The young man's expression shifted in an instant, surprise flickering into sharp focus. He stood there in a flowing outfit of white fading into light blue, cut in the style of traditional martial robes. The jacket wrapped across his torso and tied neatly at the waist, its sleeves long and wide enough to allow movement without restriction. The pants beneath were full and baggy, gathered at the ankle so they could move freely without tangling, designed for both grace and authority. The whole ensemble gave him the appearance of a grandmaster, light and airy, yet undeniably commanding. His crystal-clear blue eyes were unsettling in their intensity, bright enough to seem unnatural though clearly his own, piercing as if they could cut through the soul itself. The striking color of his eyes contrasted against his deep red-toned skin, his features almost perfectly balanced, his presence commanding. And then, instead of asking a simple question, he pulled out a pair of strange hooked blades. The weapons caught the morning light, long black steel blades hooked at the end so they curved like claws, each guard bending upward in a crescent that paralleled the edge. They looked dangerous, alien, and purposeful, as though crafted for techniques none of them could imagine. To Vaeliyan, they were wholly unfamiliar, their shapes brutal yet elegant, balanced between artistry and menace. He studied them with a sharp, unsettled fascination, trying to place them, but the design belonged to no weapon he could name.

The group tensed at once, the bond humming with shared unease, every cadet instinctively ready to move. Yet the young man did not advance. He planted his stance firmly, both blades steady in his hands, his black hair still shifting in the breeze. His eyes moved over them with calculated precision before his voice rolled out, rich and heavy, as smooth as the finest wines poured in the halls of nobles. There was command in it, an undeniable weight that suggested confidence and rank, the kind of voice that could fill a battlefield or bend a room. And though the words he spoke were not unexpected, the bluntness of them struck the group as almost funny.

"Who are you people? Why are you here? Where is my class?"

The demand rang across the courtyard, sharp and clear, bouncing off the Citadel's red walls. The carved statues that ringed the space seemed to stare with stone eyes, as though they too waited for an answer. Vaeliyan drew in a slow breath and straightened under the weight of the question. He could feel the tension of his classmates through the bond, like a tide pressing forward, every heartbeat tangled with his own. He forced his voice to steady, knowing hesitation would only sharpen the stranger's suspicions.

"Ah, High Imperator Kasala. It's good to finally meet you. I'm Vaeliyan, and this is your class. We..."

"Explain yourself," the High Imperator cut in sharply, his tone like a crack of a whip. The hooked swords tilted slightly in his hands, and his eyes flicked over each face in turn. "You're not… none of you are Deic. Where is Yuri? Where's Alex? Where's Thomas? Where's Merigold and Kuri? Where are they all?" His voice was edged with confusion, sharpened further by anger, and his posture carried the weight of someone who might let steel answer if words failed.

Vaeliyan lifted one hand, palm outward, both to calm his squad behind him and to temper the man in front of him. "Well, if you let me explain… we're the new class of the 90th. We beat Deic in a sim and took her year. We were technically the 93rd when we started, but now we're the 90th. And not only that, we took all of her seats for this class. Then we made a deal with Meri and Thomas to get the rest of the seats. So, our entire class is your class now. Maybe you want to talk to the Headmaster, but he'll corroborate our story. You'll be taking us into your care."

The words hung in the air like iron. The bond pulsed with the thrum of Vaeliyan's heartbeat, steady but quick, betraying the strain beneath his calm expression. Behind him, his classmates held their silence, waiting, braced. Kasala studied them with a gaze as sharp as his weapons, eyes narrowing into slits. He weighed each syllable, every flicker of expression, his body still poised as if ready to spring.

"I am going to need to talk to Imujin about this," Kasala said finally, his voice clipped and cold. "Because this is very unorthodox, and I have heard nothing about it."

Vaeliyan allowed a faint grin to touch his lips, just enough to shift the weight of the moment. "Oh, that was mostly because we wanted to see what you would look like. And Imujin also kind of wanted to see… I mean, to see… He's probably watching right now from his office."

The pad behind them lit up without warning, its surface flaring with light, the hum of power rolling out into the courtyard. The shift in the air was immediate, every cadet snapping their eyes toward it. From the shimmer of energy, a figure stepped forward, calm and composed, radiating presence. Imujin. His arrival carried an inevitability, like the final piece clicking into place, grounding the tension with sheer authority.

"Ah, Darun," Imujin said with measured warmth, his gaze fixed squarely on the young man with the hooked swords. "It's good to see you."

Imujin's voice carried the weight of authority as he addressed Kasala, the courtyard around them gone silent under his presence. "This is your new class. I know this is not something you were prepared for, but I believe you will be pleasantly surprised. They are a fierce group of cadets, High Imperator candidates unlike any you have taught before. Honestly, I do not say this lightly: this is probably the most important class you will ever teach, my young friend. I only came to inform you that what they say is true. I must leave now; I have meetings that cannot wait."

Vaeliyan instinctively stepped forward, a dozen questions pressing against his tongue, but Imujin lifted his hand, silencing him with nothing more than a gesture. "Later. I will talk to you tonight. There are things we need to discuss anyway. I heard about your win. Congratulations." His eyes slid back to Kasala, sharp as drawn steel. "Just so you are aware, Darun, my young apprentice here has completed all five challenges of the ninth layer. He has earned the right to lead his own squad of High Imperators, and yes, he has already completed my tasks. No matter what happens here, he will graduate as a High Imperator. At this rate, all of his class will. They are rather special, marked for something greater. Good luck. Vaeliyan, the rest of you, I will see you all tonight."

With that, Imujin stepped back onto the pad. Then he vanished once again, leaving the courtyard quieter than before. For a long breath, the only sound was the shifting of the wind through the statues and the faint drip of dew sliding from the red grass.

Darun Kasala exhaled heavily, lowering his hooked blades until their tips rested against the damp ground. His expression shifted from suspicion to something closer to awe, though unease still clung to his features. "That's… a lot to take in," he admitted slowly. His piercing eyes scanned each of their faces as though to weigh the truth in their silence. "The only thing that separates us from being comrades, equals, is that you must survive your Shatterlight Trial and graduate. That is all." His voice dipped lower, quieter. "Hells, I think I need to sit down."

He glanced around the courtyard as though seeking a bench or a stone seat, then gave up with a half-shrug. "No point walking anywhere. I'll sit here." He eased himself into the grass, the dew soaking into the flowing white-and-blue fabric of his robes. His posture, though seated, was still disciplined, the set of his shoulders betraying the training of years.

After a moment, he looked back at them, curiosity sharpening into something direct and challenging. "So. Which of the four of you are going to be my apprentices? Because clearly that's the reason you would take all these seats."

Vaeliyan shook his head, mouth twisting faintly. "Oh, we only need three spots. We already have thirteen apprenticeships covered. The twins are both apprentices to Alorna. Didn't even know that was allowed, but apparently it is."

Kasala's brow rose slightly, his expression tightening as he absorbed the words. Even sitting cross-legged in the wet grass, his presence remained formal and authoritative, the strange hooked swords still in his hands. "So, who is left?"

Three cadets stepped forward, their movements practiced and in sync. Torman, Lessa, and Roan bowed slightly in unison, the gesture respectful but not overly deferential. "Hello, Master," they said together, their voices carrying in the open air. "While we were not with you, Headmaster Imujin arranged our class formations. He said you would be helping us in the future when we need it."

Kasala studied them in silence, his gaze sliding from one to the next. When it landed on the girl with the prosthetic arms, it lingered. His crystal-blue eyes narrowed, examining the clean lines of the crafted metal where flesh should have been. His curiosity was obvious, but he did not voice it. Lessa's arms were not augmentations, they were true prosthetics, mechanical replacements forged with precision. They moved with seamless articulation, fluid and convincing as real limbs, yet unmistakably different. She could have had them regrown in the Green, but she had chosen not to. That choice marked her as unusual, a contradiction in a society that prized uniform perfection. Her armor had shaped itself to her decision, adapting around the steel, and her fighting style had become something unique.

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Kasala let his gaze linger another second before his expression softened into acceptance. With a small shrug, he dismissed the thought and returned his eyes to the three standing before him. They were his apprentices now, their choices and their burdens part of what he would shape.

"Very well," he said at last, voice firm and resonant. "Yes, I will take you as my apprentices." The words settled over the courtyard like a final seal, the bond between master and apprentice forming in the stillness. Around them, the morning seemed to stretch longer, the statues looming higher, as though the Citadel itself acknowledged what had just been decided.

High Imperator Kasala rose from his seat with a deliberate calm. His presence carried weight without needing to be forced, and the cadets felt it settle over them as he called for order. A simple gesture with his hand was enough. They straightened, forming into a clean line across the courtyard, boots together, shoulders square. Once they were still, he let his gaze sweep across them before speaking.

"Let me give you a proper introduction," he began, his tone steady but edged with the kind of discipline that came only from experiencing real war. "My name is Darun Kasala. I am of House Kasala, the founders of the World Tree Inn. I am here not as your teacher in a classroom, not as a lecturer with notes and theory, but as the one who will serve as your field commander through the Shatterlight Trial. That means what I say in the field is law. What I demand of you, you must carry out, and the burden you bear will not be light."

He paused long enough for the words to settle, watching their eyes, making sure none of them looked away. "For those of you who have been marked as my apprentices, your task is stripped bare of frills. You are responsible for two things only. First, you must complete the mission assigned to you. Second, you must survive. Nothing else matters. My approval to grant you recognition as High Imperators when you graduate depends on the success of both. Do not think the simplicity of these words makes them easy. Often, the mission will demand sacrifice. Often, survival will demand retreat. Balancing the two is why this path is considered the most dangerous of the apprenticeships. If you fail the mission, you fail me. This would not be the case if you had more years ahead of you. But for you lot, you only get one shot at this. If you succeed in the mission but die, you fail me still. Only by achieving both do you stand as worthy of the title."

His voice hardened. "Understand this clearly. There will be moments when the order and the instinct inside you do not align. You will want to pick one path. But that is not good enough. A High Imperator is expected to walk the knife's edge and bring both tasks to completion."

He shifted his stance and continued. "Now, beyond that, I bring you news of where your Shatterlight Trial will be taking place. This is not rumor or speculation; this is command's decision. You will be dropping into Gravenholt. High Commander Ruka holds authority over this year's Shatterlight Trial. In past years, when she commanded, her choice was always Nespói. You have heard the stories. You know the reputation. But this year, Command has overruled her. Nespói is forbidden to her. That means you are spared the infamous forty-five percent fatality rate that comes from the drop alone. You will not be scattered into a killing field before you even have a chance to orient yourselves."

Some of the cadets allowed themselves the faintest shift of relief at his words, though none dared break formation. Kasala's mouth twitched as if he noticed, but he pressed on.

"Do not mistake this for an easy campaign," he warned. "Gravenholt is not quiet. It is quieter only by comparison. The war there is fought with border raids, with sudden pushes and bloody retreats, with ambushes in the snow and clashes in ruined towns. You will face blizzards capable of burying whole squads, whiteouts that strip away your senses until you can no longer tell ground from sky. You will encounter mechs designed to wait in silence, strike from shadows, and vanish back into terrain as though they were never there. Yet still, the odds of survival are higher than they would be in Nespói, and for you, that is fortune."

He let silence stretch before adding, more quietly, "I have been dropped into worse. I have seen cadets die before their boots touched ground. You will not suffer that fate here. But do not take comfort too easily. Gravenholt will still test you. It will still claim some of you if you falter."

He clasped his hands behind his back. "As for my role: I am not here to carry you. I am a last resort. I am forbidden to intervene unless the enemy deploys a mech-knight of the Princedom. If that happens, it is my task to meet it in combat and remove it from the field. If they send more than one, I will do everything in my power to hold them long enough to give you a chance to retreat. I have not yet been forced into such a fight, but I am trained and prepared for it. You will not face that burden alone if it comes to it. Know this: your lives will not be wasted while I stand."

His eyes swept across them again, sharp as blades, weighing each face, each expression. "This is what lies before you. This is the truth of your trial. Stand ready, because readiness is all that will keep you alive."

High Imperator Kasala cleared his throat, his posture commanding silence before he began his briefing in full. His gaze swept over the assembled cadets, measuring them as much as he was preparing to speak. The air in the room seemed to settle into stillness, every pair of eyes locked on him as though they already sensed the weight of what he was about to say.

"Now, listen carefully. I told you where we are going but you don't yet understand what that means. You will be stepping into Gravenholt, one of the twelve princedoms. It may not be as infamous as Nespói, but do not fool yourselves into thinking this will be comfortable. It will test you in every conceivable way, and for many of you, this will be the first time you learn what real war tastes like. It is not glory, it is not pride, it is cold, merciless survival."

He clasped his hands behind his back, his voice hard and even. "Gravenholt is the frozen west, an expanse of ice and stone where the land itself fights you. Expect blizzards that blind you so thoroughly you won't see the cadet beside you. Whiteouts roll in without warning and can linger for half a day, turning the world into a blank sheet of death. Temperatures will plummet to the kind of cold that freezes flesh even through Legion armor. It will seep into the cracks of your joints, bite at your fingers, and claw into your lungs until every breath feels like swallowing knives. It is the kind of cold that makes steel brittle and turns mistakes into graves. Cold that will kill you if you do not respect it. Do not underestimate it."

He began to pace slowly, each step deliberate, letting the sound of his boots echo. "The ice itself is treacherous. Entire ridges will shear apart under strain. The ground beneath your boots may fracture without warning and open into sudden chasms. The cold cracks the earth like glass, and when it breaks, it swallows everything. You will see comrades vanish in an instant, swallowed whole by the snow, never recovered, never mourned properly. The terrain itself is a predator, silent and patient, waiting for your smallest lapse. If you move carelessly, Gravenholt will take you and leave no sign that you were ever there."

His tone sharpened, cutting like a blade. "And then there are the mechs. Camouflaged, cloaked, patient hunters. They use the storms as cover; their plating patterned like snow and stone. They blend with the blizzards, vanish into the ice, and strike when you least expect it. One moment there is nothing in front of you, the next there is a killing machine at your throat, striking so fast you barely have time to raise a weapon, and then, gone again before you can rally. They are ambush predators in every sense. You cannot rely on sight alone. Your ears will lie to you. The snow will muffle your steps and theirs. You will need your instincts, your awareness, and above all, your discipline if you want to live through an encounter."

He paused, then added with a slow, grim shake of his head, "And understand this: even if you do everything right, Gravenholt may still kill you. The conditions are merciless, the enemies cunning, and the landscape indifferent. The only thing you can control is your discipline, your will, and your ability to adapt."

He let the weight of his words hang for a moment before finishing, voice grave. "So, this is what awaits you: endless cold that gnaws at your bones, storms that will strip you bare, ice that will betray your every step, and enemies that will appear from nowhere and vanish just as fast. Supplies will be thin, warmth will be rare, and every step forward will feel like a wager against the land itself. That is Gravenholt. That is where you will bleed, and that is where you will either endure or be broken."

Kasala let the silence stretch after his dire warning about Gravenholt, then straightened and gave a curt nod. "Our tasks will be given to us by Command on the ground when we drop. Until then, speculation will not help you. But I know you have questions."

Elian raised his hand slightly, his voice steady but edged with curiosity. "What's our task? Are we trying to take Gravenholt itself?"

Kasala shook his head, firm and immediate. "No. That would be a massively foolhardy endeavor, and the cost would be catastrophic. Gravenholt is one of the twelve princedoms. To take it outright would mean rousing the fury of the other eleven. They would unite in defense, and the Citadel would face their combined might. It would be nothing short of suicidal."

Torman frowned, brow furrowed. "What do you mean by that? Isn't this a war?"

Kasala's expression hardened. "It is a war, yes, but one fought in measured strokes. Right now, the fighting in Gravenholt is border skirmishes, push and pull, one side advances, then the other. It is brutal but contained, a dispute kept at the edges rather than a full invasion. There is an unspoken understanding that as long as we do not press too far, the conflict remains limited. If we were to truly seize Gravenholt, however, that balance would shatter. The rest of princedoms would rally to Gravenholt's defense, and our forces would be stretched to the breaking point across the three fronts. The Neuman would likely surge with aggression, and we would be forced to divert entire divisions to hold them back. That is why Command avoids such reckless gambits."

He let the weight of the explanation settle on them before continuing. "So, no, we are not going to conquer Gravenholt. More likely, we will be tasked with defending a fortification, securing a vital mining operation, or holding an outpost. These are the lifeblood of the front, and keeping them intact matters more than any single advance on a map. But remember this: you will be acting as Imperators. Your missions will not be the broad strokes of infantry lines or garrison duty. Your missions will be precise, targeted, and dangerous. You will be asked to strike where it hurts, to scout where others cannot, to dismantle threats before they ever become battles. And we will not know the details of those missions until we make landfall."

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