The sound of Selene's boots echoed crisply through the sterile corridor. Beyond the infirmary wing, the halls grew colder. Quiet. Red warnings etched into every doorframe.
She stopped at a narrow black door with a retinal scanner above it. The sign below it read:
NO UNAUTHORIZED PERSONNEL BEYOND THIS POINT.
The scanner lit green.
Selene tilted her head slightly, exposing her ice-sharp green eyes to its gaze.
ACCESS GRANTED.
The door hissed open. A faint rush of chilled, recycled air welcomed her into Viewing Chamber Three.
Silence. Half-circle seating. Reinforced glass wall. And below that, beyond the glass-- the Parade Field, vast and sunlit.
She approached the third chair from the center and sat.
This was her favorite perch. A high vantage point to watch. To assess. To dissect.
But then, a voice broke the quiet.
"Should've figured it was you who will show up!"
Selene blinked once. Slowly.
Then turned her head just slightly.
Keevah was already lounging in one of the chairs behind her, arms folded behind her head, feet kicked up like she owned the place.
Selene gave a small sigh. "I didn't think you could read the warning signs."
Keevah grinned, unbothered. "Mm. Guess someone must've accidentally opened it for me."
Selene arched a single brow. "Or maybe someone left it ajar hoping you'd walk through and incriminate yourself. Again."
Keevah let out a low whistle. "Feisty. You're like a tigress under all that pretty, ice-queen vibe, aren't you?"
"Who said you could come in?" Selene's voice dropped.
"Relax, princess. I asked for permission." She pulled an ID from her pocket, the name clearly printed: Anneliese von Bentheim, Access Level V.
Her eyes widened for a moment, then she scoffed. "Figures. Why'd I even bother asking?"
Her gaze returning to the glass wall as the students began assembling far below.
"How's Lady Anneliese, by the way? Still doing that cute little dance of pretending she's above it all?"
Keevah's eyes narrowed slightly.
Selene tilted her head, tone sharper
"She's clever, I'll admit. But you might want to be careful. Your friendly 'alliance' with her… it's dangerous. For both of you."
Keevah scoffed. "What, jealous she doesn't hover next to you whenever you fuck things up?"
Selene smiled.
"No. Just amused you think someone like her won't choose power over sentiment when the time comes."
"I'll take my chances. Better to dance with a snake than sleep beside one." Keevah's grin faltered for half a heartbeat, then came back sharper.
"That's the difference between us. You want to dance. I want to outlive everyone on the floor." Selene responded, eyes towards the field.
Keevah sat up slightly, gaze shifting toward the field. Then she leaned forward with a smirk.
"So, tell me-- who's got your little attention now? One of the fresh recruits? Or are you just looking for someone easier to leash? Little lapdogs for Kain, maybe?"
Selene's voice came quiet. "Unlike you, I don't recruit thugs and call it a 'cohort'."
Keevah's smirk widened. "So that's a yes."
They held each other's gaze for a beat too long. Keevah's smile remained, but there was something more behind it now.
Interest. Caution.
"You can pick through the glass," Keevah added. "I'll just get mine bloody. We'll see which method survives the semester." Selene stayed silent, but gave a slight nod in acknowledgment.
Below the glass-paneled chamber,
white-uniformed students stretched, ran laps, dropped for push-ups, and called out cadence beneath the glare of a relentless sun. Dust curled beneath their boots. Shouts echoed between the walls. Breath came in sharp, shallow bursts.
Then, a voice rang out.
"That's enough."
Students immediately slowed and collapsing into sits, others wiping sweat from their brows.
Clara bent low, her knees burning, lungs fluttering as she braced her hands against her thighs. Her heartbeat pressed like a drumbeat against her ears.
Camille beside her dropped to her knees in a flop. "This is... state-sponsored cruelty."
"I think my lungs exploded twenty minutes ago," Emma panted, cheeks flushed. Her head rested on Emilia's lap, who was also trying to catch her breath.
Ravelle, Selene's sister, panted as she tried to catch her breath. Slowly, she pushed herself to her feet, her gaze drifting toward the viewing chamber. She knew Selene was watching, and she still had something to prove.
Up in the chamber, Selene's cold eyes met hers. She didn't say a word. Just sighed, slow and condescending. Keevah noticed the exchange and leaned in slightly, curious. But the moment Selene spun around, her face sharp with a glare and full of condescension, Keevah immediately backed off with a low whistle.
Across the field, Liberty was still bouncing on her toes, her pigtails clinging to her neck, face flushed but full of energy. The other students couldn't help but stare, a mix of awe and admiration in their eyes.
At her side, Lincoln, stood at ease. He is barely winded, quiet as always, his red eyes scanning everything with detached interest.
The warm-up had lasted almost an hour. The line instructors had said nothing. No praise. No mercy. Until now.
A tall man stepped onto the platform beside the observation tower, his posture calm and composed. The moment the students laid eyes on him, everything paused.
"Lord Giuseppe Medeci" whispered the students.
His tuxedo, crisp and black silk, caught the light just enough to show its polish. His salt-and-pepper hair was slicked back neatly, glinting under the sun. One hand held his dark gloves; the other rested behind his back.
From behind him, Antonina appeared.
She placed a white folder in front of the man at the podium, then subtly smoothed the fabric of her beige blouse, casting a quick glance his way. Medici didn't return it. He simply opened the folder and started scanning the papers without a word.
"You've all been warmed up," Medici continued. "Too long, I'd say. But I like watching you fall apart. It shows me who starts from zero."
Some students stiffened. Others wiped their brows. A few whispered.
Clara said nothing.
She just stayed down a second longer, her gaze locked on the gravel near her boots.
"Today, you will begin basic self-defense."
Giuseppe's gray eyes swept across the students, his words echoed across the field, and a few students exchanged uncertain glances.
Giuseppe continued,
"You may wonder why we waste time on blocking, positioning, grappling when many of you wield titles, technologies, weapons, and house blessings that could end a man from twenty meters away."
He clasped his gloved hands behind his back.
"Because survival does not begin with firepower. It begins when your back hits the floor and you have nothing left but bone, instinct, and control."
Silence.
Not one whisper.
"We live in an age where threats come not only from man… but from beyond us." A pause.
"You will have heard of Xenoforms. Most of you in the news. Some in family briefings. Others in the form of censored military reports in the Network conveniently buried by the media who would rather preserve public comfort than public clarity,"
He stepped to the edge of the platform.
"Xenoforms are not bandits. They are not terrorists. They are entities that redefine what it means to survive."
Clara stiffened slightly.
"And yet--what you will learn today has little to do with them. Because to face a Xenoform without mastering your own body is to step into a storm wearing no armor."
His voice lowered just slightly.
"Advanced combat will come. You will be taught tactics and coordinated engagement. But only after your bones understand movement. After your limbs move without needing permission."
He raised one gloved hand.
"Today, we begin with contact. With reversals. With knowing when to fall and how to stand again."
Antonina, standing nearby, adjusted her glasses but said nothing, watching the students in silence.
"Normally, I would have you pair up. But instead... today's session will be led by one of your seniors." Giuseppe looked down the far line of instructors and observers and gave a nod.
From the edge of the platform, a large figure stepped forward with slow, deliberate strides. Dresen, the man from earlier at the canteen.
Clara's heart nearly stopped.
There he was.
The man from the canteen.
He wore the senior cadet version of the academy's PE uniform: black long sleeves, reinforced joints, a leather utility belt slung around his waist like it belonged there.
And his face-- smiling. Smirking.
Dresen stepped onto the dirt training square, cracked his neck once, and scanned the rows. He found her instantly.
Clara.
She stiffened.
And he grinned.
"Well, well," he said, tone drawling. "What are the odds?"
Giuseppe said nothing. Antonina stood off to the side, her arms folded across the gentle slope of her beige blouse, her sharp glasses glinting, face unreadable.
"Dresen," Giuseppe said firmly. "You will demonstrate three reversals and lead station drills. No commentary."
Dresen didn't break eye contact with Clara.
"Of course, Professor."
"This is going as planned!" Keevah chuckled quietly to herself from her seat. Selene remained silent as she observed.
Clara's hands curled slightly, her head down. Her friends by her side had the same dreadful feeling.
Camille whispered at her side, "No. Nope. I'm filing a medical excuse. My bones are allergic to psychopaths!"
Clara didn't respond. She couldn't.
Ravelle, a few rows away, had already turned to look-- eyes narrowing.
Lincoln and Liberty both registered what was happening. Liberty's lips pressed into a thin line. Lincoln's red eyes locked on Dresen like crosshairs.
The sun had begun to lean westward, but the heat on the field was still oppressive. Dust clung to skin. Breathing turned shallow. Focus was harder to keep when your limbs already ached.
Across the parade field, students had formed rotating pairs at separate drill stations. Laughter here, frustration there. Some took it seriously. Others faked confidence.
And then there was Clara Nightingale. She stood at the edge of Station Three. Unpaired, alert, and all too aware that her name hadn't been called yet.
Because he was waiting.
Dresen, towering, broad-shouldered, smile too calm, too pleased. He stood just behind the demonstration square with a subtle smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. He waved her forward like beckoning a pet.
"Nightingale, doll. You're up."
Clara's throat went tight. She stepped forward slowly, keeping her chin level, her eyes on his. He tilted his head, watching her walk with a satisfaction that made her skin crawl.
"Relax," he said, voice low and casual. "You're too tense. This isn't the canteen."
A few students nearby paused to watch.
Dresen lowered his stance, beckoning her to mirror it.
"Come on," he said. "Show me what you've got."
There was something off in his tone.
Not playful. Not instructional.
Testing.
Amused.
Like a child pulling the wings off a moth to see if it could still fly.
Clara crouched slightly, settling into the prescribed stance. Her palms were open. Defensive. Her eyes were forward-- but flicking for an out. A weakness. A way to end this fast.
Dresen circled her once, slow.
"I'll even go easy on you," he said with a grin. "We wouldn't want our little doll breaking too soon, would we?"
She didn't respond.
Clara pivoted quickly, slipping past his initial grab with a sharp twist. He caught her elbow harder than necessary, making her stumble slightly.
"Nice, almost graceful." He muttered.
He gripped her wrist too tightly. For a moment, his face lowered to hers. And in that half-second-- his smile dropped. Replaced with something colder. He wasn't looking at her like a student. He was looking at her like a target.
Clara froze.
But then, another voice rang out, crisp, female. "Station Three. That's not the motion set we approved."
Antonina.
Clara turned. Antonina stood with her arms folded.
Giuseppe was further down the line, observing another drill, but Antonina's gaze was pointed, knowing.
Dresen stepped back.
"We were improvising a little."
"That wasn't part of the assignment," she said coldly. "Switch partners. Now."
"Tch. Fucking bitch." Dresen silently muttered.
Clara exhaled slowly and deeply in her lungs.
She stepped back and turned toward the next rotation line, not sparing Dresen a final glance.
But his voice still followed her, soft, just loud enough.
The drills continued.
Sweat-drenched students rotated through stations, the heat weighing heavier with every repetition. Giuseppe Medici's voice rang out only occasionally, he didn't need to say much. His silence was enough to keep them moving.
The drills continued.
Sweat-drenched students rotated through stations, the heat weighing heavier with every repetition. Giuseppe Medici's voice rang out only occasionally, he didn't need to say much. His silence was enough to keep them moving.
Clara stood in line for her second round. Her muscles ached. Her throat burned.
She tried to focus on form, not fear.
But he was waiting.
Dresen, still grinning, had swapped partners twice, but his eyes never left her. And now, as the line shifted, Clara saw what he was doing.
He was pacing the rotations to land on her again.
He wanted one more chance.
Clara's fingers curled slightly at her sides.
"Round three!" Dresen called out, louder than necessary. "Time for partner correction drills. Let's work through failure modes, yeah?"
A few heads turned. He sounded almost helpful.
But his eyes were locked on her.
"Clara," he said, voice dropping just slightly. "Why don't you show us that graceful spin again?"
She hesitated.
She felt the hush, the pressure. The way other students paused, uncertain. The instructors were watching other stations. Antonina had stepped out of immediate range. This was his window.
Dresen approached, too close, holding out his hand mockingly.
"Come on. Don't be shy. Let's try the takedown reversal again. Just you and me."
Clara's jaw clenched.
He was going to make it look like training.
But she knew better.
She didn't move.
She had no choice but to open her mouth-- but someone else answered first.
"She won't need to." The voice was calm.
Lincoln stood a few paces behind them, red eyes cool and flat.
His tone wasn't loud, but it stopped movement across three nearby stations.
And that, somehow, made it worse. Dresen turned, blinking slowly. "Oh, it's not your turn yet, young man! You should--"
Lincoln stepped forward, unbothered, and stopped just shy of the space between them.
"Funny," he said softly, cutting him, "how you always seem to find her when there aren't any instructors too close by."
Dresen's smile faltered.
"This is part of the drill."
"Sure it is," Lincoln said, tone still calm. "Just like how last time, I'm sure your intentions were completely academic."
Clara's chest tightened.
He knows.
He saw.
He remembers.
Dresen's hands curled slightly.
"She needs the work. I'm offering it."
Lincoln barely smiled. "Maybe. But I'd try offering it to someone who isn't tired of pretending you're just being helpful."
"Alright, boy. You just killed yourself!"
That did it.
The tension cracked like a bone being bent too far.
Dresen straightened, and barked out loudly:
"New drill! Advanced sparring rotation-- one-minute rounds. No holds barred. Partners move now!"
Confusion stirred through the ranks.
Giuseppe turned his head slightly but said nothing.
Antonina glanced down from her clipboard.
"The fuck is that motherfucker doing now?" Keevah snorted.
"You're cohorts with them, why are you asking me?" Selene replied without blinking.
Back on the field, Clara exhaled-- slow, shaky.
Lincoln stepped back without a word, returning to his own rotation with Dresen.
The third round of advanced sparring had begun.
Sweat poured. Shouts rose. Instructors began circling closer now, some finally sensing the tension simmering in the drills.
Clara stood near the edge, still catching her breath, when she heard the name called.
"Lincoln Ramsay and Dresen. Square Five!"
A ripple passed through the students.
Some stopped their drills mid-motion. A few glanced toward the instructors, expecting someone to intervene.
But no one did.
Not Keevah, watching with keen interest from the edge of the field.
Not Selene, who stood above with arms crossed, unmoving.
Not even Giuseppe Medici, who stood watching with a detached curiosity.
"Begin," an assistant instructor called.
Dresen rolled his shoulders, his thick neck cracking.
"He's just a quiet noble. A pretty boy with red eyes and no bark. This'll bequick." he thought,
"Guess it's my lucky day," he muttered.
Lincoln said nothing. Just stepped forward. Hands loose at his sides. Red eyes half-lidded, like he was already bored.
"You look relaxed," Dresen added. "I like that. Means I won't feel bad when I knock you into the dirt."
Lincoln tilted his head slightly.
"You're not the first one who's said that."
Dresen grunted, then lunged.
A right hook aimed at Lincoln's temple.
Lincoln swayed aside so smoothly. The punch missed by inches.
"He is fast!" Dresen thought in a split second,
Then Lincoln's elbow cracked into his right ribs. Fast. Clean.
He stumbled, surprised, but grinned.
"You hit like a doll, child!"
Dresen counters with another hook to the left,
Lincoln stepped aside easily again and answered with a tight elbow jab to his left ribs.
Thud.
"Too slow!" Lincoln muttered
But something was wrong.
His punch didn't land with the usual force.
It felt... off.
Too dense.
Lincoln's eyes flicked down.
His skin is tough.
It was something thicker, something unnatural. His forearms and chest looked like they were sheathed in a thin, layered texture-- darkened, ridged, like hardened scale armor fused into flesh.
Nautilus Mutation.
Dresen's grin widened.
"Right. Almost forgot to mention that part--"
He lunged again. Lincoln dodged left, striking at the exposed neck. He hit once, twice, but the angle wasn't deep enough.
Dresen pivoted sharply, arm sweeping upward and caught Lincoln mid-strike, lifting him with a violent twist of torque.
Then, he threw him hard.
Lincoln's body slammed into the far end of the sparring square, landing shoulder-first with a sickening thud against the dirt.
A ripple of gasps cut through the onlookers.
Clara's heart stopped.
Lincoln pushed himself up slowly.
Dust clung to his skin. One side of his face had a fresh scrape, blood seeping just under the surface. His expression didn't change.
But it was his eyes that changed first.
The soft blood-red deepened. They were now darkened, sinking into near-black with a faint, flickering glow beneath the surface.
And then huge veins bloomed from his fists.
Dark, snaking lines, pulsing up from knuckle to forearm, spreading toward the shoulder like ink drawn by gravity.
"Eurrgh… this is gonna get bloody," Liberty mumbled with a yawn from the far corner, casually watching the fight unfold. Without missing a beat, she suddenly yanked her sparring partner to the ground-- despite her squirming and begging to be let go of her grip.
And then in a split second, Lincoln advanced without a word directly towards Dresen.
"Just give it up, boy!" Dresen throws a straight punch,
He slipped under it, delivered two blows to the unarmored side of his knee, forcing it to bend.
Dresen faltered.
"How is he this fast?!"
Lincoln spun behind, locked his opponent's right arm and drove his elbow into the joint.
Snap.
Dresen's scream pierced the sky.
The mutation began to falter under pain, but Lincoln wasn't done. Not yet.
He stepped forward again and punched.
But this time, his entire forearm tore through.
Through the Nautilus plating. Through the reinforced skin, and into the flesh.
Dresen choked, eyes wide in white-hot agony, as Lincoln's arm plunged deep into his side ribs. His ribs ruptured, and blood sprayed profusely,
A wet sound. A scream. Then silence.
Dresen collapsed.
I can't feel it. I can't move. What is he-- what is he?
He choked, vision blurring.
Lincoln stood over the guy, his right arm slick with blood, completely still. His eyes stayed calm and detached. Clara looked at him, her face frozen somewhere between fear and shock.
"Enough!" Giuseppe's voice cracked like thunder.
Instructors surged forward. Medics dropped to their knees.
Lincoln stepped away.
"He asked for it." no emotion.
The veins in his arms pulsed once, then faded.
Dresen lay broken on the ground, gasping, his mutation flickering.
The medics rushed to stabilize the wounded senior cadet, shouting codes and protocols. Antonina wrote furiously, her pen never stopping.
Above, Keevah and Selene stared in stunned silence.
Then Keevah began laughing, slow and loud.
"Well, didn't think and see it ending like that. But hey, that boy? Damn, he's fine as fuck."
Selene didn't look at her.
"You don't really think past your own nose, do you? Your buddy down there looks like he's in trouble so why don't you go be useful and drag him to the infirmary."
Keevah grinned, resting a hand on Selene's shoulder.
"...and miss all the fun? Didn't think you're this sly, ice-cold princess. I know you know exactly what I'm thinking."
"He's not yours to admire, Keevah."
"Relax, princess. I don't plan on sucking his dick or throwing myself at him like the rest of you desperate lot. I want him trained under my banner before your little coven puts a leash around his neck."
Selene's voice was smooth, almost bored.
"You're mistaking brutality for potential. That kid is dangerous. He's not something you see everyday." Selene said quietly, eyes still wide.
"That's exactly--"
"He's an unknown variable," she cuts in,
"And you want to own it," Keevah spat. "Like you own everything you can't outsmart."
The atmosphere grew heavier around them.
"If you try to claim him before I do, Keevah…" Selene stepped forward, soft voice laced with ice, her face close to Keevah. "You'll find out just how many walls I'm willing to tear down to win."
Keevah's smile dropped just slightly, menacing, "Then may the best bitch start the war."
Across their building, in the far glass-paneled viewing chamber, one figure remained unseen.
Anneliese, seated elegantly on a velvet armchair, legs crossed, a porcelain teacup held gently in her gloved fingers.
She sipped quietly, watching the fractured tension unravel below. The corner of her lips lifted.
"It has begun."
END OF CHAPTER NINE