Morning arrived without ceremony.
Harsh alarms screeched at 4th bell. Lights blazed overhead with a flicker, revealing half-dressed bodies scrambling out of bunks. The concrete walls hummed as the power grid surged to life.
Akira was already up.
He hadn't slept much.
He sat on the edge of his bunk, fully dressed, boots laced, eyes steady.
"Division 9! OUT!" the speakers barked. "Report to Yard 3 for physical calibration. Late arrivals will be disqualified. Permanently."
The others rushed. Akira walked.
Outside, a low mist clung to the academy grounds, seeping from cracked vents and ground seams. Training Yard 3 was already packed with other low-tier divisions each one marked by armbands of different colors. Division 9 wore no color. Not yet. Not until they earned one.
A tall, wiry instructor with half his jaw replaced by polymer plating stood waiting.
His voice was cold, clipped. "Welcome to Iron Sigil's calibration protocol. You'll run. You'll fall. You'll bleed. And those of you still standing at the end of the day will be processed into real combat simulations."
He gestured to the starting line where dozens of metal poles extended from the earth some buzzing with energy, others spinning lazily with blunt blades attached.
"Obstacle run begins now."
Someone groaned behind Akira. A younger recruit. Newer. Softer.
No one responded.
The course exploded into motion.
Akira ran.
His breath came slow, even. His legs burned early, but he ignored it. Pain wasn't new. Neither was fear. What mattered was rhythm.
He slid under the first spinning arm, rolled past a buzzing pole, then leapt between two rising walls that slammed together seconds later. Dust filled his lungs. Someone behind him screamed.
He didn't stop.
Halfway through the course, a boy ahead of him tripped caught by a cable trap. A drone marked him with a red flash. Medics would come later. Maybe.
Akira vaulted over the body without hesitation.
By the time he reached the end, only eight from Division 9 remained.
He was the first.
***
Later That Day – Medical Checkpoint
Bruised. Scraped. But breathing.
Akira sat on a metal bench while a med-bot scanned his vitals. A bored attendant tapped notes into a cracked datapad, not looking up.
"You'll last longer than most," she muttered.
He didn't reply.
She glanced at his file. "Scavenger Corps, huh? That's why you don't flinch."
Still, he said nothing.
"Whatever. Just don't die before your combat pairing. First round starts tomorrow. You're up early."
He stood to leave.
"Oh," she added, almost as an afterthought. "You're being watched."
That made him pause.
She shrugged. "Someone in the upper divisions flagged your file. Don't know who. Don't care. Just thought you should know."
Back in the barracks, Akira sat alone.
The others were still recovering. One had a splint on his wrist. Another coughed blood quietly into a shirt. No one had the energy to talk.
Akira leaned back against the wall, his contact lenses glinting briefly in the light before dimming back to dull brown.
Being watched.
Good.
Let them.
End of Chapter 2