Adam found Bright in the armory two days later, cleaning his weapon with methodical precision.

The space was quiet—most soldiers preferred the communal training yards, but Bright had been spending more time alone lately. Maintaining equipment, reviewing notes, existing in spaces where human interaction wasn't required.

Adam understood the impulse. He'd built his entire life around careful distance, strategic relationships, calculated engagements. But watching Bright descend into the same cold efficiency felt different. Wrong, somehow.

Still. Business was business.

"Private," Adam said, announcing his presence even though Bright's spatial foresight had already tracked his approach.

"Adam." Bright didn't look up from his blade. "If this is about tomorrow's training schedule, I've already—"

"It's not." Adam settled onto a nearby bench, his rifle resting against his knee. "It's about some opportunity. And well… mutual benefit."

That got Bright's attention. He set down his cleaning cloth, turned to face Adam with those empty, calculating eyes that had become his default expression.

"I'm listening."

"You know I've been building my information network," Adam began. "Small things. Trading gossip, tracking supply movements, monitoring political shifts. It's kept me alive, kept me informed."

Your network is shit as fuck," Bright said calmly. "Still adequate for us newbies, I guess."

Adam's jaw tightened slightly. The assessment stung—mostly because it was accurate. "Yes. Well. Part of maintaining that network involves merit point exchanges. Information costs. And I've… accumulated certain debts."

"You want to borrow merit points."

"No." Adam leaned forward. "I want to buy something from you. Something valuable."

Bright's eyes narrowed fractionally. "What?"

"The core you got from Larkin. Before he died."

Adam watched Bright's face for a reaction—and caught it. The minute tension at the mention of Larkin, of the core. He smiled as his gamble paid off.

"Mental Dampening," he continued. "That was Larkin's ability, if I remember the reports correctly. You haven't absorbed it yet."

The silence stretched between them, heavy with implication.

"How do you know about that?" Bright's voice was carefully neutral.

"I pay attention. I notice things." Adam shrugged. "You've been carrying that core for weeks. You haven't integrated it. I also noticed your body's picked up some enhancement. Still, I don't really want to know all the shit going on in your life right now—I'm just trying to focus on mine."

"I'm not some kind of crawler, Adam."

"Sure." Adam pulled out a small ledger from his jacket—pages filled with, merit point transactions he had made so far, during his stint with his cells.

"Regardless, that core would be useful to me. Mental Dampening pairs well with my cognitive enhancement—it filters emotional noise and lets me focus on pure data. It would make my intelligence work more efficient. For my enemies, it'd feel like I was just a spectator in my own fights."

"And you think I'd trade it?"

"I think you're practical. And I think you know that core doesn't fit your combat style." Adam met Bright's empty gaze.

"Right now, you're just a glorified radar. In a real death match, I doubt you'd beat Duncan—it'd probably end in a draw at best. Your offensive capability is shit, Morgan. You should know that by now."

It was a multifaceted lie sprinkled with a silver of truth. A carefully constructed one.

Mental Dampening wouldn't help Bright much. Even so, the boy wasn't some slouch —he was a brutal, deadly machine in the making. Every opponent who had faced him would attest to that. If the crawlers had even a shred of intelligence—and the ability to speak—they'd be hosting press interviews just to sing his praises, glazing the boy for slicing their necks or that abomination they had for one.

But Adam needed that core. Needed the edge it would provide.

And he needed Bright to stay just human enough to remain functional as squad leader.

Selfish? Absolutely. But Adam had never pretended otherwise.

"What are you offering?" Bright asked.

"Three hundred merit points. Plus first access to any intelligence I gather for the next six months." Adam tapped his ledger. "That's above market value for an unabsorbed core. Generous, considering."

"Considering what?"

"Considering you weren't going to absorb it anyway. This way, you get compensation for something you'll lose regardless."

Bright's fingers drummed against his blade—the only external sign of his internal processing. His spatial foresight was probably mapping probability trees, calculating outcomes, weighing variables.

"Why do you want it so badly?" Bright asked. "You have other cores you could pursue. Other options."

"Because I'm a bit weak compared to you guys," Adam said quietly. And my chances of getting an Academy slot are…" He consulted his ledger, though he'd already memorized every calculation. "Approximately fourteen percent. Maybe less."

"The slots aren't just merit-based. Combat capability factors heavily."

"Exactly. You, Duncan, Silas—you're all guaranteed entry. Young Initiates with rare talents and combat records. The Republic can't justify keeping you out. Houses Crownhold and Kadesh will claim maybe five slots for their own people. That leaves seven peripheral spots for everyone else."

Adam's voice remained steady, but something harder crept into his tone. "Seven spots. Hundreds of candidates. And I'm a baseline human with a rifle and a decent information network. The math doesn't favor me."

"So you need every advantage you can get."

"Yes." No shame in the admission. Just cold acknowledgment. "Mental Dampening would help. Would make my intelligence work more valuable. Would improve my chances from fourteen percent to maybe… twenty? Twenty-five?"

Bright was silent for a long moment, studying Adam with those empty eyes.

"You said we'd have to go through administration," Bright said finally. "Merit point transfers for cores require official oversight. To prevent bullying."

"Correct. We'd need to file some paperwork, appear before an officer—probably Lieutenant Orin Faulk, he handles most merit transactions. It's a formality, but necessary." Adam paused. "Unless you're not interested. In which case, I'll find another seller."

Another lie. There were no other sellers with cores Adam needed. This was his best shot.

Maybe his only shot.

Bright stood, sheathing his blade with mechanical precision. "I'll consider it. Give me twenty-four hours."

"That's reasonable."

"But Adam—" Bright turned back, his expression unreadable. "Why tell me the truth about your chances? Why not just make the offer without explaining your desperation?"

Adam considered several possible answers. misdirection. Strategic vulnerability. Calculated honesty.

He chose truth. Or the closest thing to it he could manage.

"Because you're my friend," Adam said. "And friends should be honest with each other. Even when it's uncomfortable."

Especially when it's uncomfortable, he didn't add. Because uncomfortable truths were the ones that stuck, that built loyalty, that created the kind of obligations Adam could leverage later.

Friendship was just another form of currency.

Bright's expression didn't change. "I'll give you my answer tomorrow."

He walked away, leaving Adam alone in the quiet armory.

Adam sat for a moment, reviewing the conversation in his mind. Bright had been receptive—more so than expected, given his recent coldness. The appeal to mutual benefit had worked. The honesty about desperation had probably helped too.

Still he kept his thoughts level headed, because in Vester, in this world of Crawlers and Trials and desperate competition for fifteen Academy slots, survival trumped sentiment every single time.

Adam picked up his rifle, checked the mechanism out of habit, and headed back to his quarters.

Tomorrow, Bright would probably say yes.

And Adam would get his core.

And Bright would keep on struggling to keep an anchor connected to his humanity.

Sorry, Adam thought, without much actual regret. But my advancement comes first.

Always had.

Always would.

-----

Days before,

The news of the Academy recruitment had spread through Vester like wildfire.

Adept Atheon heard about it during his afternoon briefing with Lieutenant Orin Faulk and Captain Rowan Kadesh.

The Fist of Men had calmed somewhat after Maren was stabilized and cleared.

"Fifteen slots," Rowan said, reading from the official Republic dispatch. "Ages twenty-three and below. Selection based on Trial performance, officer recommendations, and combat capability assessments."

Atheon leaned back in his chair, processing. "That's… generous. More than I expected."

"The Republic needs fresh talent," Faulk added. "The Shroud threat is escalating. Monarch-level Crawlers are appearing more frequently. They need Experts and Elites, which means they need to train more Adepts, which means—"

"Which means they need promising Initiates."Atheon finished. "I understand the logic."

"The announcement goes public this evening," Rowan continued. "But we wanted you to know first. You have the largest concentration of young Initiates in Vester. Your input on candidates will carry significant weight."

"Who's guaranteed?" Atheon asked.

"Private Morgan. Recruit Duncan and recruit Silas." Rowan ticked them off on his fingers."All young, all Initiates with rare capabilities. The Republic can't afford to pass on them. Houses Crownhold and Kadesh will likely claim some slots between us for our own people. That leaves seven likely open spots."

"Seven spots. Hundreds of candidates." Atheon's expression darkened. "The Trials are about to become a bloodbath."

"That's your concern to manage," Rowan said evenly. "We just need you to identify the strongest candidates from your independent forces. Make sure the worthy ones get proper consideration."

Maren, sitting in the corner with her remaining arm resting on her lap, spoke quietly. "Define 'worthy.'"

"Combat effectiveness. Tactical value. Potential for growth." Rowan's eyes flicked to her, then back to Atheon. "The same criteria we've always used."

"And politics?" Atheon asked. "How much will that factor?"

"Less than you think. The Republic genuinely needs talent right now. They can't afford to waste slots on incompetent nobles' children." Rowan stood. "But they also can't afford to antagonize the major Houses completely. Hence our five slots. The rest is merit-based."

After Rowan left, Atheon sat in silence, Maren watching him with knowing eyes.

"Why the long face?" she said.

"I'm thinking about all of them." Atheon moved to the window overlooking the training yards. "This announcement is going to transform Vester. Every young soldier with a dream is going to push themselves past safe limits. The injury rate will spike. The desperation will breed mistakes."

——

Outside, the Never-Ending Night pressed against the windows, and somewhere below, young soldiers were about to hear news that would change everything.

The announcement went public at evening formation.

The commander's voice echoed across the assembly grounds, amplified by soul-force resonators: "The Republic Academy is accepting fifteen recruits from Outpost Vester. Candidates must be twenty-three years of age or younger. Selection criteria include Trial performance, officer recommendations, and demonstrated combat capability. The recruitment period begins immediately and concludes in thirty days. May the worthy rise."

The words hit like a physical force.

For a moment, silence.

Then chaos.

Voices erupted across the formation—excitement, anxiety, desperate calculation. Soldiers broke into immediate conversation, forming huddles, making plans, recalculating their entire lives around fifteen precious slots.

Silas heard it from his position with Tyven's squad.

Fifteen slots. Academy recruitment.

His heart rate spiked—not from fear, but from sudden, crystallized understanding of what this meant.

His entry was guaranteed. Reaching initiate rank at his age was rare—he was like a bar of soap to a coal-blackened miner, crude but indispensable, and immensely valuable to his section.

Silas smiled genuinely, slipping away from the crowd and into the deeper night, already planning for his assured trip to Central as the masses behind him surged with unrepressed emotion.

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