The moment Jannet's signal cut through the tension like a blade, chaos erupted into order. One of the Veilers, positioned perfectly, fired a clean shot, the thug's head erupting in a grotesque spray of blood and bone. The sound of it rang in the air, but there was no time to think. The remaining Veilers closed in, like wolves on the prowl, each strike lethal and efficient. They moved with precision, clearing the thugs one by one, the silence broken only by the muffled sounds of bodies hitting the ground and the staccato of gunfire.
Seyfe's focus never wavered. As the rest of the squad methodically wiped out the remaining threats, his assignment was clear: get to the hostages. He sprinted forward, his heart pumping adrenaline, the weight of his training now fully realized in his movements.
The first hostage was within arm's reach when a figure rushed toward him—another thug, eyes wild, his rifle raised. Seyfe didn't even think. His hand jerked instinctively, the glove on his arm shifting with a metallic hum as the signature Curved Dagger formed from his forearm. It gleamed in the sunlight, a sharp edge cutting through the air as Seyfe swung it up and toward the incoming threat.
The thug never had a chance. The blade slashed through the air, its edge finding purchase in the man's neck with surgical precision. Blood sprayed in a thick arc, and the thug collapsed, lifeless, to the ground.
Seyfe's movements didn't falter. He stepped over the body, his heart racing, his breath steady. He could hear the commotion behind him—Jannet's squad taking down the last of the thugs with ruthless efficiency—but it was the hostages he needed to focus on.
The line of civilians, still bound and terrified, were his responsibility now. He approached them quickly, moving through the chaos like he'd done this a hundred times before. His fingers moved with precision, cutting through the ropes that bound their wrists. The Curved Dagger retracted, its purpose fulfilled as he worked quickly to free each of them.
His mind was calm—too calm, in fact. Seyfe had become a machine, his body moving automatically, every action honed through endless hours of grueling training, his instincts guiding him. The sight of blood didn't faze him. The screams of the thugs as they were taken down barely registered.
He had been forged in this very world, this deadly environment. The dead city was where he grew up, where he learned to survive—not as a boy, but as something else. It had always been about survival. And now, as he freed the last of the hostages, he felt the same cold resolve that had kept him alive in this wasteland.
It wasn't his first time taking a life. He had done so long before the government had forced him into their military program, long before the brutal training that now made him something more than human in the eyes of the system. Here, in the dead city, he had learned that mercy was a luxury, and survival was the only law that mattered.
As the last ropes fell away, Seyfe looked up, meeting the eyes of the hostages. Fear, relief, confusion—all of it flashed in their gazes, but none of them spoke. They just stared at him, wide-eyed.
"Get them out of here," Seyfe said, his voice low and steady, the command instinctive. He motioned for them to move toward the Veilers. They didn't hesitate, scrambling toward the safety of the squadron.
Seyfe's gaze shifted, and his focus narrowed. The scene had cleared up, the thugs either dead or incapacitated. Jannet's voice rang out, giving instructions to the squadron. It was time to leave. The mission was complete.
"You did well most cadets would hesitate before making a move," Jannet responded, her voice steady and approving.
Seyfe, still catching his breath, wiped the blood from his gloves and sheathed his curved dagger. He looked up at her, the edge of his lips curling into something that barely resembled a smile.
"Well, it wasn't my first time," Seyfe said, his voice flat, almost dismissive.
Jannet raised an eyebrow, her gaze narrowing with quiet curiosity. "What do you mean by that?" she asked, her tone sharpening just a fraction.
Seyfe shrugged, the weight of his past pressing in on him. "Doesn't matter," he replied, his eyes avoiding hers. "I've been in situations like this before. It's just another part of surviving."
Jannet didn't press further, but her eyes lingered on him for a moment longer. She seemed to be taking mental notes, though her face remained impassive.
"Nonetheless, this may have been a minor mission, but you did well. We're done here," she said, nodding toward the hostages, who were being carefully tended to by the rest of the Veilers.
Seyfe glanced toward the group, then back at Jannet. "So we're not scouting other areas?" he asked, confusion flickering in his voice.
Jannet shook her head, her expression unreadable. "We reached our goal. Our objective was the east side of the dead cities, and we've secured that," she said firmly. "No need to push further."
One of the Veilers, a tall man with a gruff face, approached a hostage, his voice low and gentle. "Are there more of you? Any other groups out there?"
The hostage shook his head slowly, a haunted look in his eyes. "No... they were sold somewhere else. We were the last ones."
Seyfe's gaze hardened at the words, his stomach tightening. "Sold?" he murmured under his breath, the idea of human trafficking pulling at his instincts in ways he couldn't shake.
Jannet caught his eye, but she didn't respond to his quiet muttering. Instead, she turned back to the team, giving a sharp nod. "We're heading back. Let's get these people out of here and report back to HQ."
As the team began to escort the hostages back toward the armored vehicle, Seyfe felt a lingering unease crawl up his spine. This mission felt too clean. Too easy. The thugs had been swift, and yet, the information the hostages gave them… it felt off.
But the mission had been clear. Secure the east side, neutralize any threats. No further orders.
The armored vehicle rumbled to life, and Seyfe climbed aboard, the weight of the field mission pressing heavily on his shoulders. As they drove back toward the city, the once familiar sight of the dead cities receded into the distance, and he allowed himself a moment of reflection.
The mission had been simple, but there was something gnawing at him. The hostages were the final pieces, and yet… there was more to this story. He could feel it.
"Just another day in the life of a Veiler," he muttered under his breath.
Jannet, seated in front of him, looked over her shoulder, her expression unreadable. "What was that, cadet?"
Seyfe shrugged. "Nothing," he said, settling back in his seat. "Just thinking."
Jannet didn't push him further, but the silence between them spoke volumes. She knew something was off as well. And that, in itself, was enough to keep Seyfe on edge.
Back at his room, Seyfe sat hunched over the desk, the soft glow of his lamp illuminating a stack of handwritten pages. His pen moved without hesitation, recording every detail from the patrol mission—the route they took, the confrontation with the thugs, the state of the hostages, and even the subtle movements of the Veilers during the operation. He wrote like he was trying to immortalize the moment, every line sharp, deliberate, and precise.
He hadn't noticed the time passing until the sky outside his window began to lighten. Morning had arrived.
Seyfe exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair, eyes sore from hours of writing. He stared at the ceiling for a few seconds, then pushed himself up and began getting ready for another long day.
He slipped into his cadet uniform—a simple grey outfit, standard-issue, neatly fitted but not overly restrictive. Unlike the more advanced suits the Veilers wore, his uniform offered no built-in features like a mask or enhancements. It was practical, nothing more. Just enough to say you belong to something.
Tugging the sleeves straight, he left his room, walking through the corridors and out into the morning air. The field was already alive with movement.
The Spearhead Squadron was deep into their drills, led by Jannet in her commanding presence. The overseer cadets were scattered around the area, perched or standing at various vantage points, each one tasked with monitoring the drills and taking notes.
Seyfe returned a flat look and made his way to his usual spot—near a thick tree just off the main field. He found a good patch of ground, crossed his arms, and observed.
But his mind? It wasn't entirely on the drills. Not today.
That mission in the dead cities—it lingered. The expressions of the hostages, the way they clutched each other, the words one of them whispered before they left.
"They were sold somewhere else..."
Seyfe's eyes narrowed slightly.
Something told him that wasn't the last time he'd be stepping into that kind of mess. And next time, he might not be just an observer.