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SCL Chapter 22: Born in a Tower, Raised for War
🕑 Added 2025-04-08 18:18:47 +0000 UTC"Lee Dong-nyoung. He used to work at Wolf Industries. After the war broke out and the Great Depression hit, the company downsized, and he joined the military. Lee is the kind of person who takes everything seriously, never sloppy about anything. Hmm… if you ever meet him, you'll definitely remember those black eyes of his—like staring into deep space."
Ryk stared intently at Augustus. For a moment, he felt like Augustus was more than just their commander—like an older brother who knew his men inside and out. He scolded them for their bad habits, took pride in their strengths, and that photo he carried? It wasn't just a picture—it was a family portrait.
Back in boot camp, hardly anyone in his unit wanted to talk to Ryk. He didn't like to socialize, he wasn't funny, and most of all—his smile always felt fake.
Ryk had spent countless hours in front of a mirror trying to perfect that smile, make it look more natural. But no matter how hard he tried, it never won him any friends.
He came from one of the old families of Tarsonis. Raised in material comfort but utter isolation, Ryk had grown up in a world so different from the slums that sprawled across the city that, to those struggling to survive, his life might as well have been heaven.
But Ryk knew—everything comes at a price.
He'd never once set foot outside the Bennett Sky Tower, the colossal skyscraper in the center of Tarsonis City owned by his family. The people he saw most often were nannies, butlers, and maids. His education was handled by an entire team of private tutors—economics, politics, art, management, history, and aristocratic etiquette.
That wasn't all. He also studied aerospace engineering, starship construction, interstellar port logistics, and every other subject tied to the family's business empire. When he was just five years old, his father gave him a homework assignment: figure out which areas of the interstellar freighter transport network could be cut to increase profits. Ryk's answer was simple—people.
His parents never allowed anyone outside of family or staff to have close contact with him. On the surface, it was for his protection—to avoid publicity, to reduce the risk of kidnapping. But Ryk knew better. They just wanted to ensure their heir, born of two powerful family bloodlines, could be molded in absolute control, free from outside influence.
Ryk had no love for politics. He knew all too well the scheming and manipulation between old families. Friends today, enemies tomorrow. They made alliances for power, then turned on each other for even more power. Each family leader was the monarch of a corporate empire, and their families were the royal courts.
As the economic and political heart of the Terran Federation, Tarsonis had spent the last few decades bleeding other planets dry—through trade dumping, land grabs, economic sanctions. It grew fat and powerful while others withered.
The Terran Federation was like a pressure cooker set over a roaring fire, throwing in worlds like Korhal IV and Turaxis II—hundreds of them—into the pot. Boiled down until the flesh stripped from the bone, until every last bit of nutrition had been extracted, leaving behind only bleached skeletons.
This princely life left Ryk with a deep, gnawing emptiness. For eighteen years, every day of his life had been exactly the same.
From the top floor of the Bennett Sky Tower, he would gaze down on the dazzling city below, watching the hundreds of skyscrapers and spires carve the deep blue sky of Tarsonis into jagged shards.
But like every city in the Terran Federation, behind the grandeur lay thousands of slums. Beneath the glowing towers were rivers of industrial runoff, piles of discarded parts, and garbage tossed away by the upper class.
Down there, away from sunlight, people lived in shanties built of scrap metal—trapped in a hell that teetered on the edge of legality and morality.
Ryk knew that's where the poor lived. He knew their lives were hard, miserable. But all of it felt unreal to him—just like the glittering city outside his window. Always there, yet forever out of reach.
If Ryk had been the sole heir of his family, he might have been able to tolerate this kind of life—because one day, he would eventually take over the Bennett family and gain his freedom. But he had an elder sister far more outstanding than himself, especially adept at running the family business, and she had already been confirmed as the undisputed heir.
From that moment on, Ryk’s future darkened. He would receive neither a single company nor any of the family-owned starports or space stations. It was all in the name of avoiding the fragmentation of the family's assets and power.
When his father decided to marry him off to a noblewoman from another family for a political alliance—even though the young lady looked charming and elegant in both photographs and portraits—Ryk, unwilling to be bound by such a fate, resolutely fled his home. He concealed the fact that he belonged to the Bennett family of the Tarsonis Founding Houses, hid his real surname, and enlisted in the Marine Corps, determined to chase a future of his own making.
"Why the long face? Come on, smile a little," Augustus said when he noticed something off in Ryk's expression.
Ryk knew he must’ve smiled terribly.
"From now on, Squad One, Third Platoon—that's your new home," Augustus said. "We’re your brothers now."
With Ryk Kydd assigned to First Squad, their headcount had grown to thirteen—already exceeding the standard limit.
The sniper insignia on Ryk’s chest and the elegant, slender FN-92 Marine Sniper Rifle slung over his shoulder drew plenty of admiration, especially from Raynor. Still, Ryk remained visibly reserved around the others.
Over time, despite Ryk’s reluctance to talk about his past, Hank became convinced that he must have come from a noble or wealthy merchant family—for one simple reason: the guy didn’t even know how to curse properly.
When Augustus was promoted to Corporal Candidate, everyone in the squad had mentally prepared for it—but when the announcement came, they still cheered like kids. The rank of Corporal Candidate was a transitional one, a stepping stone from enlisted to NCO, and it meant Augustus was well on his way to becoming a full Corporal.
After the initial surprise, they were all overwhelmed with pride. In the two months they'd spent together at boot camp, Augustus had become one of their own. There was no doubt—he was the heart and soul of their combat squad.
That night, Augustus had originally wanted to take the squad out for a celebratory feast, just like they'd done during training camp. But sadly, the 5th Battalion's base had nothing but airdropped supply stations and the military canteen.
The mess hall cooks only knew how to make the same few dishes: stewed potatoes, vegetable soup, and boiled pork sausages.
Even so, Marines didn’t always get food this decent. Most of the time, they had to make do with instant meals or sugary nutrition bars.
At 8 PM, after training ended, while the others were busy with their own stuff—playing cards or reading e-books—Augustus sat quietly, writing a letter to his mother and younger sister.
Ever since leaving Korhal, Augustus had made it a point to write every week without fail.
As always, in his letters to Dorothy, he never mentioned the cruelty of the battlefield or politics. He wrote mostly about the beautiful starlit skies outside of Turaxis and the local customs around their base. In his letters to his mother, he would routinely ask about how things were going at home and occasionally inquire about his father and his revolutionary cause.
Augustus knew those letters would bring joy to both his parents.
