An announcement came three days after the Crimson Fang match.

Bright was in the training yard when a runner arrived—a young private with fresh insignia and nervous energy who posted the official notice on the central board before hurrying away like he'd delivered a live explosive.

The crowd formed immediately.

Soldiers pressed forward, jostling for position, voices rising in a wave of excitement and anxiety that crashed against the morning stillness. Bright watched from the edge of the practice ring, his weighted training blade resting against his shoulder.

He didn't need to read the notice. His spatial foresight, coupled with his absurd perception allowed him to feel the little markings on the paper.

It was an announcement of a nationwide republic academy recruitment. The list stated that they were taken fifteen people from the ages of twenty-three and below away from vester. The selections were to be made through performance and officer recommendation.

"Woah… these kids are really lucky," someone said.

"At least it's better than staying here," another added.

The voices blended together, a cacophony of hope and desperation. Fifteen slots. Hundreds of eligible soldiers. The math was simple and brutal.

Duncan emerged from the crowd, his face flushed from the press of bodies. He made his way to Bright, excitement barely contained in his usually steady demeanor.

"Did you hear? The Academy! Fifteen slots!"

Bright nodded. "I heard."

"This is it. This is the way out. Training under Experts and Elites, access to rare techniques, connections to the noble houses without having to—" Duncan stopped, reading something in Bright's expression. "You don't seem excited."

"I'm focused."

"Focused." Duncan repeated the word like he was tasting it, finding it sour. "Bright, this is everything we've been working toward. Well—maybe not for you. I don't really know your goal. But I can assure you, this was always mine. The Academy means—"

"I know what it means." Bright's voice was flat, measured. "It means increased competition in the Trials. More desperate fighters. Higher likelihood of serious injury or death. We'll have to adjust our training regimen accordingly."

Duncan stared at him. "That's… putting it mildly. It's our future staring us right in the face. Doesn't that matter?"

"Of course it matters. That's why we need to train harder." Bright turned back to the practice ring, raising his blade. "Are you going to help me drill counters or not?"

Duncan hesitated, something uncertain flickering across his face. Then he nodded slowly and moved into position.

They trained for three hours straight.

Bright pushed harder than usual, his movements precise and economical. Every strike calculated for maximum efficiency. Every defensive position optimized for energy conservation. He incorporated the lessons from the Crimson Fang match—anticipating opponents who fought without readable intent, practicing responses to unpredictable variables.

Duncan kept up, but barely. His Bone Guard defense formed and reformed, adapting to Bright's relentless pressure.

"Break?" Duncan called after deflecting a particularly vicious combination.

"No. Again."

"Bright, we've been at this for—"

"Again."

Duncan's jaw tightened, but he raised his guard.

Across the training yard, other squads were drilling with renewed intensity. The Academy announcement had ignited something in Vester's young soldiers—a fierce, hungry desperation that turned practice matches into near-real combat.

Bright watched them between exchanges, his spatial foresight active and cataloging threats. That Fledgling with the spear—improved footwork, but telegraphed his thrusts. The Initiate practicing fire manipulation—powerful, but poor stamina management. The scout corps member working on stealth techniques—good fundamentals, exploitable if you knew where to look.

Tactical assets. Potential obstacles. Variables to account for.

Not people.

The thought didn't disturb him. It should have—he was aware enough to recognize that—but the awareness floated somewhere distant, separated from him by a comfortable layer of numbness.

The Mental Dampening core sat in his quarters, waiting. He hadn't absorbed it yet, but he didn't need to. He was managing fine on his own.

"Bright!"

Mara's voice cut through his analysis. She stood at the edge of the practice ring, her dual blades strapped to her back, training clothes already dark with sweat. She must have been drilling alone somewhere.

She looked tired. Strained. Her eyes found his, held them for a moment—and Bright looked away, focusing on adjusting his grip.

"Mara," he acknowledged. "Did you need something?"

The formality in his tone made her flinch. Bright noticed but didn't adjust. Formality maintained professional distance. Professional distance prevented complications.

"I was hoping we could talk. About—"

"About the adjustments for the next Trial match?" Bright turned to face her, his expression neutral. "I've been analyzing our performance. Your engagement timing needs work. You commit too early, leave yourself exposed. We should schedule additional drilling sessions."

Mara's mouth opened, closed. "That's not what I—"

"If it's not about squad performance, it can wait. We have limited training time before the next match, and with the Academy slots announced, competition will intensify. Every hour matters."

"Bright, Private please. Just five minutes to—"

"Duncan, run the counter-sequence again. Mara, if you're here to train, join the rotation. If not, I need to focus."

The words came out clean, efficient, empty of inflection. Bright turned back to Duncan, raising his blade.

Behind him, Mara stood frozen. He could feel her stare—hurt, confused, searching for something in him that wasn't there anymore. Or maybe it was there, just buried too deep to reach.

She didn't join the rotation.

After a moment, her footsteps retreated across the training yard.

Bright noted her departure with the same distant awareness he'd noted everything else that morning. Tactical complication resolved. Training could continue uninterrupted.

Duncan lowered his guard. "That was cold."

"That was necessary."

"Was it?" Duncan's voice carried an edge Bright had rarely heard from him. "She wanted to talk. As a person. Not some asset."

"We don't have time for personal complications right now."

"She's not a complication. She's part of our squad. Our friend."

"She's both." Bright met Duncan's eyes, his own gaze steady and empty. "And right now, the squad needs focus more than it needs friendship."

"That's—" Duncan stopped, something shifting in his expression. Not anger. Something worse. Concern. "You're not okay."

"I'm functional. That's what matters."

"No. It's not." Duncan set down his practice weapon. "Your instructor, Hailen just died. We just got destroyed by Crimson Fang.

And you and Mara—whatever happened between you two is unsettling. You barely spoke before, but what you had was at least amiable —something's broken. And instead of dealing with any of it, you're turning into a machine."

"Machines are efficient, Duncan."

"Machines aren't human." Duncan stepped closer, his voice dropping. "I've seen this before. Soldiers who shut down after trauma. They keep functioning, keep fighting, but there's nothing behind the eyes. Eventually, they walk into the Shroud and don't come back. Not because they died—because they stopped caring whether they lived."

Bright considered this. Filed it away as relevant information. "I'm not suicidal."

"Maybe not. But you're not alive either." Duncan picked up his weapon. "I'll keep training with you. But we're going to talk about this. Soon. Whether you want to or not."

He walked away, leaving Bright alone in the practice ring.

Around him, Vester hummed with renewed purpose. The Academy announcement had injected fresh hunger into the outpost's young soldiers. Everywhere Bright looked, he saw desperation channeled into training, ambition sharpened into weapon-edges.

Fifteen slots.

His was guaranteed—A sixteen year old initiate not getting in would be a travesty. His ability had made that clear. Private Bright Morgan, multiple Trial victories, unique tactical value. The Academy would want him.

Duncan would get a slot too, also an initiate at seventeen. His defensive capabilities and leadership potential marked him as valuable investment.

Silas—the bastard Drey—looked about eighteen, though who could really tell? No one ever bothered to learn where the annoying prick came from. Still, he was the real deal. In terms of combat, the man would give Bright a run for his money and he would also be feeling one of those coveted slots.

But the others…

Bright's mind catalogued the variables. Mara's rapid improvement made her competitive, but her relative inexperience worked against her. Baggen was solid but unremarkable—middle-tier Initiate without distinguishing characteristics. Rolf's fire manipulation was powerful but common. Adam's tactical intelligence was valuable, but he was the youngest at fifteen , and his combat capabilities were purely human-baseline.

The math said most of Sunshine Squad that were eligible wouldn't make the cut.

The thought should have bothered him.

It didn't.

Or if it did, the feeling was too distant to matter.

Bright raised his blade and resumed solo drilling, his movements mechanical and perfect. Strike, pivot, counter. Strike, pivot, counter. The pattern repeated until his muscles burned and his enhanced body demanded rest.

He ignored the demands and kept drilling.

Around him, the sun traced its arc across the sky—or would have, if the Never-Ending Night hadn't swallowed it. The soul-force lamps flickered, maintaining their artificial day, pushing back the Shroud's darkness.

Bright drilled until his hands bled through his wrappings.

Then he went to the armory, requisitioned fresh supplies, and drilled some more.

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