"Mark?... What mark?" The thought echoed in Neale's mind — a long, silent scream that threatened to crack the hard mask of forced stoicism on his face. Cold sweat began to run down his forehead and back; the tension in that cabin was like a rope stretched to its limit, about to snap.
The soldier's threat hung over everyone, overwhelming and literal. Even though Neale wasn't awakened, he could feel the weight the man's Justa Irá placed on the atmosphere — a power that could reduce him to dust before he could blink.
The other students' panic shifted into a hurried, awkward respect born of pressure they didn't understand. The older boys, who clearly came from slightly more prestigious families — by their posture and tidy clothing — unbuttoned their shirts without any sign of doubt. Neale watched them, under the red-and-white flashing light, trying to figure out what this supposed mark was. In that closed space with the strobing lights, he saw absolutely nothing — there was nothing different on their chests or shoulders or anywhere else — yet the soldier approved them, saying they had passed and were of the Order.
One of the four stoic-looking students, a close-cropped boy sitting in Neale's row, slowly lifted his collar and pulled his shirt up — revealing, again, absolutely nothing. Neale felt the tension rise. There must be some kind of mark on them that he couldn't see. The soldier, with a cold, no-fail look, walked slowly past each student, confirming and approving them one by one.
Neale was last in that section, curled against the wall. He couldn't hide; he had to think up a plan. Something had to happen — anything — a distraction to get him out of that situation.
His hand clutched the handle of one of the two knives at his waist behind his back; he gripped it, squeezing and begging silently for another way. If he fought that soldier he would surely lose — it wasn't something to negotiate, not under the pressure that man exerted just by walking through the cramped vehicle. Even his wound burned more as he tightened his hold on the knife, as if the cut might start bleeding again.
The soldier stopped in front of him at the exact moment the light flicked from white to red, casting a demonic glow across his face.
"Your turn, Sanchez R.," the voice came like an undeniable command, reaffirming authority.
Neale obeyed, moving slowly, his body trembling as he prepared to draw either of his knives at the slightest opening.
He lifted the gray shirt, exposing his chest. Neale saw nothing on his body, and his hand was already moving back toward the knife at his waist — the blade ready to strike the moment he had any gap. He could hear his own heart pounding so loudly it seemed to echo through his mouth.
Neale was about to slit that man's throat. The knife was already partly drawn from its sheath.
"You… passed," the soldier answered calmly, and the weight and pressure in the air seemed to vanish.
"What…?" That was all that raced through Neale's mind as he slowly loosened his grip on the knife.
The girl next to him, with dead eyes, noticed he was holding something but chose not to comment.
The soldier returned to his previous position like a statue, and after everyone was allowed to put their clothes back on, he addressed them.
"Okay, rookies — how many of you managed to see the mark I mentioned that exists on your bodies, or on the bodies of the rookies in front of you? Raise your hand." The soldier spoke calmly, his voice firm.
Each student looked around, trying to tell if it was a joke or some tasteless test. Neale still didn't understand how he had passed if nothing was on his body.
"Answer, rookies," the soldier barked, stamping his foot on the floor.
About five of the students raised their hands; the other five did not move a muscle.
"Seems this year is full of mediocre, talentless lots," the soldier said with a look of disappointment.
"What do you mean… sir?" asked a nearby girl in a trembling voice. Her eyes mixed sadness and innocence, framed by long blond hair with a few red streaks.
"Relax, I'll explain," the soldier said, taking a breath as if choosing his words. "Besides the V-zero full of rookies overflowing with talent — many from named families — you, those ahead and those in the vehicles behind us, are all mediocre and talentless. But don't worry: here, only half are talentless." He finished as if calling so many students weak and mediocre were no big deal.
Half the rookies in the vehicle bowed their heads in thought; the other half, meanwhile, held their heads high simply because they knew they weren't mediocre. Some even seemed to mock those with bowed heads, as if the world had fallen out from under them. Neale was among the bowed — mediocre.
"Don't fool yourselves — just because you can see the mark on your chests doesn't mean much. Having that mark only proves you were born under the Order's protection and that your parents are or were our soldiers. That's it. You're still common humans who haven't even left the 'colorless' level. At best you're at the start of the first level, 'White.' And even if you can already see the mark, you're no less mediocre than those who can't — I've been generating and manipulating my Justa Irá since you boarded and you didn't even notice."
"Levels? … What do you mean, levels?" Neale asked aloud, voice steady and clear.
"Levels of Justa Irá. That's how we classify the power of Justa Irá users — by colors. Those colors determine the focus and amount of Justa Irá a person at a specific level can generate on their own. You'll learn more at the academy. To give you a real example: I am Leonardo Krivak, member of the Lions of Leonidas, House of Leonidas, and my level is Dark Yellow." As soldier Leonardo spoke, he began to generate, condense, and spread his Justa Irá throughout the vehicle. The light that had alternated red and white on the ceiling was reduced to a faint decoration, consumed by Leonardo's Dark Yellow glare.
But none of the rookies seemed to notice the shift in the atmosphere; they remained frozen, feeling only something simple like fear or respect for the soldier as he grew ever stronger while dispersing his Justa Irá. Neale felt a gnawing discomfort that seemed to scrape violently at his bones, and the red-streaked blond rookie began to sweat cold and hot at the same time. They all fought an internal battle to hide their unease, but outwardly they remained the same.
"Now be quiet — I'm going to sleep. I suggest you do the same. The night will be long." Leonardo said, closing his eyes while standing as his Justa Irá dispersed.
The vehicles continued toward Kirden with the rookies aboard, but far away, hours from the Valerium site where the invasion had taken place, beneath the rubble of a wall — the very wall Leonardo had hurled a mercenary into —
"Is it over? … Can I get up? …" said the voice under the mask, his tone stretched by the voice modifier, followed by a yawn as if waking. He stretched and brushed the dust from his shoulders after rising easily.
"I hate having to pretend to be weak… It seems the mercenaries' weaklings didn't kill many Kirden soldiers; they were just dead weight, useful only to die. They wouldn't have been useful anyway, and it's not worth acting like we're part of their group anymore — after all, did you see the boy?" He finished as he pulled the mercenary uniform off his body, revealing wide, bare shoulders covered with long-scar marks from some object; his face wasn't visible, only his sharp canines flashed when he laughed. This was the sight of a soldier the man had found alive but dying — an unlucky Kirden soldier whose last vision was too blurred to see the face of the man who killed him.