Banners.
The academy's training bell rang before dawn, a cold, hollow chime that reverberated through the reinforced walls like a death knell. Cadets flooded from their barracks in silence, the kind of silence forged not by fear, but by the weight of expectation. Today was different. Today, they would be divided—and tested—by more than simulations and drills.
"Mixed faction formations," an instructor's voice barked from the overhead speakers. "Report to your new units immediately."
Kale Drayen stood among the crowd, his uniform crisp, his eyes sharper than most. He had proven himself in the simulations, but that was yesterday's glory. Today, a new game began.
He followed the wave of cadets spilling into Hangar C, where rows of instructors in black tactical armor waited. Holo-banners flickered above each formation point, pulsing with the insignias of the five dominant academy factions.
Command. Vanguard. Cipher. Ironborn. Dynasts.
Each had its own doctrine, culture, and internal politics.
Command wore blood-red stripes—tacticians, future admirals, and cold pragmatists.
Vanguard, marked by gunmetal grey, were frontline leaders—brash, physical, bred for grit.
Cipher, swathed in muted blues and silvers, trained in signals, stealth, and asymmetric warfare.
Ironborn cadets bore heavy armor plating and a legacy of industrial Martian resilience.
And the Dynasts—draped in regal black and gold—descendants of old Earth aristocracy and elite off-world clans.
Kale's assignment flashed on his wrist holo.
> Unit Designation: Hydra-9
Mixed Command-Cipher-Dynast Cell
Perfect. A political minefield.
---
He spotted his unit forming at the edge of the hangar. Cassian Dorne was already there, of course—every inch the silver-spoon tactician in his Command-red accents, arms crossed, face carved from pride. Kale ignored him and took position. Ox and Kora appeared moments later, both assigned to Hydra-9 as well—perhaps luck, perhaps by design.
Then came the others.
A tall girl with sun-scorched skin, Cipher colors, and a hawkish gaze. She didn't introduce herself, just nodded once at Kale.
Next to her stood a broad-shouldered Martian boy clad in Ironborn steel plating, face pockmarked and stern.
And finally, a Dynast.
She moved like silk—dark hair twisted into a crown braid, a calculating gleam in her gold-flecked eyes. "Sera Valen," she said with a voice like frost. "Of House Valen. You must be the slumrat they've been whispering about."
Kale offered a thin smile. "And you must be the imperial bootlicker."
Her smile didn't waver, but something flickered behind her eyes—curiosity, maybe.
"Enough," barked the instructor assigned to Hydra-9, a grizzled veteran with a cybernetic eye. "Today, you learn cooperation under fire. You will compete against other Hydra teams in mixed faction war games. Winners get priority in next week's Command simulations. Losers get reassigned. Some of you might even get washed if you underperform."
The implication was clear.
---
Later that day, Kale sat in the Strategic Theory and Xeno-Adaptive Warfare lecture hall, the rest of Hydra-9 beside him. The class buzzed with tension—no one wanted to admit they were nervous, but this wasn't tactics or logistics.
It was about the aliens.
The first of the five major xeno races had finally made it into the curriculum.
The lights dimmed. A hologram shimmered to life—a massive reptilian biped, armored in jagged, biomechanical plating, eyes glowing like embers.
> "The Kravari Dominion," the instructor said, his voice low and hard. "The first of the vassals to declare war on us. Tribal, but not primitive. They revere death in combat. Think of them as predators—smart, fast, brutal."
The holo shifted—battle footage. A Kravari warbeast ripping through a Terran exo-suit. No sound, just the spray of hydraulic fluid and blood.
Kale's jaw tensed. He could feel the weight of everyone watching. Some cadets paled. Others, like Sera Valen and the Cipher girl, leaned forward, hungry.
"Your future enemies do not fear pain," the instructor said. "And they will not negotiate."
Ox muttered, "Looks like they've been training for war longer than we've been alive."
"Exactly," Kale replied under his breath. "Which means we need to stop acting like children picking sides—and start thinking like predators."
Sera gave him a sidelong glance. For once, she didn't look amused.
---
As the lecture ended, the instructor turned grim.
"Next week, your units will simulate a border assault using what you've learned. You will act as both Terran and xeno forces. You will be graded not just on tactics—but psychological adaptability. Do not underestimate alien minds."
Kale filed out with his team, his mind racing—not with fear, but strategy.
Hydra-9 wasn't a team yet. It was a ticking bomb of rival ideologies and clashing egos.
But if he could shape them—bend them to purpose—then he'd have something no other unit did:
A pack of wolves in a war of monsters.
---
"You are not soldiers yet," the instructor growled. "You are not even pack animals. You are feral dogs fighting over scraps."
The war game briefing room was a brutalist hexagonal chamber, its walls black alloy, its lights a clinical white. Screens hovered all around, displaying simulated terrain, weather variables, unit compositions. Each cadet stood in full sim-rig armor, neural ports locked to the control spine running along their backs.
Hydra-9 stood in silence.
Kale stood at the front. Cassian Dorne had taken a position near the center, arms folded. Sera Valen leaned against the wall, legs crossed in casual elegance. The Cipher girl—her name now known as Wren Vex—watched everything with sniper focus. Ox, Kora, and the Ironborn cadet—Bran Halvek—completed the group.
"Command sim: Planetary insertion under hostile atmospheric interference. Objective: Secure a landing zone for armored reinforcements within 15 minutes. Enemy: Simulated Kravari raiding party."
The map appeared—dense jungle broken by volcanic crags. Environmental hazards: acid rain, thick canopy, minimal drone coverage.
"Two minutes to formulate a plan," the instructor said. "Leader defaults to highest Command class rank unless a challenge is issued."
All eyes went to Cassian.
He opened his mouth.
"I challenge," Kale said first.
The room stilled.
Cassian didn't blink. "You're not serious."
"Deadly."
"You're from the slums. You've read books. I've trained for this since I was six."
"And still lost two sims last week," Kale said. "You panicked under pressure. You treat subordinates like pawns. You're soft where it counts."
Sera's eyes glinted. Wren cocked an eyebrow.
Bran grunted. "I vote Kale."
Kora and Ox raised their hands without hesitation.
Cassian glanced at Sera. "Well?"
"I don't trust you," she said lightly. "But I like watching you fail."
Cassian stepped back without a word, but his jaw was tight.
Kale stepped forward.
"New orders. Wren, you're scout commander. Take Kora and Ox—two minutes to map enemy movement. Sera, you're holding mid-flank and doubling as contingency commander. Bran, heavy support. I'll guide aerial inserts."
He pointed to the map. "They expect us to hold center. We won't. We'll bait them into thinking we're establishing mid-control, then collapse on their flanks using the terrain and masking interference."
"Won't they detect the collapse?" Bran asked.
"Not if we overload the interference with heat signatures from disabled drones. They'll think it's a vehicle drop."
"Dirty trick," Wren said approvingly.
"Better than a dead one."
---
Sim Launch: 00:00
The jungle greeted them with burning mist and the hiss of acid rain. The terrain stank of death—simulated or not, the designers had made sure the fear was real.
Kale's HUD flickered as he relayed orders.
"Wren, eyes high. Kora, Ox—burn through underbrush. Sera, hold formation. Bran, prep jump pack. We move when the Kravari breach the central ridge."
Thunder cracked overhead.
Wren's voice crackled through the comms. "Movement. Five contacts. Heavily armored, quad-footed. Kravari vanguard."
On screen, their avatars appeared—hulking beasts with curved talons and blood-red ocular ports. They moved low to the ground, in tactical sync.
"They're hunting," she said.
"Let them."
---
T-minus 06:34
Bran launched from the ridge, his jump pack screaming through the rain. He landed like a meteor, slamming into one of the Kravari with a seismic hammer. Bone and metal shattered.
Kale's voice came cool through comms. "Engage hard left. Wren, take their commander's eye. Sera, cut the rear retreat."
What followed wasn't a battle.
It was an ambush.
They split the Kravari like an axe through timber—surgical, brutal, efficient. For every step forward, the enemy lost blood. For every howl they gave, Hydra-9 gave silence.
When the last enemy fell, the simulation paused.
Hydra-9: Victory. Objective secured in 13:47. Casualties: Zero.
---
After the sim, the instructor looked up from his tablet with a rare flicker of interest.
"That was the fastest clear-time against a Kravari sim to date."
Cassian scowled in the back.
Sera removed her helmet, sweat glistening down her temple. She didn't smile, but she gave Kale a nod. "That was… competent."
"High praise from royalty."
"Don't get used to it."
Ox clapped Kale's shoulder. "Think we just made a name for ourselves."
"No," Kale replied. "We just declared war on every other unit that wants that top spot."
And as they filed out, a wall monitor flickered to a new set of results.
Top Cadet Units (Week 5):
1. Hydra-9
2. Lancer-3 (Command-Dynast)
3. Blackstar-1 (Cipher-Vanguard)
"Let the games begin," Wren muttered.
---
Quote of the Chapter:
"It is better to be feared than loved, if you cannot be both."
— Niccolò Machiavelli.