4:02 AM.
The cold bit into the skin like a scalpel. The harsh neon light tore the shadows from the corridors, casting the silhouettes of an army still under construction onto the walls.
Colonel Marek crossed the training room like a knife through silk. Each recruit froze, standing upright, breath held. Before him: twenty drawn faces, twenty wills already eroded by a sleepless night. And yet, this morning, another batch was being added to hell—twenty new recruits, all freshly pulled from the ruins of Zone C. They didn't have the vacant stares yet. But it would come.
— Line up. Five per column. Inspection.
Trystan was the first. The sweat from the morning effort hadn't yet dried when he already felt the weight of Marek's gaze on the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to stand tall. His body still screamed from the military wake-up call. The warm-up had been brutal: 100 push-ups, 200 squats, pull-ups on steel beams, knee runs with a weighted bag. Nothing had been left to chance. Every joint tested. Every limit pushed.
Leonardo was silently vomiting, turned away, muscles trembling. Leira stared at the ground as if it held an answer. Émilie had started laughing after her third fall—a dry, nervous, almost broken laugh.
The Colonel stopped in front of Trystan.
— Progress?
Trystan nodded. A pure lie. The pain in his legs was a burning confession. But he knew weakness was not allowed here.
— You're holding your balance better. And your combat vision… is starting to look like something. At noon, simulation. Be ready.
The Colonel's gaze shifted to Modigeur, who was struggling to keep up, arms bloodied, muscles swollen from effort but lacking power. Behind his eyes, a silent storm was growing.
— You're still falling behind, Modigeur. Even after the sacrifices.
A shiver of shame passed through the young man. He didn't dare respond. The Colonel continued.
— All of you, remember this: sacrifice alone is not enough. You must earn power.
10:12 AM.
In the simulation room, the walls came alive, projecting shifting, labyrinthine terrains teeming with programmed creatures: phantoms, corrupted avatars, simulacra of demons. Trystan felt his heart slow as soon as the shadows took form.
And then he saw it.
A Phantom.
But not just any.
Its mask was split. Its hands—long, clawed—were stained with blood that looked like his own. He didn't know why, but as he locked eyes with it, something inside him cracked.
He saw a swing.
A laugh.
Blonde pigtails.
A little girl.
And a fall.
Blood in his hands.
A scream.
And then—nothing.
He had never known if it was him who pushed. The memory was foggy, incomplete. But the Phantom's gaze awakened that doubt.
It attacked. Trystan recoiled, disoriented, almost paralyzed. It was just a simulation. He knew it. He knew it.
But his body remembered. His body screamed.
He fell. The Phantom lunged at him. And in a jolt, Trystan rolled to the side, grabbed a dagger projected by the simulator, and plunged it straight into the creature's throat.
It screamed. Like the little girl.
When the program stopped, Trystan remained there, on his knees, hand trembling. The Colonel approached.
— You hesitated. Why?
Trystan lied again.
— I was looking for a blind spot.
The Colonel stared at him for a long time. But said nothing.
5:00 PM.
Final round. Weapon handling. Rifles, sabers, energy blades. Close combat against reactive mannequins. Each of them was sweating blood and guts. Leonardo shone with his strategy, placing his blows at the perfect moment. Leira almost floated, using gravity to dodge. Émilie crushed everything with an almost animalistic violence.
And Modigeur…
Modigeur copied. Reproduced. But nothing worked. He felt failure seep into him like poison. His hand trembled. He struck again. And again. But his blows lacked weight. Lacked conviction.
Trystan, on the other hand, began to observe. Not the movements. But the flaws.
He thought faster. Anticipated. Evaluated the weaknesses of his peers.
Not to correct them.
But to use them.
7:00 PM.
The day was ending. Muscles torn. Spirits broken.
It was then the doors of the room opened.
Twenty silhouettes. Twenty recruits. Different. Bigger. Older. More seasoned?
Or perhaps more desperate.
Among them, a boy with steel-blue eyes. A girl with ritual tattoos. And another… one-eyed, but smiling as if he knew something no one else did.
Trystan watched them enter.
He knew instantly.
The game had just changed.
And he was going to write the rules.