Sparkshire sprawled like a small city.

There were three full year-groups in total in the school. Fifteen hundred students total. Buildings everywhere Bright looked—academic halls, training facilities, specialized workshops, administrative complexes that suggested bureaucracy rivaling Central's governance structures.

Three years, Bright thought as their orientation group navigated the campus. There was only three years because there was a need to pump out students into Society as the death rate of soldiers in the military was high.

The dormitory guide—a second-year student whose Initiate rank made her visibly superior to the new arrivals—led them toward residential buildings with practiced efficiency.

"Boys left, girls right," she announced. "Two per room. Assignments are posted."

The buildings were massive. Six stories, hundreds of rooms, architecture that maintained Sparkshire's characteristic contradiction—beautiful enough to impress, functional enough to survive.

Bright found his name on the board: Room 247 - Bright Morgan & Kildare Voss

Voss. It was the same family as Kellen—Mara's opponent. Although he didn't know the Situation of his roommate. Bright felt it was natural there would be clicks formed instantly from same house members and houses in alliance.

The room was simple. Two beds, two desks, two wardrobes, shared bathroom. Better than Vester's barracks but it wasn't luxurious.

His roommate was already there.

Kildare sat on one bed, staring at nothing, his presence somehow both solid and absent.

"Hey," Bright offered. "I'm Bright. Looks like we're—"

Silence.

Bright tried again. "You're from Redwatch? Related to Kellen?"

Nothing. Not acknowledgment. Not rejection. Just… absence of response.

Okay then.

His danger sense stayed quiet as there was no registered threat and hostility. Just a profound silence that made conversation feel invasive.

Mute? Traumatized? Just doesn't want to talk?

Bright unpacked without further attempts at a social connection. His fused katana. A few clothes. Everything he owned fit in one wardrobe with room to spare.

The uniforms arrived in the afternoon—a dark green military cut, higher quality than anything Bright had worn before. The fabric felt reinforced, probably soul-force treated. Holster for a standard firearm. Equipment belt. Even the collar had small rhinestones embedded along the edge.

Unnecessary decoration, Bright thought, fingering the stones. It was yet another quiet exhibition of affluence—proof that Central never had to compromise between function and beauty.

Kildare changed into his uniform without speaking. Moved mechanically. Like his body was present but his mind somewhere else entirely.

This is going to be an interesting year.

-----

The Grand Lecture Hall held five hundred candidates comfortably. Tiered seating arranged for perfect visibility. Acoustics that made whispers audible and normal speech carry without echo.

Bright settled in the middle section—not prominent, not hiding, a habit he had stuck to from the first time in his outpost days. Duncan's bulk made the standard seat look inadequate beside him. Mara claimed his other side, her expression focused.

Adam positioned himself higher up, peripheral. Silas existed somewhere in the hall—easy to overlook, as he often was, blending into the background despite being present. That said, he was seated beside Bessia, which made him a little harder to forget than usual.

The hall filled with first-years. Noble scions comfortable in the institutional setting. Outpost recruits unconsciously clustering. Military transfers scattered throughout, already integrated.

Five hundred now, Bright thought. Wonder how many make it three years.

The instructor entered through the doors with a casual walk. He radiated an aura of a high rank veteran which was more than he felt from people like adept atheon and the adepts at vester.

The man was old but not elderly. There was a difference. Carrying decades in his posture like weight that wouldn't release .

"I am Aldric Thorne," the instructor announced, his voice filling the hall without shouting. "I teach History of the Republic. But not the version you learned or never learned before coming here."

"Forget what you've learned so far," Thorne continued. "This place isn't meant to build the meek. For ages, the Republic has caged minds it deemed lesser—yes, bumpkins and nobles alike. No one in power gives a shit. Or at least, I don't."

His eyes swept the hall, measuring reactions.

The man had the students attention but it wasn't really there so he decided to drop a bomb to clear the room of its slack attentiveness.

"Well that would be cleared up by the end of this meeting."

Bright felt Duncan shift beside him. Felt Mara's attention intensify.

"Some of you know about the Umbral Covenant," Thorne said.

The name hit like a physical impact. Candidates who'd survived attacks from the cult tensed visibly. Others looked confused—hearing the name for the first time, wondering why it mattered.

"That existential threat you fear?" Thorne's expression was sardonic. "What you call that ominous cult—the one everyone whispers about in fear—is little more than a structure animated by a powerful champion issuing orders. But the true head of the organization is no mere champion. His cores follow an entirely mental configuration. No one knows their exact nature, only the result as he belongs to a rare and unsettling classification: a Seeker."

The hall went silent.

"All Seekers go mad when they touch Crawler consciousness," Thorne continued. "All of them. Some maintain a higher functionality than others, exhibit more control—but don't let that deceive you. They're all mad. Every single Seeker you meet."

Bright felt the information settle like ice in his chest.

One person. Clear Light's Eve was one person's operation.

All those deaths. One mad Champion.

Around him, candidates processed similar realizations. Noble scions looking disturbed. Some Outpost recruits showing recognition—they'd fought the Covenant forces, and had believed they faced a vast conspiracy.

Now learning it was an individual's madness rather than an organizational threat.

"Questions?" Thorne asked.

A noble candidate's hand shot up. "If it's just one person, why haven't we killed him?"

"Because although he's just a Champion, he's not some run of the mill kind as he invades his followers mind pushing them to carry out his will. You can think of him as the devil of temptation from the book of ashes as approaching him is nearly impossible," Thorne replied. "Anyone close enough to assassinate him, gets dominated or driven mad, as you can tell some have tried"

Thorne paused, his expression hardening.

"And because the Republic leadership have calculated that a managed Covenant threat is more preferable to an elimination attempt that might fail catastrophically."

The cynicism was palpable. The admission that Republic allowed attacks because solving the problem completely would be complicated.

"That's murder," someone who had felt the pain of the covenant's atrocities whispered behind Bright.

"That's politics," Thorne corrected, somehow hearing the comment across the massive hall. "That's the reality of how power operates. The Covenant for all its fault, serves some useful functions—it's an external threat justifying military spending for the greedy nobles, an enemy unifying populations for the loyalists,and a scapegoat for policy failures for the senate. So we contain without eliminating. Manage without solving."

Bright felt something cold settle in his understanding.

They could have prevented some evil that occurred but they chose not to because the threat was useful.

"Welcome to truth," Thorne said, his voice carrying no sympathy. "Welcome to understanding that Republic isn't some noble institution—it's a pragmatic power structure making calculated decisions about acceptable casualties. Welcome to recognizing you serve a flawed system because alternatives are worse, not because the system is good."

He surveyed the hall, measuring who was breaking versus adapting.

"Some of you feel betrayed," Thorne observed. "Lied to. Manipulated. That's normal. That's why we deliver this in a controlled environment rather than letting you discover it through field trauma."

"Others feel cynical. Wondering why serve at all if Republic is this compromised."

Silence answered him.

"Because the alternatives are worse," Thorne said simply. "A flawed Republic maintaining civilization beats Crawler-dominated darkness. A pragmatic system sometimes sacrificing individuals beats chaos killing everyone. Because someone has to hold the line. That someone is you. Is us. Is the military personnel who function despite their disillusionment. Functioning matters more than feeling good about your half baked integrity kids."

Bright understood then. Understood what the Academy was actually teaching.

Not just combat. Not just theory. But how to serve with open eyes.

How to be a weapon that understands it's being wielded but accepts the necessity anyway.

"You'll learn more uncomfortable truths," Thorne promised. "About corruption, about compromises that would horrify civilians but that we accept because alternatives are unthinkable."

He gestured toward exits.

"You can leave. Request a discharge. Return to your shitty homes with what you've learned. There will be no punishment. Some candidates choose that after this orientation."

No one moved.

"Good," Thorne said, satisfaction evident. "That means you're strong enough for what comes next."

He began his final instructions.

"Tomorrow you start specialized tracks. Combat, theory, tactics—everything you need. But remember: truth is a tactical advantage. Understanding reality produces better decisions than comfortable lies. Disillusionment is strength when it leads to clear assessment rather than paralyzed cynicism."

"Welcome to Sparkshire Academy. Welcome to education transforming naive candidates into functioning soldiers. Welcome to discovering that serving a flawed system with an open eyes is more honorable than serving idealized fantasy with deliberate blindness."

"Class dismissed."

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