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Book Three Chapter 24: Class One Of The 93rd
🕑 Added 2025-08-09 04:07:00 +0000 UTCVelrock looked at Vaeliyan and smiled. The boy really had been at the edge, of what, exactly, even Velrock wasn’t sure. But he’d walked it with the grace of someone who didn’t care if he fell, as if he'd already accepted the cost. What Velrock didn’t expect, not in all his long years, was what happened next.
Jurpat lay flat on his back in the grass, staring up at the sky like it might offer answers he hadn’t asked for. His eyes were half-lidded, his expression unreadable. He exhaled through his teeth and muttered, "No way I'm going last."
Then the meadow responded.
The wind shifted from lazy breeze to primal howl. It wasn’t just weather; it was a declaration. A wild thing that moved through the simulated grass like it had teeth and purpose. The moon, which had been a silent bystander in the amber sky, now blazed white-hot, as if it had been waiting for this moment all along. The long shadows of the cadets stretched sharp and unnatural across the ground, distorted by silver fire.
Then came the notification:
Wolf Totem has howled to the call.
Velrock blinked once. Twice. There were two of them. Two cadets in one first-year class. That was already unprecedented. But one of them hadn’t even registered in his projections. Jurpat? Jurpat had been expected to struggle, not surge.
He knew Vaeliyan could do it, had anticipated that outcome. But Jurpat’s breakthrough? That was something deeper than ambition. That was hunger finding its voice.
And then the world twisted again.
The twins. Vexa and Leron.
They sat cross-legged in the grass, shoulder to shoulder, fingers interlaced between them like it had always been that way. Their posture was calm. Their eyes closed in perfect synchronicity, as if they inhaled the same breath from two separate lungs.
And the sky broke.
On Vexa’s side: the sun flared with impossible saturation. The sky bloomed into shades no one had names for. Golds and purples bled into rose and fire, swirling like celestial ink. The clouds unraveled like ribbons soaked in emotion, their motion choreographed in defiance.
On Leron’s: silence. The moon grew wider, sharper, colder. The stars dimmed around her as if afraid to interrupt. The color drained from the sky and the land, replaced by silvers and whites that felt not empty, but purposeful. Monochrome in design, like the world had been refined into something cruel and beautiful.
Two notifications pulsed together:
Plus Sun has risen to the call.
Minus Moon has set to the call.
Velrock stepped back in disbelief.
They were pushing through, to the next stage. Not one. Not two. But now four. On the first day. Velrock had seen a dozen remarkable cadets over the decades. A few had cracked Stage three early. But this?
This was not supposed to happen.
Then it was Xera.
She didn’t move. But the air around her changed.
It shifted. It writhed. It pressed into skin and bone without contact. Velrock felt the scales rise on the back of his neck. His hands twitched without meaning to. The sensation wasn’t violent, it was insidious. Subtle. Like something was crawling just under the world’s surface, already inside the framework of reality.
Grey Widow has crawled to the call.
Velrock stared at her.
He turned, eyes wide, scanning the rest of Class One. Some had their eyes closed. Some were wide open, unblinking. One or two trembled, but not from fear. From recognition. From the weight of something awakening inside them.
These weren’t early bloomers. They weren’t even prodigies.
They were monsters. Each and every one. Born or built, it didn’t matter anymore. They were answering the same call Vaeliyan had. No, he triggered this.
Then Velrock’s gaze settled on Elian.
Perfect posture. Chin raised, shoulders relaxed. Still as stone. Regal in a way the old bloodlines still recognized. His eyes glowed faintly. Like there was a light buried inside his soul that didn’t flicker because it had never doubted.
Velrock opened his mouth.
And then the light around Elian bent.
Bent, not like distortion. Bent like the world was bowed toward him.
For the first time in decades, Velrock felt something he couldn’t name.
Something close to awe.
Another notification blared forward, but not like the others. This wasn’t an answer to a call, it was a declaration. A presence that did not respond to the world, but commanded it.
The King's Will has stepped forward to answer the call.
It didn’t even stop there. Elian's Soul Skill was clearly the most powerful so far, but it was not close to the last.
Roan came next.
His breakthrough didn’t roar or crack the sky. It rumbled, low and steady, like hooves over hard earth. The sound echoed through the meadow like something mighty stirring beneath roots. A wind kicked up behind him, scattering dry leaves that hadn’t existed moments before. As if the ground had always known he would come riding.
The air grew thick with the smell of moss and churned soil. Chains dragged across the dirt behind him, invisible yet undeniable.
The Horseman has heard the call.
Then Wesley.
His came fast. Sharp. A flash of movement and sensation with no center. The world around him compressed, then stretched, as if space had momentarily forgotten how to hold itself. The light didn’t shift. The colors didn’t change. But the environment reacted all the same. The grass around Wesley browned and curled at the edges. The air grew tight, like it had been vacuum-sealed, and the distant trees seemed to lean away, their upper branches curling like they were being pulled back by invisible hands. The wind didn’t blow, it recoiled.
It didn’t feel like fire. It felt like need.
Hungering Flames have answered the call.
Fenn’s breakthrough came with a single, deafening snap.
The kind of sound wind shouldn’t make.
It wasn’t thunder. It was speed, a rupture in the calm as if the very air had split open trying to catch him. The grass around him flattened instantly, forced outward in a perfect line. The pressure sliced forward like an unseen projectile had just broken the sound barrier six inches above the ground. Trees at the meadow’s edge shuddered, not from impact, but from the threat of motion.
The direction he faced didn’t matter. The path existed now. And the world wasn’t correcting, it was recoiling.
The Ram’s Bow has risen in answer to the call.
Then Sylen.
His presence lit the air on fire. Not literally, but it felt like it. The temperature spiked with no heat source. Grass near him withered and stood back up like it had changed its mind. The light bent, not visibly, but in the bones, like the sky itself was tensing. Then came the sensation, a roar, not heard with the ears but felt through the lungs. Every bird in the simulation froze mid-flight, the wind dropped dead, and the shadows around them stretched toward Sylen like he was the only real point left. It didn’t come to answer anything. It came to judge.
It wasn’t answering anything.
It came to judge.
The Starlight Blaze has drawn closer to the call.
Lessa, meanwhile, was upside down.
She was balanced perfectly in a handstand, her prosthetic arms pressed firmly into the grass, metallic fingers splayed with effortless control. Her legs pointed skyward in a rigid line, motionless, sculpted in discipline. The ground beneath her hands frosted over in widening circles, like the start of a deep winter overtaking the earth from a single point. A low groan rumbled through the soil, faint and wide, as if the terrain itself felt the shift.
The wind pulled back like it didn’t want to be caught beneath what was coming. Tree branches above began to stiffen and crack with thin ice, and the distant air shimmered like a snowblind mirage. This wasn’t a storm. This was the warning before the mountain falls. The hush before the break.
And it was cresting.
Waves of powder gave way to ice. Then came the sense of momentum. The avalanche hadn’t hit yet. But everyone could feel it waiting at the crest.
The Mountain’s Wrath has answered the call.
Then Chime.
She didn’t sit. She sang. Not with her voice, but with presence. A bell, distant but unmistakable, chimed through the field. It echoed in light. Colors shimmered like glass catching just the right angle. A slow, beautiful toll that made some of the cadets close their eyes without meaning to.
There was no sound of death.
Only the invitation of it.
Don’t Fear the Reaper has rung the bell in answer to the call.
Torman came next.
His shift was the quietest of all. Barely noticed, except for Velrock.
The pressure in the air softened. The wind stilled. Threads of calm rippled outward from where Torman sat, like silk laid across water.
The Thread Weaver has bound the weave to the call.
Then Rokhan.
His felt sharp. The edge of thought. The edge of pain. It wasn’t dramatic, it was slow, steady. Deliberate. The sound wasn’t in the air, but in the mind: blades dragging across a whetstone, over and over, each pass refining, honing, whispering of things yet to come.
The Grindstone has readied for the call.
Ramis followed.
His was the strangest.
The air around him felt... slick. Bubbly. Like soap and static had merged into something playful and unpredictable. The world didn’t tremble. It giggled. Colors popped where none had been. The pressure he emitted was weird, but it wasn’t weak. Just strange. Joyful. Unsettling.
Toil and Trouble have awoken to the call.
And then there was only Varnai.
She sat beside Jurpat, knees tucked in, arms wrapped around them. Her expression didn’t hide her thoughts. Every new breakthrough pulled her lower into herself. Every answered call etched something tighter across her face.
Now, she was the only one who hadn’t looked.
Jurpat patted her shoulder, solid, warm, no pressure behind it.
"It’s okay," he said softly. "You don’t have to look. Just like Velrock said, no one here will judge you. We’re all monsters. If anything... it’s exciting to see what you’ll find."
And Varnai, still silent, closed her eyes.
But this time, her breath didn’t shake.
Then Varnai started screaming.
It was raw. A sound that ripped up from somewhere deeper than the body, a shriek born of something older than breath. Her scream tore through the meadow, and the world answered.
The light vanished.
The sun blinked out like it had been a trick of memory. The warmth in the air turned violent, searing the lungs even as frost crawled over the earth. Everything burned. Everything froze. At the same time. Opposites refused to reconcile, and the laws that governed balance stepped aside.
And then all sound stopped.
The scream didn’t fade. It was simply gone. Swallowed. Silenced by something far larger than any voice.
The air became thick with the absence of presence.
And then, without warning, a notification pierced the silence:
The Voidborn has looked upon this world seeking the one that calls.
Reality fractured.
Only for a moment.
The meadow flickered like a bad broadcast. Stone bled through the grass. Sky shifted to void. For a heartbeat, nothing was real. Nothing was.
And then... the gentle meadow returned. Birds chirped again like they had never stopped. The sunset filtered through the leaves as if it had always been there.
But Varnai was still shaking.
Velrock stepped toward her.
His silhouette carried no pressure, no demand. Only a calm gravity, like an anchor being lowered into water. He reached out with one clawed hand, fingers extended, palm open.
His voice was soft, reverent.
"You are mine," he said, "if you wish to be."
Varnai looked up. Her eyes were wet. Her breath trembled. But her feet moved.
She stepped past the hand.
And embraced him.
Velrock didn’t flinch. Didn’t hesitate. He wrapped his arms around her and held her close, tight, protective, quiet.
Like a parent holding a child who had just seen what the world really looks like for the first time.
And knew it would never be the same again.
Velrock sat all of Class One down. There were no commands, no instructions. Just a gesture to the grass, and every cadet obeyed without question. Not from fear. Not from conditioning. But from understanding.
Then Velrock turned his gaze upward.
He spoke not with volume, but with weight.
"You all need to come here. Right now. This can't wait. I know you're watching. This isn't normal. And they need you."
The pad lit up.
First was Alorna Peace, instant, silent, already analyzing. Her expression didn’t change, but her presence settled over the class like a shield.
Then the next wave came as a group: Imujin, Josaphine, Isol, and Gwen. All walked with precision. None of them spoke. Josaphine’s gaze locked on Vaeliyan instantly. Isol’s swept the class, then the trees, then Velrock. Gwen looked like she already knew part of the story, but not all of it.
Next came Lisa and Deck.
Lisa moved with her usual predatory efficiency, but stopped short when she felt the stillness. Her eyes narrowed, the weight in her bones recognizing something impossible had rooted here.
Deck... Deck actually looked serious for once. Like he’d seen this kind of break before, but never so clean. Never so complete.
Then came Dr. Wirk and Jim.
Wirk looked like he was already three thoughts ahead, lips moving in silent calculation. He didn’t greet anyone. He just studied the ground, the air, the way Class One sat like survivors of something beautiful and terrible.
Jim was quieter than usual. Eyes sharp. Posture loose. One hand on the rusted pipe at his hip like it might be needed for something other than combat.
Theramoor Sarn followed. Her jaw tightened slightly when she saw Elian. Recognition. Worry.
And then, finally, Dr. Lambert.
She stumbled onto the pad, flustered, hair askew, one glove missing.
"I was in the middle of something," she muttered, brushing her coat back into place. Then her eyes met Velrock’s. And all pretense vanished.
She went still.
Whatever had been important before, tests, trials, theory, meant nothing now.
They were all here.
All of them.
And Velrock simply said, “Look at them.”
The instructors didn’t move.
But something in the air shifted, like even they weren’t sure how to process what they were seeing.
Velrock’s voice stayed quiet, but it carried like iron under silk.
“Every single one of them. Sixteen cadets. Stage Three. First day. No prep. No conditioning. Nothing. All I did was tell them to look and they did.”
He turned in place, slowly, eyes on each of the instructors.
“Tell me how that happens.”
No one spoke.
Because it didn’t.
It wasn’t possible.
Not by system standards. Not by soul-growth pacing.
And certainly not without them knowing.
Josaphine finally crossed her arms.
"That can't be the whole story"
Gwen knelt beside one of the cadets, Lessa, maybe. She wasn’t looking at her. She was feeling the air.
“Only two of them were even close when I saw them earlier.”
Alorna’s gaze never moved from the group.
She knelt in the dirt, drew a quick stick figure with a too-large head and Xs for eyes, then another with a wide, unnatural smile stretching past the edge of its face.
She circled them both, then stabbed her stick once between them.
The message was clear.
Not natural.
Velrock didn’t disagree.
He just looked back at the class. All seated. All calm.
And every single one of them was watching them back.
Not with challenge.
With awareness.
“Did we do something wrong?” Lessa asked quietly, her voice directed at Gwen. Her tone wasn’t filled with fear, it was filled with uncertainty. The kind that came not from punishment, but from wondering if they had stepped somewhere no one was meant to tread.
Gwen shook her head once, firm and calm. “No, child. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
She looked out over the still-seated cadets of Class One, the soft light from the simulated sky casting long shadows across the grass. The air was thick with a silence that wasn’t uncomfortable, it was reverent. “But your whole class stepped forward as one… and that’s what doesn’t make sense. I saw you this morning. I evaluated every one of you. Only Elian and Vaeliyan were even close to looking. As far as my eyes could tell, and they don’t lie.”
Dr. Lambert crossed her arms and frowned, her expression pinched with thought. “Let me guess,” she said slowly, eyes narrowing. “You asked Vaeliyan to look. He already had a foot in the door, so that triggered Elian. His ego wouldn’t let him fail if Vaeliyan crossed first.”
Velrock shook his head, his voice steady but carrying an undertone of something deeper. “No. Jurpat looked next.”
Dr. Lambert blinked. Her mouth opened slightly, then closed. For a rare moment, she was silent. She looked… disoriented. Like the framework of her understanding had tilted just enough to throw her balance.
Imujin chuckled behind the group, arms crossed, weight leaned into one hip as if he’d just been waiting for this moment.
Velrock turned toward him. “What do I do?” he asked. “This whole year, everything is built around this step. Everything I planned was to slowly walk them toward what they just… leapt over.”
Imujin didn’t hesitate. He grinned, wide and wolfish, then laughed again, full-throated, loud enough that a few cadets instinctively turned their heads.
“Then teach them the next step,” he said, voice filled with a kind of wild pride.
He turned his gaze toward the class, eyes briefly sweeping across each face before settling on one.
“But I’m taking my apprentice with me,” he continued. “Since today’s class was such a rousing success, I don’t see the point in waiting until tomorrow. Come along, Vaeliyan. We’ve got training to do, and we’re behind schedule already.”
Vaeliyan stood without a word. He didn’t look back. The rest of Class One watched him go, and not one of them looked surprised.
“Wait,” Dr. Lambert called out, stepping forward. “I need to talk to him... just for a moment....”
But it was too late.
Imujin and Vaeliyan stepped onto the pad together.
And vanished.
Dr. Lambert cursed under her breath and rushed to the pad. She stepped onto it, back straight, lips tight.
Nothing happened.
She frowned, stepped off, then on again. Still nothing.
Theramoor approached from the side, quiet as always. Her didn’t say anything at first. Just laid a gentle hand on her shoulder.
“You know how he gets when he’s excited,” She said. “Nothing you can do will change that.”
Dr. Lambert exhaled, sharp and tired.
Theramoor continued, softer now. “And you know you can’t enter his sanctum without direct permission. None of us can.”
She didn’t argue. She just nodded once and stared at the pad like it had betrayed her personally. The others said nothing. Behind them, Class One still sat in silence, watching.
Waiting.
Vaeliyan stepped into Imujin’s beautifully flawed meadow. Even now, with everything that had happened, it still felt sacred. The ground wasn’t symmetrical. The trees didn’t match. The rocks were scattered like careless memories. Nothing had to be perfect here. It was all flawed and yet cared for with an affection so precise it almost felt holy. This was the kind of place where imperfection was not a mistake but a declaration.
Vaeliyan had just been here earlier today. His presence still lingered in the air, not like perfume or memory, but like gravity. There was still weight in the space he had occupied.
"They won’t get any notifications here," Imujin said quietly.
Then Vaeliyan was gone.
And standing where he had just been, was Warren.
Imujin didn’t blink. He simply gestured. "Sit."
Warren obeyed without hesitation, lowering himself into the grass with the silence of a man who already understood what this was.
"Do you need to sink in to see it?" Imujin asked, his voice was curious.
"No," Warren said.
He closed his eyes.
And the world responded.
The stream nearby, once gently babbling forward, weaving through the crooked stones, froze mid-flow. Then, like something had reversed the very laws that governed it, the water began rising. Not like a wave, but flowing upward, carving a new path toward the sky.
The wind stopped. Then cracked.
A deep sound, like pressure collapsing in on itself, shattered across the meadow. Thunder burst from nowhere. A detonation of noise from a sky that had, seconds before, been calm and clear. Now that sky twisted into motion. Clouds swirled and climbed on themselves, birthing a storm out of nothing. The clouds were dark, not gray, but deep, storm-sewn shadows that seemed stitched from the threads of unspoken memories.
Fog began to bleed across the meadow. It slid over the ground like it had always been waiting just under the surface. It was thin, but quick. Then it thickened. Then it hung. Cold, wet, clinging to everything it touched. Hungry.
From Warren came a sound.
Something that tore from him like it had been waiting far too long to be let out. Streaming, horrifying thunder ripped from his chest. The sound was wet. Dense. It didn’t echo, it swallowed the air. The scream of something that remembered too much and refused to be quiet any longer.
Static followed. A thousand invisible fingers dancing along every inch of Imujin’s skin. The air crackled with it, alive with current and memory. Even the grass bent toward Warren, as if drawn by magnetic grief.
And then, finally, it came.
The notification.
A proclamation that split the heavens and dragged the weight of gods behind it, etched into the bones of the world with thunder and certainty.
Rain Dancer has called.
And the world has answered.
