The Academy was unlike anything Gaius had ever known.
It was not just a school, not just a training ground for soldiers—it was a living machine, a system that refined warriors like iron in a forge. Those who entered were raw ore. Those who left were weapons. But the difference between a sword and an Imperator was vast.
Many would be discarded in the process.
But for now, none of that mattered.
Because tonight, the Academy celebrated.
The initiation was over, the trials complete. The fifty students who had survived the entrance exams were now officially cadets of the Imperial War Academy. And as was tradition, the first night was not one of bloodshed or drills.
It was a night of stories, drink, and revelry.
A reminder that they were still human.
The hall was vast, dimly lit, and alive with laughter.
Long wooden tables stretched from end to end, covered in trays of food and bottles of alcohol. The walls were lined with banners of past Legions, trophies from old wars, and the sigils of the Imperium's greatest generals. The scent of spiced meats and roasted grain filled the air, mixing with the sharp bite of fermented spirits.
Gaius sat at one of the middle tables, his uniform slightly loosened, a half-filled glass in his hand. The drink burned as it went down, but in a way that was warm, pleasant. Around him, cadets talked, laughed, and boasted—some still tense, others already lost in the celebration.
Across from him, Lucius Varro grinned, tossing back a glass of his own before slamming it on the table.
"Finally, a place that understands the importance of proper drinking," Lucius said, his golden-brown eyes gleaming with amusement.
Gaius smirked. "I thought nobles preferred wine and delicate goblets?"
Lucius scoffed. "That's a commoner's misconception. A true noble knows that only weak men fear strong drink."
A few nearby cadets chuckled, raising their glasses in agreement.
One of them, a lean young man with dark red hair, leaned forward. "Lucius, how does it feel to be one of the top ten already?"
There was a shift in the atmosphere.
The top ten.
Everyone knew who they were.
The Academy's cadets finest.
The cadets who had emerged at the very peak of the entrance trials, displaying power, intelligence, and ruthlessness beyond the rest. They were the ones already standing on the precipice of Praetor, their domains forming, their potential undeniable.
Lucius simply shrugged. "Means nothing yet. The real work begins now."
Someone scoffed. "Easy to say when you're one of them."
Lucius grinned, unbothered. "Then work harder."
A few students laughed, while others simply took a drink in silence. There was no malice in his words—only truth.
Across the hall, Odysseus Valor sat at the head of one of the tables, surrounded by the other top ten. His posture was relaxed, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he had all the time in the world.
The others around him were equally composed, equally dangerous.
Ten cadets. Ten future warlords.
Each one had already begun reading and perfecting their cultivation, refining their bodies, their minds, their domains. They were not just training for combat—they were sculpting themselves into something more.
And when their domains finally expanded into full territories, they would be among the strongest of their generation.
—
The older student leading their induction, a tall man named Sulla, finally stood, raising his glass.
"Cadets," he called out, his voice cutting through the noise. "Welcome to the Academy. Enjoy tonight. Because tomorrow, you begin your real education."
The students quieted, turning their attention to him.
Sulla smiled slightly, setting his drink down. "This place… is nothing like the academies of common soldiers. It is not a training camp. It is not a school."
His gaze swept over them.
"It is a battlefield."
Some cadets exchanged glances.
"You are here to refine yourselves into weapons of war. Every lesson you learn will be forged through blood and pain. Every moment you waste will be the moment someone else surpasses you."
He took a slow sip of his drink.
"And those who fail… do not leave this place as men."
The room was silent.
Gaius's fingers tightened around his glass.
He had suspected as much.
It was not spoken outright, but it was understood. Those who fell behind, who could not endure, who could not rise—
They disappeared.
There was no expulsion.
No second chances.
The Academy did not train mediocrity. It did not waste resources on the weak.
You became something great… or you ceased to be anything at all.
Lucius exhaled. "Well. That's encouraging."
Gaius smirked. "I don't think we were expecting anything less."
Sulla continued.
"You will be trained in every art of war. Strategy, combat, command, survival, infiltration, siegecraft, starship warfare. You will learn how to lead, how to kill, how to conquer. You will be tested constantly—against your own weaknesses, against each other."
He set his drink down.
"And only those who stand at the end will earn the title of Imperator."
There was no need for further explanation.
They understood.
They had always understood.
Sulla gestured, and a holographic map flickered to life above the center of the hall.
It displayed the full scope of the Academy—a sprawling fortress carved into the very mountains of Gaia, its towers and bastions stretching toward the sky like the fangs of some ancient beast.
It was divided into sectors.
Each one a different battleground.
Each one a different test.
The Hall of War, where strategy and command were taught, where simulations of past battles were recreated and dissected.
The Crucible, where students fought, trained, and honed their bodies into weapons.
The Obsidian Vault, where ancient relics and forgotten arts were studied, where those seeking to push beyond their limits often vanished for days, emerging either stronger or not at all.
And at the center of it all—the Imperial Spire.
The beating heart of the Academy.
Where the highest-ranked instructors and warlords oversaw the development of future Imperators.
"Your classes begin at dawn," Sulla said. "And so do your trials."
The students remained silent.
Then, slowly, Lucius raised his glass again.
"Well then," he said, smirking. "Let's drink while we still have the chance."
A roar of laughter filled the hall.
Glasses clashed together. Bottles were passed around.
For one night, they were not rivals, not killers, not weapons.
For one night, they were simply young warriors, drinking beneath the banners of those who had come before them.
Tomorrow, the war would begin.
But tonight—
Tonight, they drank.