Zero chewed the last bite of his cube just as the overhead speakers crackled to life.
[Intercom - Cold, Female Voice]: ["All students, proceed to your designated classes.
Anyone caught stabbing another student en route will lose one hundred points.
Yes, even if they stabbed you first."]
A collective groan spread through the cafeteria. A few fights froze mid-lunge, students glaring at each other with twitching blades. Someone in the back sighed loudly and tossed a bloodied pencil into the trash like it was a war crime denied.
Zero locked eyes with Grant and nodded.
[Zero]: Time to behave.
[Grant]: Time to pretend.
They moved through the corridors without incident—though the tension crackled like static. In one hallway, a medic was hurriedly stitching a boy's shoulder while muttering, "You're lucky the rules kicked in when they did."
They arrived at their first class:
Fight Style & Battle Tactics – Room C4
The door was reinforced with scrap metal plating and bore deep axe gashes. Above it, a flickering nameplate read:
[Instructor: Thrain Stonejaw – Tactical Specialist, Ex-Command Sergeant, 3rd Dwarven Iron Legion]
Inside, the classroom looked more like a war room. Training mannequins lined the edges, and old, worn banners hung above steel lockers. A detailed map of the academy grounds stretched across one wall, covered in red pins and scribbled warnings like "Ambush Zone," "No Stabbing Here (probably)," and "Watch the ceiling."
At the front stood Thrain Stonejaw himself—barely four feet tall, but built like a tank engine. His beard was braided into tight knots, every strand gleaming with metal cuffs. Scars crisscrossed his arms like spiderwebs, and his single eye glared at them from beneath a thick brow.
He slammed a heavy gauntlet on the desk.
[Thrain]: Welcome to Fight Style & Battle Tactics, cadets! If you think swinging a spoon makes you a warrior, I'll personally use your skull as a soap dish. You'll learn to think, move, and break bones with intent. And if you cry during this class, don't worry—I've got jars for tears.
Zero and Grant took their seats in silence.
Across the room, Rose sat beside Charly, already flipping through the handout titled "Killing With Honor: Rulebook or Suggestion?"
Thrain stepped forward, arms behind his back.
[Thrain]: First question—what's the best way to end a fight before it starts?
Zero raised a brow. Grant leaned in with interest.
Zero leaned back slightly, one hand resting on the desk like he was bored, but his eyes locked on Thrain with focused calm.
[Zero]: Cutting the enemy's neck before they even know it's a fight.
The room went quiet for a second—half shocked, half impressed.
Thrain's one eye twitched.
He walked toward Zero, each step echoing heavily in the reinforced classroom. Then suddenly—
WHAM!
He slammed a combat knife into the desk in front of Zero, just a hair from his hand.
[Thrain]: Correct…, and also the fastest way to get court-martialed if you're in the wrong unit.
He stepped back and looked at the class.
[Thrain]: Let me make this clear. There's efficient, and then there's smart. What Cadet Zero said will end a fight. But tactics aren't just about killing. They're about winning, with your squad still breathing and your commander still paying you.
He paced the front of the room.
[Thrain]: Lesson one: Read the battlefield. Lesson two: Shape the battlefield. Lesson three: Own the battlefield. Lesson four… if you're still alive: Name the damn battlefield after yourself.
Grant chuckled low.
[Grant]: That one's going on my gravestone.
[Charly]: What, 'Here lies Grant—owned the battlefield until it owned him back'?
[Rose]: Shut up, both of you. I'm trying to learn.
Thrain threw a thick training manual toward the center of the room. It hit the floor like a brick.
[Thrain]: Today, we study combat formations, urban retreat patterns, and how to kill a tank with a shovel. Tomorrow—we spar. And yes, stabbing your partner counts as extra credit.
He pointed at Zero.
[Thrain]: You'll be team captain for today's sims. Pick your squad. You're defending an ammo cache. If it gets blown up, you all fail. If you die—well, you'll get better.
[Sometime Later]
Thrain scratched his beard and nodded when Zero called out his team.
[Thrain]: Zero, Charly, Rose, Grant… plus seven more hotshots and a healer. That makes twelve. You're the Blue Team—Defenders. Your job: Hold the Ammo Cache. Opposing you will be the Red Team—Raiders. Simulated bullets. Real pain. You drop, you sit out. Mission clock: 20 minutes. Cache get breached? You fail. You all die? You fail. They die? You pass with blood-colored flying colors.
He clicked a small remote, and a screen behind him flickered to life, showing a blueprint of the training grounds. Cramped alleys, rusted shipping crates, a few blind spots marked in red, and the ammo cache dead center inside an old garage building.
[Thrain]: Red Team has more numbers. You've got better talent. Don't waste it.
And Zero—if I don't see blood on at least one corner of that garage… I'll know you didn't try.
He gave a wicked grin.
Training Grounds – Sim Zone D
The team was already split, and Zero stood outside the rust-covered garage, watching his squad line up. His eyes swept over them like a tactician counting his chess pieces.
[Zero]: Grant—frontline bruiser. Take the entrance. Rose, you're on Overwatch. Find high ground and use that rifle. Charly, stay low, set traps near the western approach. Healer—stick near the cache. If we lose you, we're screwed. The rest of you—spread out in three-man cells. I want overlapping kill zones, not a campfire.
[Grant]: Finally, a proper fight.
[Rose]: Just don't get your kidney stabbed again, hero.
[Charly]: They were fine after like four days…
[Zero]: Listen up. They're going to come hard and fast. Let them. We're the wall they break on. We're the storm that doesn't flinch.
The sound of a horn blared across the field.
Sim Start.
[SIM TIME – 00:01]
The opening horn still echoed through the steel beams when Zero vanished from the garage—his armor shimmering like mercury under the simulation's light filters. A blur of gray and motion, a ghost in a warzone.
Skill: [Great Armor Manifest] Assault, [Shadow Veil] – ACTIVATED.
He ghosted past debris, ducked through a blind corner, and reached the perimeter of the Red Team's forward push.
Two scouts—down before they saw the shimmer.
Two scouts—down before they saw the shimmer.
One slash to the jugular.
One twist of the spine.
The third turned too late—shot twice, silence.
Fourth tried to call for help.
Too bad Zero's blade was already resting in his throat.
The fifth kill, a heavy melee unit, almost gave him pause—until Zero slammed him against a wall, using raw muscle and blade to disarm, flip, and crack his skull into the simulation wall.
[SIM HUD]: Blue Team +5 / Red Team -5
[Red Team Officer]: He's behind us?! WHERE IS SECURITY?!?
[SIM TIME – 00:05]
Zero appeared on a rooftop near the garage, rifle in hand, armor now in passive defense mode.
[Rose]: You left before I even loaded my gun.
[Zero]: You still haven't fired. Want me to teach you how?
[Grant]: I'm gonna need you both to flirt after the bullets stop flying.
[Charly]: Trap 1 triggered. I think they brought a crawler unit—what kind of academy funds this?!
Zero zoomed in through his scope. Enemies are approaching in staggered waves now, sweeping corners, throwing smoke, and pushing hard.
[Zero]: Let them come.
He pulled the trigger—headshot.
[Chapter end]