Dawn came too early, announced by an alarm that resonated through the dormitory walls with uncomfortable efficiency—it was not loud enough to be painful, just persistent enough to make sleep impossible.

Bright rolled from bed, his body protesting the early hour, his mind still processing yesterday's revelations about the Covenant leadership and the Republic's pragmatism.

Kildare was already awake. Or maybe hadn't slept. Sitting on his bed in the same position Bright had last seen him, staring at nothing with that same absent presence.

Does he ever sleep? Bright wondered, not bothering to voice the question since it wouldn't be answered anyway.

He changed into his uniform—the dark green feeling less impressive this morning, more like a marking that identified him as the Academy's property rather than a symbol of achievement.

The schedule posted on their door showed the first day's structure:

0600 - Morning Assembly (Central Courtyard)

0700 - Combat Fundamentals (Training Hall 3)

0900 - Core Theory (Lecture Hall B)

1100 - Tactical Analysis (War Room 7)

1300 - Lunch

1400 - Specialized Track Training (Varies by Classification)

1700 - Physical Conditioning

1900 - Dinner

2000 - Personal Study Time

2200 - Curfew

Fourteen-hour days, Bright calculated. Every day. For three years. They're not exaggerating about a compressed timeline.

He headed toward the Central Courtyard, joining the stream of first-years flowing from their dormitory buildings, all wearing identical dark green uniforms, all looking various degrees of anxious about what specialized training actually meant.

Duncan fell into step beside him, his massive frame making other candidates unconsciously give space. "Sleep well?"

"Not really," Bright admitted. "Kept thinking about that lecture. About how much we didn't know. About how much we still don't know."

"Yeah." Duncan's expression was troubled. "Makes you wonder what else they're going to tell us. What other comfortable lies they'll dismantle."

Mara joined from a different direction, her movement efficient despite her obvious fatigue. "Morning. Ready to learn how to be proper killers?"

"We already know how to kill," Duncan pointed out.

"We know how to survive," Mara corrected. "That's different. What we do is messy. Panicked. You swing, you run, you pray it works."

She paused, jaw tightening.

"They're not teaching that. They're teaching how to kill without scrambling. Without fear. How to do it twice. Ten times. Like it's just another thing you carry with you."

She was right. Bright didn't like how obvious it felt once he admitted it.

The outpost had taught them shortcuts. Sloppy instincts. Do what works, even if it's ugly. Even if it only works once.

The Academy would take those habits apart. Break them. Put something colder in their place.

The Central Courtyard was massive—easily accommodating all five hundred first-years with room for a demonstration space. Lamp posts arranged at precise intervals. Stone platform at the center where instructors would address the assembly.

Old man Thorne stood on the platform, flanked by other instructors—mostly Adept-rank, a few experts, all radiating combat experience that made yesterday's shocking revelations feel like a gentle introduction compared to what they represented.

The candidates gathered into something that resembled a formation. It wasn't clean, wasn't sharp—but it wasn't chaos either. Close enough to suggest most of them had been taught where to stand, even if they'd never been forced to hold it under real pressure.

Thorne surveyed them with calculating assessment. "First day of actual training. Yesterday you learned truth about what you're serving. Today you begin learning how to serve effectively."

He gestured toward the instructors flanking him.

"Your training will be divided between common curriculum and specialized tracks. Everyone receives foundational instruction in combat, theory, tactics. But your primary development follows the specialization classifications from your assessment."

Display screens around the courtyard activated, showing the same classifications that had been posted after combat evaluations.

"Tactical Combatants report to Training Hall 3 for combat fundamentals."

That's me, Bright recognized.

"Intelligence Specialists to Analysis Center for information operations overview."

Adam's group.

"Defensive Specialists to Durability Wing for advanced protection techniques."

Duncan.

"Combat Specialists to Technical Arena for precision training."

Mara.

"Infiltration Specialists to—" Thorne paused deliberately. "—to Classified Operations briefing room. You'll be escorted separately."

Silas's group. Already separating the assassination specialists.

"Support Specialists to Medical Facility for healing arts introduction."

Bessia and others with support-focused builds.

In the old days, people were encouraged to build their power however they pleased. The Republic, however, had grown tired of producing the same capable but unfocused soldiers over and over. It needed specialists—individuals shaped for specific functions, assigned to problems the Republic had already decided must be solved.

Even so, enforcement remained loose. Choice still lingered. Many continued to spread their growth wide, learning across disciplines, trading depth for flexibility, believing breadth would keep more doors open.

"Move to your assigned locations," Thorne commanded. "Instructors will explain specialization-specific expectations. Training begins immediately."

The assembly dissolved into organized chaos—five hundred candidates splitting into their respective groups, following posted directions toward different training facilities.

Bright joined the Tactical Combatant stream—roughly eighty candidates, including several from Vester, multiple outpost recruits, and handful of nobles whose assessments had identified them as frontline coordination specialists rather than pure fighters.

They filed into Training Hall 3—a massive space with reinforced floors, weapon racks lining walls, practice dummies positioned throughout, observation platforms where instructors could monitor performance.

Their instructor was waiting.

-----

The instructor was Adept-rank, a female, carrying herself with casual deadliness that suggested decades of combat experience compressed into a still-young frame.

"I am Adept Kira Vex," she announced, her voice carrying authority without requiring volume. "I teach Combat Fundamentals for Tactical Combatant specialization. That means I'm responsible for transforming whatever fighting you learned in your preliminary training into systematic combat capability."

She surveyed the assembled candidates with a critical eye.

"Most of you can fight," Vex observed. "You survived the assessments. You demonstrated enough capability to warrant being here. But—" Her emphasis landed heavily. "—fighting just for the heck of it and professional combat are fundamentally different disciplines."

She gestured toward a practice dummy. "fighting for your survival is reactive. Desperate. You do whatever works in a moment because your priority is not dying. It's messy, inefficient, and produces inconsistent results."

Without visible preparation, Vex moved—her speed suggesting an Initiate-level enhancement at minimum, her technique demonstrating precision that made her movement look choreographed.

The practice dummy exploded under her strikes—not gradually damaged, not worn down, but destroyed through systematic application of force to structural weakpoints.

"Professional combat is systematic," Vex continued, not even breathing hard. "You identify the optimal target points. You apply force efficiently. You eliminate threats with minimum resource expenditure. You produce consistent results regardless of circumstances."

She pointed at the obliterated dummy. "That's what the Academy teaches.Lethality. Efficient, repeatable, professional killing that works in every environment against every opponent."

Bright felt something cold settle in his chest. Recognition that she was being completely honest.

"Your specialization focuses on frontline coordination," Vex explained. "That means you fight while maintaining tactical awareness of the group you command. While directing squad movements. While processing battlefield information and adapting strategy in real-time."

She activated projection showing combat scenario—multiple fighters engaged with Crawlers, one figure maintaining position while directing others' movements.

"That's a tactical combatant role," Vex said. "You're not a pure killer like some Combat Specialists. You're not a defensive anchor like a Defensive Specialists. You're a coordinator who fights while thinking, who maintains awareness while executing technique, who serves as squad's tactical processor."

That matches my spatial foresight, Bright recognized. Matches what I already do instinctively. They're training me to formalize my natural capability.

"We'll start with fundamentals," Vex announced. "Individual technique refinement. Then progress to squad coordination exercises. Then tactical scenario application. By end of the semester, you'll function as effective frontline coordinators rather than just survivors who can fight."

She gestured toward the weapon racks. "Select your primary weapon. Show me what you already know. I'll identify your bad habits that need correction before they become lethal liabilities."

The candidates moved toward weapons with varying levels of confidence. Bright claimed a position near sword rack, his fused katana already present—he'd been instructed to bring personal weapons for evaluation.

Vex moved through the candidates systematically, observing their weapon handling, making sharp corrections, identifying issues with casual efficiency.

When she reached Bright, her expression shifted slightly—a glimpse of surprise.

Vex examined the katana with a critical eye, noting the hidden mechanisms along the spine.

"Interesting," she said. "Custom-built. Extending blade, controlled reach." She glanced up, expression unreadable. "That's not the kind of weapon an outpost candidate is supposed to have."

Vex watched with critical attention, her enhanced perception catching details normal observation would miss as she continued watching this new boy she had noticed .

Bright, meanwhile, turned his attention inward. He knew his foundation—uneven in places, still rough—was sturdier than most recruits'. But the realization unsettled him: too often, he leaned on the quiet ping of his danger sense to read a situation. Instinct over understanding. Reaction over intent.

That wouldn't be enough forever. And he knew it needed fixing.

Vex still moved on to a next candidate, delivering similar assessments—identifying issues, noting strengths, and establishing baseline for development.

After cycling through everyone, Vex returned to the center position.

"Pair up," she commanded. "Someone close to your rank and build. You're going to spar while I observe your baseline capability. No cores except passive enhancement. A

Pure technique demonstration if you will."

Bright found himself paired with another outpost recruit—someone from the southern territories, similar build, carrying twin short swords that suggested a speed-focused combat style.

"Ready positions," Vex announced. "Begin when I signal. Fight until first clean hit or I call stop. This isn't an assessment—this is a diagnostic. I need to see how you actually fight, not how you think you should fight."

She activated barrier matrices separating each sparring pair—a safety measure for preventing accidental interference between matches.

"Begin."

-----

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