Kasala looked at them, his expression thoughtful but carrying the full weight of command, the kind that settled heavy on a room and made silence stretch until even the smallest shift of a boot felt loud. "All right. Now that the briefing about what we are preparing for is done, I need to explain a few things about what this class is supposed to be. Normally, I work with cadets who have already spent years under this structure. By the time they come to me, they know the rhythm, the tactics, the way my orders fall, even the small tricks and expectations that make a squad run smooth. Usually, I only receive a handful of new faces each year, four at most, folded into a group that already understands what it means to fight as one. I can refine them, sharpen edges, patch gaps, and mold them into something useful. But this year, it's different. All sixteen of you are new to this class. You haven't had four years together to refine yourselves under my eye, and that makes this an experiment I have never attempted. Which means, for me, this will be… interesting."

His gaze swept slowly across the line of cadets, pausing on each face as though measuring them, eyes moving with the deliberate patience of a man who had weighed hundreds before them. "I assume you've been working as a unit, for a few months now? Long enough to at least start learning each other's strengths and weaknesses. Long enough to stumble through forming the beginnings of a squad. I don't know those things yet, but I will need to. If I am to judge how you operate, I must see for myself whether you can be shaped into what I expect a squad to be, and whether any of you can grow into the kind of soldiers this class requires. You will need to prove that to me. Not with words, but with cohesion, instinct, and survival. That is the only language that matters to me. That is what I will listen for."

The line of cadets shifted slightly, some straightening their posture, others glancing at each other as though unsure of what Kasala wanted to hear. The tension was palpable, and no one dared break it until Vaeliyan stepped forward. His tone was calm but confident, filling the quiet like a blade sliding from its sheath. "We have a few holos you could use that might help."

Kasala tilted his head, interest flickering across his sharp features. His eyes narrowed a fraction, not in suspicion but in calculation. "Holos? That is useful. Thank you. That will actually help more than you realize. Yes… I think I am going to dismiss you all for now. I need to rethink my entire curriculum for this year. None of this will work the way it usually does. Your presence alone has forced a reset." He fixed his eyes on Vaeliyan again, voice steady but probing. "Do you happen to have those holos with you, Vaeliyan? It is Vaeliyan, correct?"

"Yes," Vaeliyan said without hesitation, his chin lifted as though to meet the weight of Kasala's scrutiny.

Jurpat stepped forward before Kasala could continue, digging into his coat with a rough motion. From within he pulled out a handful of marble-sized objects that shimmered faintly, their surfaces catching what little light there was and bending it oddly, as though they contained reflections of places not present. He placed them carefully into Kasala's waiting hand. "Yeah. Here you go."

Kasala weighed them lightly, rolling one between his fingers with care, the faint gleam catching his eyes. He turned it once, studying the etched surface, the way the marks spiraled like veins, before tucking them away with deliberate precision. "Good. I'll go over these in detail, and I will contact you again once I've decided how best to proceed. We will meet again soon, and by then I'll know what direction we're taking. These will tell me far more than any first impression can. First impressions lie, but holos do not. They cut past pretense. They show me who you are when you don't know you're being seen." His words lingered in the air like a promise and a warning both, the tone leaving no room for misunderstanding.

Then he straightened, drawing himself to his full height. His voice carried a weighty finality and a ritual cadence; one every cadet knew by heart but felt anew under his delivery. "Until then: good luck. Don't die. And. We are not human."

The cadets answered in unison, voices blending into a single note of conviction, "We are Legion."

Kasala raised his hands in the Legion salute, the gesture precise and sharp, shoulders squared and unyielding. His right fist pressed hard over his chest, striking where the heart lay, as though punching into it and covering it at the same time. His left hand extended upward, raised high toward the sky in challenge, fingers straight, palm outward to the world, a gesture of defiance against everything that sought to erase them. "We are not human."

Their voices followed again, stronger this time, resonating through the hall and filling the air with something fierce, a shared identity larger than any one of them. Every cadet mirrored the salute perfectly: right fist over the heart, left hand raised to the heavens. "We are Legion." The force of it seemed to vibrate in the air, like the walls themselves might carry the oath away to distant ears.

Kasala held their eyes for a long moment, gaze burning with intensity, as if daring them to falter or break formation. No one did. Silence thickened, not empty but charged, every heartbeat sounding louder in their own ears, until it felt as though the cadence of the room itself beat in unison with the Legion's vow. Only after the moment stretched taut did he lower his hand, return their salute with a final motion, and turn away. His dismissal was clear, but the echo of his presence lingered, pressing into their chests like the weight of armor. It left the cadets with the sharp, undeniable sense that from this moment forward, every step they took would be watched, weighed, and judged, and that the standard expected of them had risen far beyond anything they had known before.

When they got back to the estate, it was still early, the kind of early where the light hadn't fully settled and the air carried a quiet that felt heavy after the formality of the Citadel. The place seemed almost unnaturally still, the marble floors echoing faintly with every step as if the building itself was waiting. None of them were surprised that the High Imperator had cut things short; most of them had guessed he wouldn't be prepared for sixteen new cadets at once. It had been written on his face, the calculation, the pause. They had even made plans for the rest of the day, assuming they would be turned loose without any clear task. That expectation gave their return a strange mix of relief and uncertainty, like a morning where the battle hadn't yet been called.

Vaeliyan asked them to gather before anyone broke away. His voice was steady but low, carrying just enough weight to bring them together without argument. He said there were things that needed to be discussed from last night, things he couldn't put aside. They filed into his living room, the furniture half-lived in, half-forgotten, scattered between comfort and utility. Some cadets sank into chairs with heavy exhalations, others leaned against the walls, arms crossed or dangling loose, eyes flicking toward him. The atmosphere was expectant but also oddly loose, as though they were bracing for something more serious than they wanted to admit. Rowan was the first to break the quiet. "So, what's this about?"

Vaeliyan didn't answer directly. He just nodded toward Varnai. "Go ahead."

She pulled her knees up, curling slightly into the chair, speaking evenly as she explained what the two of them had talked about the night before. Her words were clipped, not dramatic, but the meaning landed. She traced through the doubts about his soul skills, the strange layering of them, and the sense that what he carried went deeper than it should. The rest listened without interruption, their faces gradually sharpening into curiosity and unease. When she got to the part about there being something beneath his soul, Torman frowned and leaned forward. "So, what do you think it is? Why would you even have a layer below your soul? That doesn't sound right."

Vaeliyan exhaled slowly, rubbing his palms together. "I don't know. That's what I was hoping Chime, or maybe Lambert, might be able to answer. Though I'm not exactly eager to ask her."

Chime smirked, folding her arms tight across her chest. "She'd be very interested, no doubt. Might even figure something out. But you'd also be risking her obsession. She's been calling it your 'sweet, sweet red juice.' Every time I see her, that's all she brings up. Apparently, that's what she's named it now. Unfortunately."

The group broke into uneven chuckles, some amused, others uneasy, though Vaeliyan only shook his head. "Right. Well. That makes me even less thrilled about asking. Maybe we just wait until Imujin speaks to us tonight. At least he can keep her from trying to exsanguinate me."

"Fair," Chime said with a shrug. "That's probably the best idea. Safer, at least."

Jurpat leaned forward, elbows braced on his knees, voice carrying more urgency than humor. "But do you think they don't know already? The instructors, I mean. How could they not? There has to be some reason our armors look the way they do. Each one different. I'm surprised no one's asked outright, or said anything about it."

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Varnai shrugged, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear. "Most likely they assume it's tied to our DNA. That makes the most sense from their angle. We're all individuals, so the armors manifest individually. Look at the twins, almost identical, but even their sets differ slightly. Different colors, different trims. Even identical DNA leaves room for divergence. It's the easy answer, so they take it."

Vaeliyan rubbed the bridge of his nose, his jaw working as though chewing through the thought. "Yeah, I guess so. Still… it doesn't sit right. But whatever. We'll bring it up tonight if we have the chance." He pushed himself up from his chair, stretching his shoulders with a faint roll. "For now, I'm going to try to sleep. Just because I took stims doesn't mean I can't at least close my eyes. Better than pacing and getting stuck in my own head again."

Lessa gave him a small smile, leaning back against the arm of the couch. "Go on then. We'll wake you if something comes up. You've earned at least a little rest. Not everything has to be solved in one breath."

Vaeliyan offered a faint nod, already turning toward his room, shoulders heavy but stride still sure. "Thanks. Wake me when you're back, if I manage to sleep."

The others let him go, settling back into their own conversations, voices low and threaded with speculation. The estate's quiet pressed down around them like a heavy blanket after the Citadel's sharp edges, and though none of them said it outright, they all felt the same thing: something beneath Vaeliyan's words was waiting, coiled, and sooner or later it would rise to the surface.

As Vaeliyan tried to lay down, the world around him suddenly halted, sound and motion freezing in perfect stillness as though the very air had turned to glass. Shadows thickened at the edges of perception, congealing like oil on water, and from that dark fold Umdar stepped forward. His presence was heavy, absolute, the silence of things that no longer existed pressing against the space. Umdar the Elder, the god of Erasure, the youngest of the gods who bore the face of the oldest, and every movement carried the weight of things cut away from time. His arrival was not marked by spectacle, but by subtraction: warmth, movement, and certainty all stripped from the air. Vaeliyan inclined his head in recognition, a bow of acknowledgment, and Umdar mirrored the gesture with deliberate gravity. Their greetings overlapped, Vaeliyan addressing Umdar, Umdar answering back, locked into a rhythm that felt more binding than ritual, as though the exchange itself erased alternatives.

"I'm here to let you know that the boon Steel promised is ready," Umdar said. His voice was the dry crumble of dust. "Call, and I will set the passage in motion. But there are terms. Twenty-four hours only. Warren walks Mara, breathes Mara. Vaeliyan remains here. Two halves split, yet both carried forward. When the span ends, the halves will join again. This is fixed. Erasure does not bend."

His next words fell brittle, like dried leaves scattering across stone. "Grixalia has been told. Your friends and family wait to see you. They will not know which face until you stand before them."

Vaeliyan inclined his head again, breathing out slowly. "Thank you," he said, though the words felt small against the tide of Umdar's presence.

"I can also grant you a lesser boon," Umdar went on, his tone like parchment cracking with age. "Two paths. A skill carved into your being. Or an item placed in your hands. Choose carefully. A skill shapes what you are. An item shapes the world around you. The weight is yours to carry. I will not erase it."

Vaeliyan's thoughts raced. Weapons, constructs, possibilities shimmered and fell away. He found himself saying, "I think I know… though I don't know if you can reach it."

"Child," Umdar replied. His voice was the grinding of stone under endless years. "Nothing lies beyond my hand. I erase barriers. I sever chains. I take what others guard. Speak it, and it will be undone and remade for you."

Vaeliyan's lips curved faintly. "Then… Telia's loom." The name itself weighed heavy, like stone on bone.

Umdar's lined face cracked into something like a grin, unsettling and ancient. His reply came thin, like threads fraying under strain. "Yes. A fitting choice. It belongs within erasure's reach. But it devours power. It will not rest. It will demand discipline, patience, restraint. It is not just a tool. It is trial."

"I understand," Vaeliyan said. "Do you know about the zoning license they gave me?"

"No," Umdar said. The word landed like a stone dislodged from a cliff face. "Tell me."

"It means I can draw power without limit. They can complain, but they can't stop it. If the loom hungers, I can feed it."

Approval pressed down, heavy as ash after fire. "Good. And Warren, I regret my beginning with you. I thought you a thief stealing what was mine. I mistook hunger for arrogance, will for recklessness."

Warren smiled sharply. "That's because I was. But I'd do it again. I bound you to me instead of letting you walk free. I'd do it twice over."

Umdar's response came soft, like dust settling into stillness. "No. It was good. I have seen your growth. Steel was correct. You are the right choice. The others I weighed were shallow, petty tyrants, thieves, bounty hunters. You endure. You cut. That is why you remain."

A silence hung between them, immense as the gulf between breaths. Then Umdar inclined his head once more, the gesture final. His words were the scrape of time wearing stone smooth. "I leave. But know: I stand with you. Not as chain. Not as burden. As the Elder. Erasure itself. Call, and I will answer."

"It was good to see you, Umdar," Vaeliyan said quietly.

Umdar nodded, the movement carrying both ending and promise. The stillness cracked, the pause lifted, and the world resumed its rhythm. Time surged forward again as though nothing had interrupted it, but the weight of the Elder lingered in Vaeliyan's chest, heavy and inescapable.

Vaeliyan did manage to sleep until they woke him, and then they headed off together to see Imujin, hoping to finally make sense of the strange revelations about Vaeliyan's soul. The walk across the estate grounds left a thin tension hanging between them, each cadet wondering if today would yield answers or just more questions. When they reached the meadow, they found Imujin already waiting, his stance relaxed but his eyes sharp, his hands clasped behind his back as the breeze tugged at the grass around his boots. He carried himself as though he had been standing there for hours, patient, watchful, the calm weight of authority radiating off him.

"Greetings," Imujin said, his voice carrying easily across the open air. "It's good to see you all. Tell me, did you enjoy your time with Kasala? He is an excellent field commander and strategist. You should be eager to work under him."

Jurpat stepped forward first, always the one to take the direct role. "Sir, we are excited to work with him, but… he gave us the rest of the day off after he debriefed us on what we'll be doing for the Shatterlight Trial."

"That's fine," Imujin replied, nodding once, his expression flickering with something unreadable. "I wanted to offer my congratulations again, Vaeliyan. You've done a remarkable job so far, and I have matters I intend to discuss with you."

"Sir," Chime cut in before Vaeliyan could respond, her tone clipped, urgent, "I think there are things we need to speak about first. Things you'll want to hear."

Imujin tilted his head, narrowing his eyes slightly, as though weighing the measure of her interruption. "Oh? Is that so? What is it, then?"

Chime glanced toward Vaeliyan, searching his face, then back at Imujin. "We think you need to bring all the instructors here. This isn't small. It's… bigger than anything we've come across before."

Imujin's lips thinned. "Another one of these," he said dryly, his tone neither amused nor angry, just edged. "They may not be thrilled to be summoned again for sudden revelations."

Varnai spoke firmly from her seat near the others. "Lambert and Velrock will want to hear this, and likely as soon as possible."

Imujin studied her for a moment, then gave a slight nod. "Perhaps. But you must tell me what this matter is before I call them here."

Vaeliyan exhaled slowly, then gave a steady nod. "We think we've made a discovery about our armor. I don't believe anyone has ever looked deep enough, or maybe the truth never filtered down to us cadets. But I think it ties into what I saw beneath my soul skill, the… squishy form."

Varnai cut in quickly, her tone blunt. "Vaeliyan's soul is a bug. His soul skill sits above something that's a massive insect. You've seen his armor; it isn't his soul skill. We've compared notes, all of us. Our armors don't just appear unique by chance. They line up with our soul skills, and that's why they're all different. So, we're left wondering, why hasn't anyone questioned this? Did everyone assume it was DNA, just random differences in us?"

Imujin's eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained hard to read. "I see," he said at last. "We will speak of this further. I will gather the instructors. They'll be here soon. But as for your question… Lambert is the best one to explain such things. She runs the project. If anyone has the knowledge, it will be her."

"Yes, I've told them that," Chime muttered, folding her arms. "She's the one who might finally give us something besides silence."

Imujin shifted his gaze back to Vaeliyan. "As for what I was going to say, listen carefully. Do not trust House Ryan. Do not trust House Verdance. In truth, trust none of the Nine. With the slightest exception of House Sarn, you will find no true allies among the Great Houses. They pursue their own ends, and you must never forget that."

"That reminds me," Vaeliyan said, stepping forward. He reached into his coat and drew out a folded document, the paper crisp and official, and held it out. "Well, not exactly reminds me, but I wanted to show you this. It's the industrial zoning license. One of the prizes I got from the ninth layer. According to Elian, this is a much bigger deal than anyone realized."

Imujin took the document, unfolded it carefully, and began to read. His eyes moved down the lines, his brow furrowing at first, then slowly easing. A smile crept across his face, controlled but undeniable, until finally a sharp laugh broke free. He shook his head in disbelief. "Oh, they truly have no idea what they've done."

He looked up, and the smile hardened into something sharper, almost predatory. "Vaeliyan, if what Elian told you is even partly correct and it looks like it might be from what I have gleamed. Then they've fucked themselves entirely. And I don't mean lightly, they've cut their own throat with this. Pardon my language, but understand: this changes everything."

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