The Zeon Military Academy hummed with the muted energy of ambition and discipline, even in the deep hush of late evening. Sparse lights cast long shadows that stretched across polished floors and cold metal bulkheads. Within this vast, sleeping machine, two figures remained awake — each engaged in their solitary ritual, separated by distance but linked by an unseen current of shared experience.
In a low-lit strategy room, the scent of recycled air mingled with the faint tang of ozone from holographic displays. Cadet Lelouch vi Britannia—though here, that name held little meaning—traced a finger across a projected map of a contested asteroid field. His eyes, sharp and calculating, absorbed the data points, hypothetical vectors, and predicted casualty rates. The silence pressed around him, broken only by the soft whirr of the projector and the subtle shifting of his weight against the cold chair.
Another world, he thought, calm but resolute. Another war. Different uniforms, different flags—but the patterns of conflict remain the same.
He remembered other strategy rooms, other battles waged on digital maps and brittle parchment. He recalled the weight on his shoulders—the crushing burden of being Zero, and later, the Emperor.
Losses. The word echoed—not with pain, but with quiet acknowledgment. Shirley. Euphemia. Rolo. Countless nameless soldiers sent to their deaths in the service of a greater vision.
He clenched his jaw briefly, a cold reminder of the calculation required: the willingness to sacrifice the few for the many, the terrible necessity of becoming a demon to forge peace.
Leadership changes you.
His gaze flickered away from the map, distant for a heartbeat, before snapping back to the tactical display. The isolation of power—absolute and suffocating—had stripped him bare. It had forced him to confront the darkest corners of human nature—his own included.
Nunnally. Suzaku. Kallen. C.C.
What had become of them after the silence fell? After the Zero Requiem?
But there was no sting of regret. That ache was gone, dulled not by denial, but by acceptance. That life was over—written in blood and sacrifice.
This new existence, beneath Zeon's harsh stars, offered a different kind of potential. Not about toppling false empires, but about building strength within a universe defined by power. No divine forces. No ancient destinies. Just war, and the logic that governed it.
I carry their will, he thought—not as a burden, but as a quiet, enduring resolve. The hopes of Euphemia, Kallen's fierce loyalty, Shirley's kindness, Nunnally's belief in peace. These were embers banked deep within him.
He would not squander this second chance.
Far across the academy, in the sterile, echoing expanse of the main firing range, Cadet Tanya Degurechaff stood at a firing lane. The sharp crack of her beam pistol punctuated the silence. Target after target disintegrated under her precise, controlled bursts.
No wasted movement. No hesitation. Only honed, relentless efficiency.
Torment, she thought—each shot a brief, focused release. Her past life, shaped by the cruel trials of Being X, had been a mockery of reason. A battlefield of arbitrary faith and manufactured suffering. That memory clung like frost—sharp and persistent.
But here... here, there were no gods. No miracles. No divine interventions.
Only physical law. Predictable consequence. A system she could understand, manipulate, master.
Control.
She felt it in the balanced weight of the beam pistol. In the measured squeeze of her finger. In the clean, repeatable result of her aim.
This world was brutal—but fair. A system of parts. A battlefield with knowable rules. Here, her competence was enough. Her will, enough.
I accept this.
This life was not grace. It was earned. It was hers.
Despite the distance between them, the silence, the contrast in setting, there was a resonance—an unspoken bond between the two.
Not telepathy. Not memory.
But shared truth: they were survivors of other wars, other identities. Exiles of past lives. Each carried scars, not as chains, but as weapons honed and sheathed.
As Lelouch studied the predicted path of an enemy fleet, and Tanya lined up her next target, the Zeon Academy held them both in its grip—two souls preparing for what came next.
A distant alarm echoed down the hallways—soft, insistent. A low-level notice. Not urgent. But not nothing.
The call to arms would come.
Their moment was approaching.
The next morning arrived with a crisp formality that belonged solely to military life. The Academy stirred early; cadets marched, drills rang out across the yard, and light streamed down across banners bearing the Zeon sigil.
Now among the throng, Lelouch and Tanya walked side by side, uniforms sharp, steps precise.
The world saw them as the von Zehrtfeld twins—children of a respected military family, known for intellect and discipline. Lelouch's poise and Tanya's unflinching control had earned them a quiet reputation.
But few knew how deeply they had been shaped—not just by war, but by love.
Their parents in this life, Alaric and Elara von Zehrtfeld, had never commanded armies nor sat in war councils. Alaric von Zehrtfeld was a logistics officer during the early militarization of Zeon, coordinating infrastructure during the rise of the Zabi regime. He never fired a shot—but he kept the war machine fueled. Elara worked as a historian documenting Side 3's colonial identity, focusing on the early movements that shaped Zeon independence.
Yet in their simplicity, they had given the twins something their former worlds never had: a home.
Lelouch remembered playing chess by lamplight with Alaric—not as competition, but as mentorship. He remembered Elara's quiet patience as he asked about Earth's political collapses, her tone never dismissive.
Tanya remembered being wrapped in blankets, her mother reading her stories that didn't end in death. She remembered riding lessons taught not for advantage, but for joy.
When illness took their parents, it was not betrayal—it was grief. Pure and searing, but natural.
Selene, their older sister, had taken up the mantle afterward. An officer in Zeon's administrative corps, she visited when she could, grounding them with warmth and constancy. She didn't need to understand their secrets—she saw them, as they were.
Because of Selene, and the memory of Alaric and Elara, they were more than tacticians. More than survivors. They were whole.
They didn't chase conquest anymore.
They built toward stability.
Their skill—sharp and lethal—was no longer a tool for survival alone, but for purpose. They fought not for ideology or fear, but for the life they had chosen, and the people who had given them one worth protecting.
A sharp tone sounded from Lelouch's personal communicator. He glanced down.
PRIORITY NOTICE
UNIT COMPATIBILITY & TACTICAL SYNERGY EVALUATION
Cadets Tanya and Lelouch von Zehrtfeld
Report: 0800 hours – Sim Chamber C
He let out a small breath. Tanya glanced over.
"Well," she murmured, voice dry, "looks like they're finally curious what happens when we fight together."
Lelouch gave a faint smile. "Try not to vaporize the instructor on your opening move."
Tanya smirked.
Their footfalls echoed together across the polished hall. The Academy loomed around them, steel and tradition forged in the fires of Zeon's long wars.
And ahead—unknown tests, new challenges, the convergence of past and future.
Two shadows, distinct yet walking in step, turned the corner and vanished into the next corridor—calm, prepared, and absolutely resolved.