Bright walked through the dim hallway leading out of the underground chamber, the air still humming around him. Every step made his senses sharpen, adjust, re-calculate. The world hadn't changed.
He had.
Duncan and the others eventually dispersed, whispering among themselves. Some stared at him with awe. Others with disbelief.
But all of them understood one thing now:
Bright Morgan was no longer a recruit.
And soon, the officers made it official.
The squad assembly area that was also repurposed for administration smelled of dust, metal, and worn boots. A Staff Sergeant—square-jawed, voice like a dropped anvil—marched up to Bright with a tablet in hand.
"Recruit Morgan," he barked.
Bright straightened.
Or tried to—his body still trembled with leftover energy.
"Yes, sir."
"Effective immediately, by order of Training Command…" The Staff Sergeant looked up, eyes narrowing. "You are promoted to Private Morgan, provisional handler of five fledglings."
