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Book Three Chapter 1: Garnish
🕑 Added 2025-07-17 04:07:01 +0000 UTCDeck stood at the edge of the pit like it belonged to him. Maybe it did. This wasn’t a simulation anymore, it was real. Open air, under a hard night sky full of stars that didn’t care who lived or died below them. The ground was packed dirt, the wind sharp, and they stood in a tight formation.
They weren’t alone. Their bonds, stood just behind them, watching. Not interfering. Not speaking. Just observing, like shadows that had opinions but no voice. That silence did more damage than a thousand drills. It was presence without comfort, weight without direction. Their gaze burned worse than the cold.
Deck didn’t smile. He didn’t have to.
"You’re the Top Sixteen," he said, his voice like rusted iron dragged against bone. It wasn’t loud, but it didn’t need to be. It cut through the pit like a blade. "That means you either killed, survived, or outlasted everyone else. Congratulations. That was the easy part."
His eyes moved over them slowly, calculating. Judging. Like he wasn’t convinced all sixteen actually deserved to stand there. Like he was just waiting for one of them to flinch so he could cut the number down to fifteen and call it an improvement. But there was no cruelty in the look, just brutal honesty. Deck wasn’t here to make them feel small. He was here to make sure they understood exactly what they’d stepped into.
Vaeliyan stood with his arms crossed, calm but unreadable. Jurpat stood a half-step behind him, shoulders relaxed, posture loose, but his eyes were sharp, scanning, never still. Elian hadn’t moved at all, hadn’t even blinked since they’d assembled, his entire body locked like he was in the middle of a battlefield only he could see. Sylen looked like she wanted to punch the world and anything in it. Fenn, standing too close to her, looked like he’d rather be standing in front of a speeding lance round. Chime was quiet, still, balanced. Everyone else hovered somewhere between alert and uncertain, most of them trying to fake confidence and failing.
"You know what you earned," Deck said, and there was venom in the word earned. "Private rooms. No shitty bunk house. You’ve got space, tech, and privacy now. Chip upgrades, synced and ready to install. Personal AI cores, tailored to your specs. Forty-eight hours of breathing room before classes start. Don’t be late. Or do. I don’t give a fuck. You’ll regret it either way."
He took a slow step forward, boots crunching against the dirt. "Congratulations you are all going to be classmates as of this very moment. Like it or not, you are Class One of the Ninty-third. The most elite of your year, Class One is always the top sixteen, while other classes average around fifty. And that’s not a punishment. That’s a privilege. Smaller numbers mean more time with instructors, less competition for train personal training, and better access to flexible training regiments. It means you’ll be watched more closely. Given more responsibility. And judged harder for every mistake."
He let the silence stretch. Then:
"Right now, you’re the only ones on the Imperator track. For those of you who’ve been living under a rock, the Imperator track isn’t a command route, it’s not for officers or tacticians. It’s for the ones we turn into weapons. The people we send in when a full army isn't enough. The ones who break lines, take impossible ground, and do the kind of damage that rewrites maps."
He took a breath and let it sink in before continuing.
"Others will come for your spots. They’ll challenge you. Some of them might win. Some of you might fall. That’s just the system. Survival of the Savage."
Deck folded his hands behind his back, expression unreadable. "We’ve only ever had one Class one make it to the end of the year without a single replacement. One. The rest? They bled out, burned out, or got cut. You’re allowed to challenge others, anyone outside your class. But Class one is one squad. You do not challenge each other."
He raised a finger. "Don’t misunderstand me, you will fight each other. You’ll bleed in training, clash in the pit, break bones and bruise egos. But your ranks won’t change as long as you’re part of Class one. That’s the deal. Hold the line together or fall apart alone."
He gave them a long look. "Try not to kill each other. I know some of you are still running hot from the tournament, but control it. Work through it. Learn to fight with each other, even if you hate each other. Because if you don’t, the ones who come after you won’t need to try hard to knock you out. They’ll just wait until you eat your own."
Then he pointed directly at Vaeliyan and Elian.
"You two. Vault access. Sublevel seventeen. The Legion vault. You go there to pick up your new skills before classes start. First place gets first pick. Second gets what’s left. Choose wisely. You don’t get a redo."
He waited just long enough to make it uncomfortable, then his tone dropped, cold as death.
"And some advice, since you’ve clearly bought the hype. This tournament? It was the warm-up act. The pre-show. Just a friendly bit of bloodletting. You’ve been walking around like this was the finish line. Like you earned something final. It’s not. It’s the starting block."
He turned from them, walking back across the pit like he was leaving behind corpses, not rising cadets.
"Some of you might not make it to next week," he called over his shoulder. "That’s not a threat. That’s statistics."
The wind picked up, scattering dust behind him, but not a single grain touched his boots. The silence that followed was absolute. Not even the bonds spoke.
No one moved until the pit lights shut off.
And even then, it took a few seconds longer than it should have for anyone to breathe.
Lessa clapped her hands, prosthetic fingers clicking faintly. “Why don’t we all go check out our rooms together? Might as well make it a thing.”
Merec shrugged. “I’ve got nothing better to do.”
The rest nodded or muttered agreement. They all stepped onto the pad together and vanished.
The cadet housing district was massive, larger than Vaeliyan expected. He blinked, overwhelmed by the scale. “How many cadets does the Citadel have?” he asked.
Xera didn’t even glance at him. “Over ten thousand. Four years, about 2,500 per year. Give or take.”
“And the instructors teach all those classes?” Vaeliyan asked, baffled.
“No,” she said. “They only teach Class One of each year directly. Everyone else gets junior instructors. So yeah, we’re lucky.”
Sylen frowned. “How do you not know this? It’s basic fucking knowledge about the Citadels.”
Vaeliyan shrugged. “I wasn’t planning on joining the Legion. So I never really looked into it.”
Chime’s voice chimed in, sweet, curious, calm. “You weren’t planning on joining? You just came here on a whim? What was your plan? How in the hells did you win if you just strolled in?”
Vaeliyan looked at Jurpat, who answered. “We were enforcers in our town. Vaeliyan and I served with Instructor Isoldian Brent during his med tours. He said he saw something in us. Now we’re here.”
“I was planning on being a crafter,” Vaeliyan added. “Truth be told, it just… happened. What can you do.”
Elian gestured at Bastard lumbering beside Vaeliyan. “What’s with your bond? Isn’t he going to shrink?”
Vaeliyan glanced at Lessa, who was carrying Momo, her bond, now no bigger than a stuffed animal. He sent a thought to Bastard: Can you shift smaller?
I don’t want to, Bastard’s thoughts answered bluntly.
“He doesn’t like being small,” Vaeliyan explained. “So I guess he’s just staying that way.”
Styll poked her head out of his pocket, blinked at the crowd, and immediately ducked back inside.
The Drevin twins spoke at once. “Is it alright if we ask what level everyone is?”
“We’re level 22,” they said.
“Twenty-one,” Chime offered.
“Wow,” Fenn said. “I’m 25. Twenty-one is really good.”
“Merec, 22.”
“Sylen, 21.”
“Torman, 24.”
“Lessa, 22.”
“Xera, 23.”
“Wesley, 24.”
“Roan, 21.”
“Rokhan, 24.”
“Varnai, 23.”
Elian crossed his arms. “Twenty. Still got my class upgrade available.” He sounded a little smug.
The group froze.
Chime blinked. “I can’t believe I lost to someone who didn’t even have their second class upgrade.”
Elian nodded. “Tutors and my parents always said the ones who gain the most from the Citadel are the ones who come in at level 20.”
Vaeliyan smiled. “That’s great news.”
Elian looked at him sideways. “Wait. Don’t tell me…”
Jurpat laughed. “Yeah. We haven’t picked our upgrades yet. Isol.... I mean, Instructor Isoldian, said he’d skin us alive with blades of grass if we even thought about upgrading before taking Skill Adaptation class first.”
Vaeliyan shivered. “I can still feel him glaring at us from somewhere.”
“I also still have one of my level 15 skill evolutions left,” Vaeliyan added.
“You beat me without both of your level 15 skills evolved?” Elian said, stunned.
Merec let out a whistle. “Might as well have beat us with both hands and a leg tied behind your back. You’re fucking insane, brother.”
Lessa smirked. “Hands off. I called him first.”
Jurpat crossed his arms. “Too late. My boy here is already taken.”
Lessa winked. “Engaged? I can work with that. Ever been with a woman whose hand can detach and still function?”
Vaeliyan’s voice went cold. “I’m married.”
The group paused. Rokhan raised an eyebrow. “The little man is married?”
“What does the family think about that?” Sylen asked.
Vaeliyan frowned. “What do you mean? Why would I care what they think? Far as I know, they don’t give two shits about me.”
Sylen gave him a long look. “You’re an idiot. If they find out about your little wife, you might be a widower real soon.”
Vaeliyan’s voice turned sharp. “What? I’ll kill them if they try anything.”
“You just threatened House Verdance,” Sylen said slowly. “Like you aren’t just a bug like me. Cousin… I think we’re going to be friends.”
“Why would they come after my wife?” Vaeliyan growled.
“Because you just placed first over everyone including me,” Sylen said. “The bastard daughter they sponsored this year. At least I made Class One. If I hadn’t, they’d have removed me quickly.”
Jurpat’s face twisted. “They’d kill you for not making Top 16? Gods damn. I’m glad my house is just me, Mum, and Dad. Seems like I dodged a dagger.”
Chime said gently, “You might still catch one if you marry into the wrong house.”
Vaeliyan’s eyes swept the group. “Just know… if my wife dies because one of you told your Houses about her, I will end you. And your whole line.”
The group laughed. Then Jurpat said, “He isn’t joking.”
Elian’s tone softened. “They won’t touch her. Not if you become High Imperators before we graduate. Keep going the way you are… I think you’ll make it.”
Ramis snorted. “Don’t lie to the bumpkin. Becoming a High Imperator is insane. We’ll be lucky to stay on the track.”
“How many make it?” Vaeliyan asked.
“About ten a year,” Torman answered.
Vaeliyan blinked. “One in a thousand? That’s not that bad.”
Torman shook his head. “Not ten per Citadel. Ten total.”
Vaeliyan nodded. “Then I’ll just be one of the ten. That was always the plan. Right, Jurpat?”
“Right.”
Elian smiled. “That’s the spirit.”
“I plan on making it too,” Chime added.
Lessa grinned. “Maybe we can all be like Class One of the 49th. All High Imperators.”
“Wouldn’t that be nice,” Varnai said.
The twins spoke together. “We’d love that.”
Ramis muttered, “Am I the only one who thinks that’s creepy?”
The twins glared at him.
“How about we check out the dorms now?” Merec said. “Pretty sure the security drones are getting antsy. We’re definitely blocking the pad.”
The cadet housing complex was built like a fortress, four massive towers of reinforced alloy and stone, each one assigned to a different year. No one moved between them. When a year graduated, the incoming class took their place. Simple. Brutal. Efficient.
Real Legion soldiers in full armor flanked the entrance to each tower. Not ceremonial. These were the real thing, standing at attention with lances slung and visors down. Between them stood a thin doorman, almost human at a glance, unless you knew exactly where to look.
The front entrance looked more like a checkpoint than a welcome hall, thick blast doors, metal walls, and high-mounted surveillance drones drifting in slow, silent arcs overhead. The lighting was cold and clinical.
Inside, the floor panels were black composite and the walls unadorned steel, stained here and there with scuffs from boots, gloves, and training gear. A series of vertical lifts lined the back wall, waiting.
Lessa glanced around, brow furrowed. “I really hope our rooms aren’t this bleak. Momo won’t be able to sleep surrounded by these grey walls.”
Merec gave a dry chuckle. “Yeah, I can’t imagine being one of those nobles who paid their way in.”
“I thought you could only get in through sponsorship or by making top 100,” Jurpat said, frowning. “That’s what all the holos say.”
Xera rolled her eyes. “That’s what they want the public to think. Makes the Legion look righteous and untouchable. Truth is, if you’ve got the credits, you can get in.”
Roan nodded. “One of the best sources of Legion funding is the ‘donations’ they collect from rich pricks.” He jabbed a thumb toward Elian. “Like him.”
Elian raised both hands, half-smiling. “I can’t really refute that remark... but I resent it.”
Vaeliyan tilted his head. “Well, Lord Sarn, you resemble that remark.”
That got a few laughs from the others.
“Lord Sarn here,” the twins chimed together, “his parents could probably buy this place if they wanted to.”
Ramis groaned. “Okay, I can’t take this. You both need to stop. It’s weird. Just... say something individually. Anything at all. One at a time. Please.”
Leron and Vexa turned toward him, shared a look, and then delivered a perfectly timed sentence, each speaking a single word in alternation, their mouths moving in tandem:
“Your. Just. Jealous. That. You. Don’t. Have. Anyone. Like. Us.”
Ramis took a step back. “Nope. I’m out. That’s demonic.”
The lift doors opened behind them with a sharp hiss.
“This isn’t very promising,” Xera muttered as they stepped off the lift into the cadet dormitory floor. The same sterile gray walls greeted them, every hallway identical, every blast door leading to another numbered, featureless room.
Fenn’s room was the first stop.
“Might as well see what we’re dealing with,” Roan said.
They filed in behind Fenn and took a look around.
It wasn’t disappointing, not by a long shot. The space was clean and clearly expensive, with a plush bed fitted in premium comfort foam, wall-integrated holo panels, and a well-lit simulation room stocked with variable terrain modules and dynamic opponent settings. The air carried the soft ozone scent of fresh tech, and the ambient lighting adjusted automatically to reflect body tension and posture.
The AI core, a tiny blue metallic orb no larger than a marble, rested in a sleek housing near the wall, already humming softly as it began its handshake protocols. The food synthesizer was polished chrome and carbon black, clearly an elite-tier unit, with responsive voice settings, aesthetic plating, and multi-channel nutrient options.
“Alright, I can live with this,” Fenn said, cracking his neck. “This room’s legit, hells, it might be the nicest space I’ve ever called mine. The bed’s straight luxury, the tech’s smooth, and the sim rig’s loaded. Lighting, climate, even the layout... this is premium-grade stuff. Looks like someone actually gave a damn putting this together. If I didn’t know better, I’d think we were being spoiled. He eyed the food synthesizer again. The panel said it could make basic meals, so he punched something in.
They waited together on the couches as the unit whirred to life. When it finished, Fenn walked over, then recoiled.
"Fuccckkkkk," he groaned.
It had made a bug bar.
Sitting on top was a note: Legionnaires eat bug bars.
Fenn held it up like it had personally insulted him. "Who the hell did this? I'm going to kill them. Bug bars. fucking bug bars."
Vaeliyan noted the clean lines, smooth surfaces, and quiet hum of high-end systems. For most of them, this was a good room. For some, it was just the starting point.
They moved down the hall. And that’s when the pattern began to emerge.
Each room was a little better than the last.
Roan’s had ambient lighting options and an adjustable mattress that shifted to suit his posture. Torman’s included a double-length sim wall and an auto-cleaning training mat. Vexa and Leron each had mirrored layout suites that were clearly meant to accommodate paired training routines, and the syncing holo-panels confirmed it.
Ramis’ room had a high-end hygiene pod, something usually reserved for officers. Rokhan’s included a manual weight rack alongside the resistance gear, and Varnai’s had a full-body nanite scanner station for pre- and post-combat diagnostics.
The rest peeled off one at a time, Vexa, Leron, Roan, Torman, Ramis, Rokhan, and Varnai all collecting their AI cores quietly before heading back to settle into their new quarters.
The rest followed Xera to hers.
Hers was larger, better laid out, with top-tier appliances and razor-sharp holo panels seamlessly integrated into the walls. The personal gym was sectioned off with reinforced partitioning, stocked with equipment rated for augmented strength and advanced motion tracking. Lighting followed subtle biometric shifts, and the entire space pulsed with the quiet hum of luxury-grade tech designed for combat excellence.
“Guess the tournament ranking actually does something,” Chime murmured.
“Still bug bars,” Xera said, jabbing the food synth in her room. “So much for luxury.”
They laughed, but it was a little tired. This wasn’t exactly the reward most of them had imagined.
Lessa, Sylen, and Wesley grabbed their cores next, checking their rooms quickly before regrouping in the hallway.
Then came Jurpat’s room, and everything before it faded by comparison.
It wasn’t a room. It was a suite.
Sprawling layout. A smart-glass balcony overlooked a simulated landscape that could shift from jungle to ocean to tundra at a word. The gym had variable gravity settings and combat-pressure adjustments. A massage bot, fully upgraded, stood near a wall-length spa outfitted with hydra-stone jets and chromatherapy. The bathroom could simulate any body of water, from a standard bath or shower all the way to a waterfall, anything you could wish to bathe in, even a simulated lava pool. The food synth proudly announced it could prepare gourmet meals, but when tested, still produced nothing but more bug bars, albeit with garnish.
“Wait,” Chime said, narrowing her eyes. “Is that a cornichon?”
“What the hell is a cornichon?” Fenn asked, suspicious.
“It’s a fancy pickle,” Jurpat replied. “That garnish it’s actual food.”
Chime’s eyes lit up. “Then we just print a thousand of them and never touch a bug bar ever again.”
Xera leaned over the synth. “Are there any other garnish options?”
They all stared at the synth with new intensity.
Jurpat grinned. “We are about to have a party with all the garnish we can eat.”
Sylen pointed at the drink menu. “Wait, did you see this? You can just… add seafood to drinks. Look, if you want, you can replace the straw with a meat roll.”
“Gods damn,” she muttered. “You lucky bastards. I vote we live in here.”
The others all voted like it was a democracy, stating that Jurpat and Chime had to let them stay because there was no way anyone was not staying in a room that had real food.
Whenever Chime or Jurpat tried to say otherwise, the group just said they were outvoted.
That left just two.
Elian and Vaeliyan exchanged a glance, the shift in air unmistakable. Their destination wasn’t on this floor.
“We’ll head to the vault first,” Elian said, voice calm, no brag in it, but no apology either.
Vaeliyan turned to Jurpat. “Meet you after. Cadet estates, right?”
“Yeah. we got to see your's and elians houses"
They clasped forearms, a silent agreement passing between them. Vaeliyan and Elian stepped into the lift together, the chrome doors sliding shut with a quiet hiss. As they disappeared from view, the rest of Class One remained in Jurpat's suite, music thumping faintly beneath the sounds of laughter and the low hum of conversation. The party was already in full swing, three floors down and growing louder by the minute. The air held a strange charge,equal parts tension and relief. For now, they were teammates. For now, they could breathe.
Soon the challenges would begin, but for tonight they would celebrate the victory.
Far below, on Sublevel Seventeen, two cadets stepped into the vault. Neither would walk out the same.
