressing the advantage with a flurry of thrusts and feints.
But Luke didn't panic. His sword danced in his hands, deflecting what he could, redirecting what he couldn't. The room rang with the harsh rhythm of combat—blades meeting, grunts of effort, the soft thuds of shifting feet.
Then Luke parried a spear strike high—and exploded forward.
A burst of kinetic force erupted beneath his boots, launching him toward Elric in a streak of motion. His blade carved through the air with brutal intent.
Elric's eyes widened slightly. He stepped back quickly, spear tracing arcs to keep the boy off. "Not bad. You're using your footing better."
Luke didn't answer. His strikes came heavier now, battering the spear to break its flow. Elric was forced to retreat step by step, guiding Luke unknowingly across the room.
Then—click.
Elric's foot touched a faint sigil etched into the floor.
A delayed explosion of smoke and force shot upward, blinding and deafening. Luke's eyes lit up with fierce triumph. Without hesitation, he leapt into the haze, sword raised high, aiming straight for the blurred silhouette within.
This is it!
The blade cut down—fast, precise.
It hit nothing.
"Wha—?"
Cold metal touched his neck. Luke froze.
A voice murmured behind him, calm and composed.
"Clever, Luke. Using the knockdown to mask your setup? You've finally started thinking like a warrior."
The smoke cleared to reveal Elric standing behind him, spear now lowered. His other hand ruffled the boy's hair with a rare smirk. "I had a hunch you were up to something. You've been pestering the other officers for enchantment advice all week."
Luke huffed, turning his head slightly but not moving from the blade's edge. "So you knew."
"I suspected," Elric replied, stepping back and lowering his weapon. "Your only mistake was thinking I'd fall for it—even knowing. And I'm still stronger than you with these restrictions."
Luke turned to face him fully, frustration flushed on his cheeks. "But you met me at my level the whole time. I should've landed that hit."
"True," Elric said, folding his arms. "If I didn't have years more experience, I might not have dodged in time. But don't discount your progress—most kids your age wouldn't land half the counters you did."
Luke exhaled slowly, brushing dust from his uniform. "I relied too much on the trap… let my guard drop."
"And that's what you'll fix next time." Elric clapped a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Good analysis. A fight's only wasted if you learn nothing."
Luke nodded silently, frustration cooling into thoughtfulness.
"Oh, and clean yourself up," Elric added as he turned away. "Commander Frank's due back this evening. He's taking you to the Academy tomorrow."
Luke blinked. "Tomorrow?"
Elric grinned. "Surprised? Don't be. You've been preparing for this for nine years—plus all you've contributed to the war. You've earned it."
Luke looked down at his training sword, then at the scorch mark left by his trap. His eyes flicked toward the door, mind already racing ahead.
"Ashgrove, huh…"
Elric glanced back. "Don't worry, Luke. You'll survive whatever that place can throw at you."
---
The next evening, the sky above the base was painted in bruised shades of orange and blue, dusk settling like a slow exhale across the war-torn plains. A sleek transport jet descended into the port, its engines roaring low as the landing thrusters engaged, sending violent gusts of wind in every direction. Dust spiraled outward. Lights along the runway flickered to guide it in. Then, with a soft thud and a hiss of decompressing hydraulics, it landed.
The floodlights on the tarmac dimmed, and the bay door at the rear of the jet unlatched with a mechanical groan. Figures disembarked—officers, engineers, and medics, all headed to their stations—but Luke barely noticed them.
He stood just beyond the landing strip, backpack slung over his shoulder, uniform crisp and freshly pressed, the insignia of the base stitched neatly on his left arm. His sword, now refined and regulation-approved, hung sheathed at his hip. His eyes, bright yellow as ever, flicked between the ship and the familiar faces gathered before him.
Most of the soldiers had come to see him off. Mira gave him a sharp salute, though her eyes were suspiciously red.
"Don't go getting soft out there. Ashgrove's a den of lions and leeches. If anyone tries to push you around…" She trailed off, fighting to keep her voice steady.
"I'll knock them on their ass," Luke said with a grin. "Tarlon taught me that much."
The Vice-Captain laughed, stepping forward and clasping Luke's forearm.
"Damn right I did. You've got more guts than most officers twice your age. Keep your head down, but don't let 'em think you're prey. You're not."
"Thanks," Luke replied, voice quieter now.
Elric approached next, arms crossed but expression gentle.
"You'll be fine," he said. "You've already been through worse than half the cadets you'll meet. And if anyone asks, tell them Major Elric once called you his equal."
"That'd be a lie," Luke muttered, smirking.
"Damn right it would. But they won't know that."
Elric placed a hand on Luke's shoulder.
"You've got something rare, Luke—not just your Void resistance, but heart. Don't lose it."
Luke nodded, unable to trust his voice. His throat felt tight, these were the people he had spent his whole life with and now for the first time he was leaving.
Frank stood a little behind the others, arms folded, cloak fluttering gently in the wind. He hadn't said much all day—that was how he was: quiet when it mattered most. As the last goodbyes faded, he walked up beside Luke.
"Ready?" Frank asked.
Luke hesitated. "I think so."
Frank gave a slight nod and looked toward the jet.
"It's a long ride. No turning back after this."
"I'm not scared."
"I know."
They stood in silence for a beat. Then Frank placed a hand on Luke's shoulder—not the rigid grasp of a commander, but something gentler, firmer, like an anchor in a storm.
"Whatever happens out there," Frank said, voice low, "you're not alone. If you ever need somewhere to come back to, you've got one. You hear me?"
Luke didn't respond with words. He simply nodded—and didn't pull away from the hand on his shoulder.
Frank led him toward the jet, their boots echoing on the metal ramp as they climbed aboard. The interior lights bathed them in cold blue glow. The door closed behind them with a hiss, sealing the base—and a chapter of Luke's life—behind them.
As the engines flared and the jet rose into the clouds, Luke stared out the window at the shrinking base below. He saw the figures—Mira waving, Tarlon saluting, Elric standing still.
He pressed a hand to the glass. Then turned forward, toward the future. Toward Ashgrove.