CXII
Virtual Battle Class shows up on the schedule as a huge block of time because it's one of the backbone courses of the interstellar martial academies. It's not just "gaming" or "simulations"—it's where they figure out whether you can think like a commander, whether you can coordinate alien species with wildly different abilities, and whether you can keep your head when the grid lights up with threats from every direction.
I stare at the pad, the words glowing in crisp alien script translated into English.
"What's Virtual Battle Class?" I ask.
Daryll's ears perk a little—he always looks faintly amused when I ask about coursework, like he's remembering his own schedule, pulling it up on his pad.
He leans against the wall, arms folded. "It says it's command class on the battlefield."
The cat girl—Felinid—chimes in, tail flicking. "You organize tactics and teams on a virtual grid. Real‑time. No pauses."
The fox‑man adds, "You get to try it out virtually. Full immersion. Your squad moves exactly how you direct them."
The bear‑man rumbles, "The trainer grades you on tactics and wins. Percentage‑based."
Daryll taps the pad lightly. "Being the commander gets more points. More responsibility. More blame when you screw up."
The Felinid smirks. "I bet everyone screws up a lot the first time."
Daryll gives her a look. "I learn quickly."
The fox‑man snorts. "After you got three squads vaporized in simulation you lose command and are demoted."
Daryll says, lifting a finger. "You'll be fine, they respawn. There's plenty of chances."
The bear‑man grunts. "The instructor says you'll experience the most dramatic failure of the semester."
Daryll sighs. "It's a creative failure."
I scroll through the schedule again. Virtual Battle Class takes up nearly half the week. It's color‑coded in red, marked with a symbol that looks like a stylized starburst.
"So it's basically… interstellar strategy training," I say.
Daryll nods. "Exactly. You learn how to command mixed‑species units. Felinids move fast. Vulpinids flank. Ursinids anchor the line. And Hat‑Walkers—my people—handle precision strikes."
The Felinid smiles. "You'll be good at it. You think fast."
The fox‑man adds, "And you don't panic."
The bear‑man nods once. "Good qualities in a commander."
Daryll leans close, voice warm. "You'll shine, pet. Virtual Battle Class is where you learn what kind of leader you are."
The pad pulses softly in my hand.
And suddenly the idea of commanding squads of alien soldiers on a virtual battlefield feels less terrifying—and more like the beginning of something enormous.
Immersive, sensory, tense — the moment training stops being theoretical and becomes real.
My chest pounds as we step into the auditorium.
It's enormous. Circular.
Dimly lit except for the rows of standing tubes arranged like pillars around the room. Each one glows faintly from within, pulsing with a soft blue light, as if breathing.
Cadets from a dozen species file in, tails flicking, wings folding, claws tapping, boots thudding. Everyone moves with a strange mix of excitement and dread.
Sgt. Grackel stands at the front.
He's… striking.
Grey skin with a faint metallic sheen.
Four prehensile limbs folded neatly behind him like extra arms.
Uniform a smart dark blue, patches glowing like constellations.
One eye covered by a monocle‑like visualizer that flickers with student data.
His voice booms through the auditorium, resonant and commanding.
"Class, form up. You will receive your assignment after entering the virtual tube."
The tubes hum louder, as if responding.
"Put on the helmet and breather first," he continues, "then press the glowing button when you are ready."
Daryll nudges me gently. "You'll be fine, pet. It's just a simulation."
The cat girl snorts. "It's not just a simulation. It's graded."
The fox‑man adds, "And it hurts your pride when you fail."
The bear‑man rumbles, "And your ribs, if you forget to brace."
I swallow hard. I'm glad I'm not afraid of small, enclosed spaces. This would be a nightmare if I was.
Then I step into one of the tubes.
Inside, it's surprisingly warm. The walls curve around me, smooth and seamless. I pull the visual helmet over my head. It fits snugly, sealing out the world. The breather clicks into place over my mouth, feeding me cool, filtered air.
A soft chime sounds. The glowing button pulses under my hand. I press it.
Immediately, bluish smoke begins to fill the tube. It was not thick, not choking, but luminous, swirling around me like mist in a dream. It didn't have a scent. It rises, curls, and then begins to solidify, turning into a cool, supportive gel.
It touches my legs first. Cold, silky, like the touch of slippery noodles.
Strangely comforting.
Then it rises higher, enveloping my torso, my arms, my shoulders. It feels like sinking into a bath made of moonlight. The gel lifts me gently, suspending my body upright, weightless but supported.
My breath catches. The helmet lights up.
A grid forms in front of my eyes with glowing lines, shifting terrain, icons representing squads, enemy units, objectives. The gel holds me perfectly still as the simulation boots up.
Sgt. Grackel's voice echoes through the helmet speakers.
"Welcome to Virtual Battle Class. Your decisions determine survival. Your tactics determine victory. Your leadership determines your grade."
The battlefield doesn't appear all at once.
It builds itself around me.
First a light grid, glowing lines stretching into the distance like the skeleton of a world. Then the grid fills — terrain rising from nothing, hills forming, rivers carving themselves across the landscape, structures assembling from shimmering particles.
The gel holds me suspended, weightless, perfectly upright. My heart thunders against the breather.
One by one, the other students materialize on the grid beside me — their avatars wearing uniforms lit with glowing patches of different colors. Felinids with flicking tails. Vulpinids with sharp ears. Ursinids towering like walking tanks. Crystalline cadets refracting the simulated sunlight.
Every patch glows with a color.
Every color means a squad.
Sgt. Grackel's voice booms overhead, amplified through the helmet.
"Group by squads. Your squad colors are on your patches. The leader's patch will have a glowing border."
I look down.
My patch glows softly — a deep, pulsing gold.
Then the border ignites.
I'm the leader.
My stomach flips.
The instructor continues, his prehensile limbs tapping commands into a floating console. "Your assigned terrain is on your virtual screen. Lead your squad to your flag with your squad number. Go."
My screen flashes.
Terrain: Forested Ridge / Mixed Elevation
Squad: Seventeen
Flag Location: Sector 4B
The grid shifts, highlighting a distant ridge covered in simulated trees. My squad's avatars blink into formation around me — twenty glowing silhouettes, each one representing a cadet suspended in their own gel tube.
Atta the Felinid appears at my left, tail flicking.
The Vulpinid fox‑soldier stands at my right, already scanning the terrain.
The Ursinid bear‑soldier anchors the rear, massive and steady.
Daryll's avatar materializes beside me, smirking faintly.
"Lead the way, darling," he says, voice filtered through the simulation.
The battlefield pulses.
The flag marker glows in the distance.
My squad waits. My chest pounds.
And for the first time, I feel the weight of command settle onto my shoulders — not heavy, not frightening, but electric.
This isn't just a class. It's the first test of the leader I'm becoming.
Sgt. Grackel's voice booms overhead, resonant and metallic, his prehensile limbs tapping commands into a floating console.
"Virtual enemies will appear during your route. Do your best and avoid them tactically, or physically with force. It's up to your commanders."
The grid shifts.
Triangular dots appear on my screen — glowing red, arranged in clusters across the terrain.
Virtual enemies.
Standing between us and our flag.
Grackel continues, "Group by squads. Your squad colors are on your patches. The leader's patch will have a glowing border. Your assigned terrain is on your virtual screen. Lead your squad to your flag with your squad number. Go."
My screen flashes:
Squad 17
Terrain: Forested Ridge
Flag: Sector 4B
Enemy Presence: Moderate
The triangular dots pulse — each one representing a hostile unit. They're scattered across the ridge, forming a loose blockade between us and the flag.
My squad materializes around me:
Atta the Felinid, tail flicking, already crouched low like she's ready to sprint.
The Vulpinid fox‑soldier scanning the horizon, ears twitching.
The Ursinid bear‑soldier anchoring the rear, massive and steady.
Daryll beside me, smirking faintly, his avatar's coat fluttering in the simulated wind.
Twenty cadets in total.
All waiting for my command.
The triangular enemy markers glow brighter.
They're moving.
Atta's voice comes through the helmet, crisp and eager. "Commander, we've got hostiles on the ridge. Fast movers."
The fox‑man adds, "We can flank left. Light cover, minimal resistance."
The Ursinid rumbles, "Or push through. I can break their line."
Daryll leans close, voice warm even through the simulation filter. "Your call, darling."
The battlefield pulses beneath us.
The enemies advance. My squad waits.
And the weight of command settles onto my shoulders — electric, terrifying, exhilarating. Time to lead.
Your first command decision — sharp, tactical, shaped by memory and instinct.
For a few seconds, I freeze.
Not out of fear — out of focus.
The terrain on the screen sharpens: a canyon, narrow at the base, widening into a ridge where our flag waits. The virtual enemies — triangular red dots — creep up the canyon walls, forming a loose blockade. The grid pulses beneath my feet, the gel holding me upright like a weightless harness.
My heart beats faster.
The bone‑canyon flashes through my mind. The fae ridge.
The way the hounds moved was similar to the virtual enemy.
The way we survived by thinking sideways instead of forward.
I inhale.
"Okay," I say, voice steadying. "We've got light cloaks, anti‑gravity boots, and stunners in our random inventory."
Atta's avatar flicks her tail. "Cloaks are good. Boots are better."
The fox‑man nods. "Stunners will drop them if we get close."
The Ursinid rumbles, "Or if they get close to us."
I keep my eyes on the terrain.
"We can sneak attack them from the sides of the canyon," I say. "Take six of us through the center and lure them forward."
Daryll's avatar smirks. "A bait squad. Classic."
"Not bait," I correct. "A distraction. We'll drop down from above using anti‑gravity."
The squad shifts, listening.
I point to the glowing ridge on the map. "The canyon walls are steep, but the boots will let us hover long enough to position ourselves. Cloaks will hide our heat signatures. The center team draws them in. The ridge team drops down and hits them from above."
Atta grins, fangs flashing. "Ambush from elevation. I like it."
The fox‑man's ears twitch. "We'll need timing."
The Ursinid nods. "We'll need discipline."
Daryll leans close, voice warm even through the simulation filter. "We'll need you, darling."
The triangular enemy dots pulse again — moving, searching, forming a loose net across the canyon floor.
My squad waits. The gel hums around me like a cool hug as I immerse myself in the virtual world. The battlefield breathes.
And I feel the shift — the moment where instinct becomes strategy, where memory becomes command.
"Squad Seventeen," I say, "move out."
The avatars snap into formation.
The canyon awaits.