Bright's opponent moved immediately—testing strikes that probed his guard rather than committed to any attacks, it was an approach that gathered information on him before escalating.

He's trained, Bright recognized. It wasn't like the rest, as there was a glimpse of proper technique in his movement.

Bright responded with similar caution, his spatial foresight tracking the opponent's movement patterns, identifying tendencies, looking for exploitable habits.

Their weapons met in controlled exchanges—neither trying to win quickly, both understanding this was a demonstration rather than a competition.

"Stop relying on foresight," Vex called from outside the barrier. "I can see you predicting rather than defending. Use or try to form a proper guarding technique."

She's right. Bright forced himself to maintain some conventional defensive positions instead of just avoiding attacks his spatial sense predicted.

It was harder. Less efficient. But it made him actually use his guard rather than just positioning around threats.

His opponent pressed his advantage slightly—recognizing that Bright was deliberately constraining himself, testing whether a self-imposed limitation was a weakness or discipline in training.

Bright adapted—maintaining his guard while looking for counter opportunities.

He used some conventional technique supplemented by his spatial awareness rather than just his usual pure prediction.

Bright understood. That he had to be systemic about the whole ordeal and learn form it. The goal wasn't about abandoning his advantages, but building a proper foundation that could enhance his existing technique rather than replace it.

The exchange continued for several minutes—neither landing a clean hit, both demonstrating competence without revealing their full capability.

"Stop," Vex called.

The barriers dropped. The sparring pairs separated.

Vex moved through them again, delivering rapid feedback.

"You—" She pointed at one candidate. "—you drop your guard when you attack. That works against Crawlers who don't exploit openings with ease. If that was a human, well we wouldn't be having this conversation."

"You—" Another candidate. "—you telegraph every strike with your shoulder movement. It's an obvious tell that competent fighter can read easily."

When she reached Bright: "You rely too heavily on your perception. A proper technique should be your foundation, awareness should be an enhancement. Not the other way around. We'll correct that dependency."

Around the hall, similar patterns emerged—survival habits that worked but weren't optimal, reactive tendencies that needed systematic replacement, capabilities that required refinement rather than just application.

"This semester focuses on fundamentals," Vex announced to the group. "We break bad habits. We rebuild techniques from its foundation. It will be frustrating. You'll feel like you're getting worse before you get better. That's normal. That's necessary."

She gestured toward exit. "Core Theory is next on your schedule. Go. Learn. Process. Tomorrow we continue the refinement."

The candidates filed out, most looking thoughtful rather than discouraged—understanding that thecriticism was a development opportunity rather than plain condemnation.

Bright walked with the small cluster of outpost recruits who'd been classified as Tactical Combatants.

Those who were labeled to lead and command a team.

"That was humbling," one admitted. "Thought I was decent fighter. Turns out I'm just a survivor with bad habits."

"We all are," another agreed. "That's why we're here. To become decent fighters instead of just lucky survivors."

"At least she's honest about it," Bright observed. "Not pretending we're already great. Not coddling us with false praise. Just identifying issues and promising to fix them."

"Yeah," the first candidate said. "Honest development beats comfortable lies."

Like yesterday's lecture, Bright thought.

Truth as foundation rather than propaganda as motivation.

On the other end the nobles of the class did not view their selves and common survivors but as people born to lead, so it was not surprising that there was an unconscious divide in the class.

They headed toward Lecture Hall B for Core Theory, their next class, their first full day of Academy education continuing with a systematic progression through the curriculum designed to transform them into professional soldiers.

Fourteen hours today, Bright reminded himself. Then again tomorrow. Then every day for three years.

This is just a fragment of what the power I hope to wield would costs.

And I'm ready to pay that price.

Even if truth was heavy. Even if development was frustrating. Even if the transformation would hurt.

Welcome to Sparkshire, Bright thought.

Welcome to becoming a weapon for the republic.

Welcome to discovering that education and violence are the same thing here.

The day continued. Core Theory explaining principles that experience in the outposts had taught intuitively but imprecisely. Tactical Analysis demonstrating optimal squad positioning and movement economy. Specialized training building on the morning's combat foundation.

By evening, Bright was exhausted—mentally more than physically, though Physical Conditioning had tested his Body Enhancement core's limits.

He returned to Room 247, finding Kildare in his usual position, unchanged and unmoving.

He wanted to uncover why his roommate was that weird but he was too tired to care.

Bright collapsed on his bed, his body demanding rest, his mind too active to immediately sleep despite the fatigue.

First day complete, he thought. How many more until I don't recognize myself?

How many more until I become exactly what they're building?

He didn't know. Couldn't know.

But he'd find out.

One brutal day at a time.

One systematic lesson at a time.

One transformation at a time.

Until he was either a powerful force or a common casualty.

Either weapon or broken tool.

Tomorrow, he thought as exhaustion finally claimed him.

Tomorrow we continue.

Tomorrow I become a little less survivor and a little more soldier.

If he survived the education that promised to either forge or destroy him.

Outside, Sparkshire's lamps illuminated the night—beautiful, expensive, a constant reminder that this was Central, where resources concentrated, where power accumulated, where choice were made by those who viewed the commoners as numbers on a board.

For better or worse.

Whether they wanted it or not.

Whether they survived it or broke beneath its weight.

The Academy continued its work.

The education proceeded.

The transformation was inevitable.

And Bright was caught in it, committed to it, becoming it.

One day at a time.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​

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