The morning arrived with discipline.
The Patrol training hall was quieter than it had been the day before, exhaustion still clinging to the air like a lingering fog. Muscles ached. Joints protested. Yet no one complained aloud. After Nagumo Sensei's physical assessment, most of the candidates had learned something important about themselves—whether they liked the answer or not.
Cyros took his seat near the center of the room, posture easy, hands resting loosely on the desk. The Sol's light filtered in through the narrow windows above, casting long, pale bands across the stone floor. The warmth was steady, familiar. It no longer distracted him.
Nagumo entered without preamble.
This time, he carried a thin stack of papers.
A few students straightened immediately. Others exchanged wary looks. Physical exhaustion was one thing. Mental pressure was another.
"Today," Nagumo said, placing the papers on the front table, "we test something far more difficult to recover from than fatigue."
He distributed the sheets methodically, moving row by row.
"Intelligence," he continued. "Not memory. Not education. Judgment."
The papers slid onto Cyros's desk. He glanced down.
The test was dense.
Case fragments. Incomplete reports. Conflicting witness statements. Ember residue readings without context. Dates that didn't line up. Names partially redacted. It wasn't something that could be memorized or brute-forced.
This was pattern recognition.
Nagumo returned to the front of the room. "You have one hour. Write clearly. There are no trick questions."
Pens scratched softly against paper as the room settled into focused silence.
Cyros moved through the test at a measured pace. He didn't rush, but he didn't linger either. When he encountered contradictions, he circled them lightly, letting them sit in the back of his mind while he moved on. Experience—limited as it was—had taught him that answers rarely revealed themselves when stared at too hard.
Two rows ahead, Taren leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling as if hoping inspiration might fall directly onto his face.
"This is unfair," Taren muttered under his breath. "My muscles can handle pain. My brain prefers encouragement."
Cyros didn't look up, but the corner of his mouth twitched.
Across the room, Aerin wrote steadily. Her pen moved with purpose, never hesitating, never scribbling anything out. She paused occasionally to reread a question, then continued, expression unreadable.
When the hour ended, Nagumo collected the papers without comment.
"That concludes the written portion," he said. "Now for the part most of you will dislike."
He turned to face the room fully, arms crossing loosely.
"This academy produces capable soldiers every year," Nagumo continued. "It produces fewer capable Patrol officers. The reason is simple. Soldiers are trained to answer questions. Patrols are trained to question answers."
He let that sink in.
"The final assessment," he said, "is verbal."
Several students stiffened.
Nagumo activated a projection behind him. The image that appeared was grainy and incomplete, like a memory pulled from damaged records. A stretch of rocky terrain. Sparse vegetation. A narrow dirt path leading toward a small, collapsed structure.
"Case file," Nagumo said. "Unresolved. Five years old."
The image shifted, focusing on a body covered by a thin cloth.
"The victim," Nagumo continued, "was a licensed Medic from the western sector. Found dead in a remote area outside any city jurisdiction. Official cause of death: ember backlash during unsanctioned healing."
A few students nodded. It sounded straightforward.
Nagumo's gaze sharpened.
"Now listen carefully," he said. "The Medic was experienced. No record of disciplinary action. No reason to practice unsanctioned techniques. Ember residue at the scene was minimal. No signs of struggle. No witnesses."
He paused.
"The case was closed within a week."
Silence spread through the room.
"Tell me," Nagumo said, "what happened."
He gestured toward the first row. "You."
Aerin stood.
She didn't rush her answer.
"The location is wrong," she said calmly. "A Medic would not practice experimental healing alone, especially in unstable terrain. If the death was truly due to ember backlash, there should be clear residue patterns. The absence suggests either external interference or deliberate suppression."
Nagumo nodded slightly. "Continue."
"The closure timeline is suspicious," Aerin added. "One week is too fast for a cross-jurisdiction case. Someone wanted it resolved."
She sat.
Whispers rippled faintly through the room.
Nagumo pointed toward another student. "You."
A boy from Nocthar spoke nervously about political pressure and lack of witnesses. His answer was cautious, but thoughtful.
Another suggested bandit involvement.
Another proposed a malfunctioning ember stabilizer.
Each answer was reasonable. Each was incomplete.
Taren raised his hand hesitantly.
Nagumo arched an eyebrow. "Speak."
Taren stood, rubbing the back of his neck. "Okay, so… everyone's assuming the Medic died there. But what if they didn't?"
A few heads turned.
Taren grew more confident as he continued. "No struggle. No residue. Remote location. That sounds less like an accident and more like a staging ground. If someone wanted the death to look like negligence, they'd pick a place where no one could contradict the story."
He shrugged. "Which means the important question isn't how the Medic died. It's where."
Nagumo regarded him for a long moment.
"Sit," he said.
Taren did, heart pounding.
The room grew quieter.
Several more students spoke. The answers circled closer, sharpening with each attempt. Motive. Opportunity. Authority.
Still, something was missing.
Nagumo's gaze finally drifted toward Cyros.
"You haven't spoken," he said.
Cyros felt the room's attention shift toward him. He remained seated for a moment longer, eyes unfocused, tracing the projected image.
He stood.
"The Medic didn't die from ember backlash," Cyros said quietly.
A ripple of reaction followed.
Nagumo's eyes narrowed. "Explain."
Cyros gestured toward the projection. "There's no burn pattern. No residual instability. Even suppressed, ember backlash leaves traces. This scene has none."
He paused.
"The body was moved," Cyros continued. "But not far. The terrain damage suggests a short transport, not a long one. Whoever staged it wanted plausible deniability, not distance."
Nagumo didn't interrupt.
"The Medic wasn't practicing unsanctioned healing," Cyros said. "They were performing sanctioned work. Something sensitive enough to require discretion."
Aerin's eyes flicked toward him.
Cyros met Nagumo's gaze. "The killer wasn't afraid of the Medic. They were afraid of what the Medic knew."
The room was silent now.
"The case was closed quickly because the investigation was dangerous," Cyros added. "Not politically. Systemically. Someone with authority decided it was safer to label it negligence than ask what kind of treatment required a Medic to disappear quietly."
He lowered his hand.
"The cause of death," Cyros finished, "was deliberate termination. The ember residue was cleaned. The scene was simplified. And the truth was buried because it pointed upward."
Nagumo didn't speak immediately.
Then he nodded once.
"That," he said, "is the correct answer."
The room exhaled collectively.
Nagumo deactivated the projection. "Remember this case," he said. "You won't find its conclusion in any archive."
"Class dismissed."
Students filed out slowly, voices hushed, expressions thoughtful. Taren caught up to Cyros near the doorway, eyes wide.
"Since when do you talk like that?" he whispered. "You sounded like you'd been there."
Cyros shook his head. "I just listened to what wasn't said."
Aerin passed them without comment, then paused.
She turned slightly, glanced at Cyros for a second. Then she walked on.
Cyros watched her go, expression unchanged.
Far from the academy, in a place untouched by the Sol's direct light, a quiet room held a different conversation.
An elderly man's voice spoke from the shadows, calm and measured.
"Lucian is a talented boy. Everyone is eyeing him."
A pause.
"Any other news from the other classes?"
A second voice answered—a woman's, smooth and certain.
"There is," she said. "A boy from Patrol."
Another pause.
"Definitely," she added, "a special one."