The convoy compound looked like an island of order in an ocean of chaos.

House Aurin's mercenaries had fortified the position with professional efficiency—reinforced barriers creating a defensive perimeter, lamp posts arranged to maximize illumination coverage, medical tents established with proper supply chains maintaining functionality.

Captain Selene stood at the compound's entrance, her Adept-level presence radiating controlled authority as she assessed arriving survivors with calculating precision.

"Hmm… the candidates," she identified as Bright's group approached, her enhanced perception cataloging their injuries and exhaustion with clinical accuracy. "Expected arrivals. You're cleared for entry. Medical facilities are third tent on the left. Get treatment, get rest, wait for the formal transport arrangements."

There was no warmth. No sympathy. Just a professional acknowledgment that they were contractual obligations requiring protection.

Exactly what we need, Bright thought.

They entered the compound, finding it already populated with other survivors—soldiers from various squads, civilian refugees who'd sought the mercenary's protection, and scattered Academy candidates who'd reached safety through their own capability.

Ellarine was there.

The young Crownhold noble sat against a supply crate, her blonde hair matted with blood and dirt, her eyes carrying thousand-yard stare that spoke of horrors witnessed and barely survived. Her squad—what remained of it—clustered nearby, equally traumatized, equally exhausted.

"Bright," Ellarine acknowledged as he approached, her voice flat with shock fatigue. "You made it."

"So did you," Bright replied, settling beside her while Duncan and Bessia carried Estovia toward medical tent. "Your squad?"

"Down by few," Ellarine reported mechanically.

"I'm sorry," Bright said, knowing the words were inadequate but offering them anyway.

"Are you?" Ellarine asked, not accusingly—just genuine curiosity. "Sorry, I mean. Or is that just what we say when people die? Just words we use because silence feels wrong?"

Bright considered the question honestly. "Both, maybe. I am sorry. Sorry they're dead. Sorry you had to witness it. But also… yeah. It's partly just words. Because what else do we say? What response actually matters when people are gone?"

Ellarine gestured toward other Academy candidates scattered throughout compound—Ten total that Bright could count, down from the fifteen that Vester had been allocated initially.

Five vacancies. Five deaths among selected candidates. Five futures eliminated.

Some of the survivors looked haunted—eyes wide with shock, hands trembling, clearly struggling to process trauma. Others looked hardened—expressions flat, movements mechanical, trauma compartmentalized with disturbing efficiency.

And a few—just a few—looked energized. Almost exhilarated. Like they'd discovered something about themselves during the crisis. Like violence had awakened something that civilian life had kept dormant.

"Wolves among sheep," Ellarine murmured, following Bright's gaze. "That's what my instructor used to say about candidates. Most are prey pretending to be predators. But some are actual hunters who've just been waiting for permission to hunt."

"Which are we?" Bright asked.

"I don't know yet," Ellarine admitted. "Ask me again in a year. After we've seen what Central makes of us. What the Academy shapes us into."

-----

Adept Goba moved through the compound with purposeful efficiency, his massive form drawing attention despite his attempts at discretion.

He'd left Atheon and Vaelith coordinating cleanup operations at the colony site, had delegated the remaining crisis management to the local authority, and had come here to assess the students in waiting before finalizing his departure.

Because Goba had responsibilities beyond Vester. Had other assignments waiting. And while Clear Light's Eve had been catastrophic, it wasn't his primary concern. Just a complication he'd been diverted to manage.

Eliminate major threats, file reports, leave, Goba reminded himself. Don't get involved in local politics. Don't create complications.

But first—one final threat to eliminate.

The Covenant Adept—Tertius—had been transported to the compound's medical facilities, still unconscious from the queen's venom, still technically alive despite hours of internal struggle against toxins that resisted conventional treatment.

Goba found him in an isolation tent, guarded by vester soldiers who stepped aside without question when his aura demanded access.

Tertius lay motionless, his breathing shallow, his body fighting a battle it was slowly losing. The poison was winning. In another few hours, maybe a day, he'd die naturally.

But I don't have a day, Goba thought. And I definitely don't want him waking up.

Goba's Electric Hand activated—a controlled discharge with precise targeting, electricity seeking the nervous system pathways that kept Tertius heart beating and lungs functioning.

Tertius's body spasmed once. Then stillness.

He was dead. Eliminated. A problem solved.

"Natural complications from the queen's venom," Goba announced to the guards. "Victim succumbed to toxins despite medical intervention. Log it as a combat casualty."His new favorite word.

The guards nodded, accepting the assessment without question. Because who questioned am adept? Who investigated when the leading authority figure declared the official cause of death?

This is what Adept-level power means, Goba reflected as he departed the medical tent. Making decisions that can't be challenged. Eliminating complications through direct action. Wielding authority that supersedes normal legal processes.

It's efficient. It's pragmatic. It's also exactly the kind of power that could be catastrophically abused.

But Goba wasn't abusing it. He was protecting classified information. Was ensuring that the Covenant's deeper connections—the things that most people didn't know, that most Adepts weren't cleared to understand—remained protected.

Because Tertius had known things. Had been part of the Covenant inner circle. Had understood truths about secrets that the Republic worked very hard to keep from general knowledge.

Can't let that information spread, Goba thought.

So Tertius died. Quietly and Efficiently.

This is what veterans become, Goba thought. People who make hard choices without hesitation. Who kill when necessary without agonizing afterward. Who prioritize mission over morality.

Those chummy candidates will learn. Some faster than others. Some never.

He returned to assessing the surviving candidates, his enhanced perception cataloging their capabilities and potentials with professional detachment.

-----

Vaelith Crownhold stood amid Vester's ruins, maintaining perfect composure despite his internal calculations running at maximum capacity.

His operatives were dead. All of them.

The six he'd positioned to eliminate Estovia Armand—dead in the medical bay, killed by that fat ass engine.

The three he'd embedded with Covenant forces—dead in various combat encounters throughout the night, their bodies catalogued among the hundreds of casualties.

The four he'd positioned as backup contingency—dead in the colony tunnels, pulled down by ants or crushed in infrastructure collapses.

Thirteen operatives. Carefully cultivated. Trained. Positioned. Loyal.

All dead.

Acceptable losses, Vaelith told himself, though the calculation stung. They were tools deployed for a strategic purpose. Tools break during operations. That's expected.

But still—thirteen trained soldiers, gone in a single night. Resources that would take years to replace. Networks that would need rebuilding. Investments lost.

And the Armand still lives, Vaelith acknowledged bitterly. Protected by those dumb kids who stumbled into hero roles. Secured by House Aurin mercenaries who prioritize contract obligations over political convenience.

So close. And yet completely failed.

He could try again. Could position new operatives. Could create opportunities for "accidents" during evacuation to Central.

But the window was closing. Estovia was protected now. Was surrounded by witnesses. Was under the mercenary guard until formal transport.

Can't kill her without making it obvious, Vaelith calculated. Can't eliminate evidence without creating more evidence.

So maybe… different approach. Maybe discrediting rather than killing. Maybe undermining her testimony before she can present it.

It would require time. Would require access to House Crownhold's full political apparatus. Would require resources beyond what Vester could provide.

*But that's fine*, Vaelith decided. Let her reach Central. Let her think she's safe. Then I'll deploy House resources to destroy her credibility, bury her evidence, make her appear as a paranoid officer chasing conspiracies.

Political destruction should be better fitting rather than a physical elimination. More elegant. More sustainable.

He filed the strategy away for future implementation, already moving to next immediate concern—the tally of the dead.

Atheon stood nearby, reviewing casualty reports with a grim expression. The numbers were catastrophic.

Three hundred forty-seven confirmed dead. Another hundred twelve missing, presumed dead in the collapsed tunnels or carried off by ants. Sixty-three critically wounded, survival uncertain.

Over five hundred casualties. In a single night. During what should have been celebration.

"Worst disaster since Grim Hollow," Atheon said quietly, his voice carrying weight of command responsibility. "Worst coordinated assault on a Republic outpost in living memory."

"But contained," Vaelith offered. "The Crisis was managed. Threats neutralized. Infrastructure damage is repairable. Populations can be replenished."

"People aren't infrastructure," Atheon said sharply. "Aren't resources to be replenished. They're individuals. Soldiers who trusted our protection. Civilians who deserved safety."

"Of course," Vaelith agreed smoothly, adjusting his tone to match Atheon's emotional frequency. "I meant no disrespect. Simply observing that Vester will recover. That the outpost's strategic value hasn't been eliminated."

Atheon's expression suggested he didn't buy the performance but was too exhausted to challenge it. "The Academy candidate count is particularly concerning. We were allocated fifteen slots. We're down to 10 confirmed survivors. Five vacancies."

"Republic regulations allow outpost commanders to fill Academy vacancies from local populations when casualties create openings. We have authority to nominate up to five additional candidates before convoy departure."

"Then we should exercise that authority," Vaelith said. "Identify soldiers who proved themselves tonight. Who showed potential during actual combat rather than the controlled trials."

Translation: Let me position my own candidates. Let me fill the vacancies with people loyal to Crownhold interests.

Atheon understood perfectly. "We'll need a consensus between the three of us. You, me, and Rowan—once he recovers from the venom. Any candidate nominations require majority agreement."

Of course, Vaelith thought. Can't simply install my choices. Need to negotiate. Need to fucking compromise.

"Acceptable," he said aloud. "We'll review the surviving soldiers' performance. Then identify those who showed exceptional capability and nominate based on merit rather than political consideration."

The lie was delivered with perfect conviction. Because Vaelith would absolutely consider political factors. Would absolutely prioritize candidates who could advance Crownhold interests at the Academy.

But he'd present it as merit-based selection. Would justify choices through demonstrated capability. Would make political maneuvering look like objective assessment.

That's the art, Vaelith reflected. Making self-interest appear as institutional benefit. Making political choices look like technical decisions

They began reviewing names—surviving soldiers who'd demonstrated combat capability, tactical awareness, core synergy potential during Clear Light's Eve chaos.

And among those names, one stood out.

"Adam," Atheon read from the casualty-and-performance reports. "Tactician from Sunshine Squad. Demonstrated intelligence network capability, strategic coordination under pressure, survival skills during crisis. Fledgling-rank but showing rapid development."

"I support the nomination," Vaelith said.

Keep your friends close and your upcoming assets closer, Vaelith thought. And Adam could be a valuable asset if properly cultivated.

The nomination was logged. Adam would be offered an Academy candidacy, contingent on accepting within next twelve hours before the convoy departure.

After some others were done , there were two more vacancies to fill.

Next chapter will be updated first on this website. Come back and continue reading tomorrow, everyone!

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.