Ellarine's group had been moving with constant discipline through Vester's chaos when the ants erupted from a maintenance tunnel directly beneath them.

It was not a minor breach but a surge—dozens of soldier-class variants pouring upward with coordinated fury, mandibles clicking, chitin plating reflecting emergency lamplight.

"Scatter!" Ellarine commanded, her tactical training recognizing immediately that their concentrated formation was practically suicide against the ants swarm tactics.

"Reform at the officer compound! Move!"

The candidates scattered in multiple directions, each seeking escape through whatever route presented itself.

Marcus went left with two Kadesh soldiers, blade slicing different crawlers.

Bolt went right with another candidate, barriers forming as he ran.

Ellarine herself led three others straight ahead, her combat cores active, her mind already calculating regrouping coordinates.

And Sinclair—the wind manipulation specialist, nineteen years old, selected for his rare talent and promising record—found himself alone in a side alley, separated from his group by collapsing infrastructure and insect swarm.

Behind him, silent and deliberate, Adam followed.

——

Adam had watched the separation happen with calculating satisfaction.

It was an opportunity, as clear as day.

Sinclair was good. Better fighter than Adam by a significant margin—his wind manipulation created defensive barriers and offensive strikes that Adam's baseline human capabilities couldn't match in direct engagement.

But combat effectiveness wasn't just about power. It was about timing. Positioning. Exploitation.

Adam hung back, his rifle ready but not raised, watching Sinclair fight through the ant swarm with desperate efficiency.

The wind specialist created vortexes that threw ants against walls, generated pressure blades that cut through chitin, manipulated air resistance to slow mandible strikes. His talent was versatile, powerful, exactly the kind of capability the Academy valued.

But wind manipulation was exhausting. The soul-force consumption was substantial. And Sinclair had been fighting non-stop since the separation, burning through his reserves with each technique.

Adam watched. Waited. Let Sinclair exhaust himself against endless ants while Adam conserved ammunition, tracking the specialist's declining stamina with cold precision.

Just a little longer, Adam thought, his finger resting against his rifle's trigger guard. Just until he's too tired to defend effectively.

—-

Sinclair killed the last ant in his immediate vicinity and leaned against a wall, breathing hard, sweat soaking his uniform.

His wind manipulation flickered weakly as his reserves were nearly depleted and his control compromised by exhaustion. But he'd survived. Had fought through impossible odds and emerged on the other side.

He permitted himself a moment of relief.

Then heard the distinctive sound of a rifle being readied.

Sinclair turned, saw Adam emerge from the shadows, weapon raised and aimed.

"You?" Confusion dominated Sinclair's expression. "What are you—"

Adam fired.

Aimed for the neck—a clean kill shot that was quick and efficient.

But Sinclair's combat instincts kicked in despite the exhaustion. He threw himself sideways, wind manipulation creating a desperate deflection that wasn't quite enough.

The bullet caught his elbow instead of his throat, shattering bone and rendering his right arm instantly useless.

Here's a novel-polished version that tightens the emotion and corrects flow while preserving the ambiguity you're aiming for:

Sinclair screamed—pain, betrayal, and raw incomprehension tangled into one sound.

"Why?" he gasped, clutching what remained of his ruined arm as blood soaked through his uniform. "We're on the same—"

His words died as his eyes found Adam.

And in that moment, the truth no longer mattered. Sinclair believed it anyway—that Adam was a Covenant spy. Why else would he have done this? Why else would he have tried to kill him?

"We're not," Adam cut in, already shifting his stance, lining up for the follow-up shot. His voice was calm—clinical, almost bored.

"You have something I want. Something I need. That's reason enough to kill."

He paused, finger steady on the trigger.

"Before the Dark, there were stories—creatures not unlike the crawlers we fear now. They hunted because it was natural. Some for sustenance. Some for sport. The reason never mattered."

Adam's eyes never left Sinclair.

"The mathematics are simple."

Understanding and horror dawned in Sinclair's eyes.

He tried to run, his functional arm generating weak wind barriers that might deflect subsequent shots.

Adam fired. Missed—barely.

Fired again. Caught Sinclair's leg, compromising his sprint to a stumbling run.

"You're insane!" Sinclair shouted, trying to generate offensive wind techniques with his remaining arm. But exhaustion and pain made control impossible. The vortexes formed incorrectly, dissipated uselessly.

"I'm desperate," Adam corrected, tracking his target with practiced ease. "There's a difference."

He fired methodically, conserving ammunition, letting Sinclair exhaust himself further trying to evade.

Each shot forced the specialist to dodge, to burn more soul-force, to compound his fatigue.

Sinclair stumbled, fell, scrambled back to his feet. His wind manipulation was nearly gone now—just faint resistance that couldn't stop rifle rounds traveling at lethal velocity.

"Please," Sinclair begged, backing away, functional arm raised in desperate defense. "I'll—I'll tell them I got separated, that you saved me, I'll recommend you for—"

"Your word means nothing," Adam said flatly. "Dead candidates create vacancies. Living ones just make my situation worse."

Sinclair made a final desperate charge, using the last of his reserves to accelerate toward Adam, trying to close distance where wind manipulation might actually threaten someone with a rifle.

He got within three meters.

Close enough that Adam could see the fury and desperation in his eyes.

Close enough that Sinclair's weakened wind techniques were beginning to affect Adam's aim.

Close enough to matter.

Then Adam's shot landed center-mass in Sinclair's skull.

The specialist's head snapped back, brain matter and bone fragments exploding from the exit wound.

His body crumpled mid-charge, momentum carrying him another meter before collapse.

Dead.

Instantly. Completely. Irrevocably.

Adam stood over the corpse, breathing steady, his rifle still smoking.

There was a higher chance he'd make it to Central, he realized with cold satisfaction. Things had just gotten better.

——

Adam worked quickly, his hands steady despite the murder he'd just committed.

First he had to make it look like a Crawler's kill.

He grabbed Sinclair's corpse, dragged it toward the ant-filled alley where the specialist had been fighting. Positioned it among insect bodies, arranged the pose to suggest a death during combat.

Then he started removing evidence.

The bullet wounds complicated things. Ants tore with mandibles, not metal. Any competent examiner would spot gunfire damage at a glance.

Adam pulled out his combat knife,and began carving through flesh around the bullet entry points. It was not pleasant work, but it was necessary. He removed chunks of tissue containing rifle rounds, making the wounds look more like ant mandible damage—ragged, torn, less precise than ballistic injury.

It was gruesome. Methodical. The kind of thing that would haunt normal soldiers.

Adam felt nothing except focused determination.

He retrieved the bullets he'd carved from Sinclair's flesh, pocketed them for disposal at a later time in places that wouldn't trace back to him.

Then he used his knife to inflict additional postmortem damage—cuts that mimicked mandible strikes, tissue removal that suggested feeding attempts.

By the time he finished, Sinclair's corpse looked like any other ant casualty. Torn apart by Crawlers during chaotic assault, found among insect bodies, death explicable through documented swarm emergence.

Adam stood, surveyed his work with his critical eye.

Acceptable, he decided. Medical examination might raise questions, but during crisis with hundreds of casualties? They'll file it as combat death and move on.

He activated a communication mirror he got from a dead lieutenant he saw on the way, and contacted the nearest response team.

"This is recruit Adam, Sunshine Squad. I've located casualties in sector seven, alley junction near the old granary. Multiple bodies down—mauled by crawlers. Need a recovery team for body collection."

The response was harried, distracted. "Acknowledged. Recovery teams are overwhelmed—it'll be hours before we reach your position. Can you confirm other casualties?"

"Still searching," Adam replied. "Will report additional findings."

He disconnected, satisfied.

The official report was filed. The boy's death would be documented as a Crawler incident.

And Adam had positioned himself as a helpful survivor rather than murderer.

Perfect.

Now he just needed to ensure more vacancies opened.

Needed other people to die in chaos—legitimately or otherwise—until enough slots became available that his exceptional performance during crisis made him an obvious replacement choice.

Adam moved back into Vester's darkness, following the sounds of combat, tracking other separated candidates

.

His rifle was loaded.

His conscience was silent.

And his advancement came first.

Always had.

Always would.

Behind him, Sinclair's mutilated corpse lay among ant bodies, just another casualty in Clear Light's Eve's mounting death toll.

Another name that would be added to memorial walls.

Another opportunity for someone desperate enough to seize it.

Adam smiled grimly and continued hunting.

Because in Vester, during crisis, when chaos created opportunities?

The only question was whether you had the ruthlessness to exploit them.

Adam had answered that question definitively.

And he wasn't done yet.

Not until he had his Academy slot.

Not until his advancement was secured.

No matter how many bodies it required.

The machinery of opportunity turned.

And Adam fed it candidates, one bullet at a time.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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