The train hissed to a stop, coughing out steam like a dying beast. Ahead, the Iron Sigil Academy loomed against the dead sky jagged towers and collapsed antennas reaching toward clouds that never moved. The world here wasn't built to be beautiful. It was built to make soldiers.
Akira stepped off the train without looking back.
Around him, other recruits scrambled some wide-eyed, some too loud, others trying to hide how much they were shaking. They were younger than him. Older, too. All different shapes, different faces. But all wore the same gray uniform, fresh from processing. Disposable, one-size-fits-all fabric. Like the people in them.
No one noticed Akira. Not really. They saw his clothes. His small frame. Maybe even the worn boots scuffed from a year in the ashes. But they didn't look close.
He preferred it that way.
"MOVE!" a voice barked.
The drillmaster stood near the main gate. Not tall, but built like a pillar of concrete, one arm replaced by a reinforced prosthetic fitted with a retractable riot shield. Her eyes gleamed with dull implants, barely upgraded from basic war tech.
"Front line's dying faster than we can train replacements," she growled. "You're not students. You're resources. You'll be broken, reforged, and ranked. If you survive."
No one laughed.
The gates opened slowly with a thunderous grind, revealing the outer yards of the academy concrete spar grounds, crumbling defensive walls, and long-range turrets retooled for training. Across the field, a squad of older students sprinted in tight formation. One of them collapsed mid-stride, chest heaving. No one stopped to help him.
Akira followed the line toward a black scanning pillar. Drones hovered nearby, checking IDs, scanning vitals, logging ranks. When it was his turn, the pillar blinked red for a moment, then green.
NAME: Akira
ORIGIN: No Affiliation
PRIOR DUTY: Asher Corpse Recovery Unit, Zone 3
KILL CONFIRMED
PLACEMENT: Division 9 – Combat Probationary Track
A second drone dropped a bundle of cloth and a steel ident-band into his arms. The uniform was darker less fresh than the others. Someone else had probably worn it last week.
He slipped it on, locked the ident-band onto his wrist, and kept moving.
No complaints. No questions.
***
Dorm Block 9 – Later
Division 9's quarters were nothing but a long concrete room lined with stiff, fold-down bunks. The only window was sealed with reinforced wire glass. The air smelled of rust and sweat. A pipe above one bed dripped every few seconds.
Akira took the cot in the corner, furthest from the others. No one argued. No one spoke to him.
That night, he lay awake with his hands behind his head, staring at the stains on the ceiling. Across the room, a few of the others whispered. Mostly about home, or rumors about their instructors. No one mentioned the war. Not really.
He didn't listen closely.
He didn't care about their names.
He only cared about the next trial. The next ranking test. The next step.
Because while the others were here to survive… Akira was here to change the war.
And when the time came, he wouldn't hesitate again.
End of Chapter 1