Yellow Jacket

It didn't move.

Same corridor. Same posture. Same stillness. The Data Daemon stood at the end of the passage like a tomb that had never been buried. Its body, wrapped in coral-bone armor and old alloy, looked carved by time and sealed by choice. The lights in its eyes still streamed.

But it had not left.

Vaeliyan walked toward it.

Isol and Jurpat followed, but kept back. There was no discussion. Steel had given a task. Vaeliyan hadn't argued. He had simply turned, and they had understood.

The closer he got, the more the air seemed to tighten. Like the corridor itself was watching.

The Daemon didn't lift its head. It didn't need to.

Vaeliyan stopped four feet from it. He didn't draw his pocket knife.

He just looked at it and said:

"You are remembered."

The effect was instant.

The Daemon shuddered. Once. Then again, deeper. A tremor passed through its plated frame like something ancient shaking off time. It lifted its head, joints grinding with a sound like rust cracking open. Slowly. Mechanically. Not with violence.

Its fingers moved to its chest. Bone scraping alloy. The hands curled into the seams between its rib-like armor, digging inward. And then it ripped.

The sound was wet and low, a visceral tearing of fused flesh and metal. An awful silence broken by the grind of history peeling back.

Its chest split wide.

The plates unfolded like petrified wings. Beneath them, veined coils pulled back to reveal a heart, not a machine or flesh. Something in between. The glow was a slow, amber pulse, each throb syncing with the breath of the room. The light danced across Vaeliyan's face.

Veins of copper and bone latticed the heart's surface, branching outward like roots in stone. The casing wasn't smooth, it was cracked in places, each fissure glowing softly like it remembered every moment it had kept beating. But something else was inside.

A fragment.

Small. Obsidian-edged. Set deep in the center of the heart like it had been hidden there deliberately, long ago. It didn't pulse with the heart. It resonated against it. As if the heart had been built around it, guarding it for a future no one believed would come.

Jurpat whispered, "Gods..."

Vaeliyan stepped forward. The floor vibrated faintly under his boots, like the chamber itself was reacting.

He placed one hand on the Daemon's shoulder. The armor was cold. Not corpse-cold. Memory-cold. Like touching the past.

With the other, he drew the pocket knife he had inherited from Mara, the only blade he carried, untouched by forge or upgrade. It wasn't valuable. But it had been hers, and that made it sacred..

He didn't raise it high. Didn't hesitate. He slid it forward.

The tip pierced the amber.

The heart broke with a sound like stone cracking underwater. The light flared once, not bright, but rich, a deep, golden bloom that painted the corridor in echoes.

The Daemon didn't flinch. It didn't fall.

It knelt.

Hands to its thighs. Head bowed. Its chest remained open, steaming slightly as if releasing its final breath. And then it froze in that posture.

Vaeliyan stood there, listening to the silence. It wasn't empty. It was full of echoes. The silence of something long-held finally released. Of a burden laid down.

He stepped closer to the still body. The scent of the opened chest was not rot or oil, it was ancient. Like petrichor baked into rust. Like moss clinging to old stone.

The fragment, slick with the inner pulse of the heart, rose out of the broken chamber on its own. It hovered for a second. Then dropped into Vaeliyan's waiting hand.

It was warm. Not with heat. With something older. A weight beyond measure. A memory that had waited too long to be handed over.

He turned it once in his hand, feeling its edges. The shape wasn't symmetrical. It had no glyphs. But his fingers buzzed against it, like the air just above a wire.

He wrapped it in cloth. Slowly. Carefully. Like covering a child. Or a blade.

Isol stepped aside. Jurpat didn't speak. The air tasted like copper and old breath.

Vaeliyan looked down the corridor once. Then turned.

"Aren't you going to get the fragment in its chip?" Isol asked quietly.

Vaeliyan didn't stop walking. "No. I'm only supposed to take this one."

Behind them, the body began to collapse.

It didn't fall. It didn't twitch. It just… unraveled. The armor cracked. The limbs bowed. And then it all disintegrated, bone, alloy, and memory, into ash.

Centuries passed in an instant.

The ash didn't billow. It folded into itself, like time compacting into dust. It wasn't erosion. It was erosion accelerated. A century's decay in a single exhale.

By the time Vaeliyan looked back, there was nothing left but a thin drift of silver dust in the shape of a man kneeling.

A perfect imprint. Shoulders square. Head bowed. Chest open.

The memory of obedience.

Vaeliyan's throat tightened. He didn't know why.

Maybe it was guilt. Maybe it was awe. Maybe it was the weight of having to be the one remembered.

He let the cloth-wrapped fragment rest in the pocket closest to his heart.

"This one's for Wren."

Isol nodded once. "Then let's get it to her."

No one looked back.

Only the dust remained.

When they returned to the Ark, the air was waiting.

Not just the people, though they were all there. Florence, Car, Wren, Cassian, Batu, Calra, even Nanuk perched high on a gantry, tail coiled tight. Styll was wrapped around Florence's neck like a question mark. Grix leaned on a rail, watching with narrowed eyes. Deana stood with her arms folded. Even Wren had taken a half-step forward, fidgeting like she was trying not to sprint.

But it was more than that.

The Ark itself seemed to lean in.

The lights hummed lower. The distant vents slowed. Something in the air turned quiet and charged, like the moment before lightning.

Vaeliyan said nothing.

He crossed the floor with purpose and without spectacle. The cloth-wrapped object in his hand never wavered. He stopped in front of Wren and looked at her. As man with something sacred to pass on.

He held it out.

She didn't ask what it was.

She took it in both hands like it might break. Her breath hitched before she even unwrapped it. The cloth peeled back like it resisted.

Inside, the fragment waited.

The moment her fingers brushed it directly, the air shifted.

Then she cut her palm with a practiced motion. Blue blood welled for only a second. She pressed the fragment to the wound. It sank in.

The wound sealed without sound.

She felt nothing at first. But when she closed her eyes and focused, the skill surfaced like breath breaking water. As if it had always been there, waiting for her to ask.

She pulled the interface manually. The system didn't speak down here. She had to search, comb through the listing until it appeared, simple and blunt beneath her fingertips.

Wren's lips parted. She blinked, then read aloud what only she could see:

"Fury of Hemera (Active): A terraforming strike delivered through direct contact. When invoked, the terrain accepts the user's will. Stone breaks. Soil reshapes. Growth accelerates. Decay obeys. Can be used to devastate a battlefield or cultivate life from ruin. The effect depends on intent. Violence razes. Mercy rebuilds."

She exhaled slowly, grounding herself.

Florence tilted her head, eyes narrowed in thought. Car muttered, "That's got potential."

Nanuk grunted from above. "Not a bad gift."

Grix folded her arms. "Steel gave that to you?"

Vaeliyan nodded. "Said she'd need it."

Isol stepped into view. "We found the daemon. It remembered. And it let go."

Jurpat crossed his arms, lips tight. "Not sure it could've done that for anyone else."

Wren looked down at her palm, now whole, then back up. "Why me?"

Vaeliyan's voice was quiet. "Because you'll use it right."

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

She nodded slowly. "I'll try."

Car studied her face, then the sealed hand. "We'll help you shape it. One use at a time."

Florence stepped forward, voice even. "No more wondering how we'll fix what the Green broke."

"Now we build," Vaeliyan said.

And that was that.

Whatever came next, the Ark now had a seed of life and destruction, bound to Wren. A gift carved from silence, carried through dust, and delivered by a man who once wore another name.

The moment passed, and the air in the Ark began to breathe again. But for Vaeliyan, something deeper stirred.

A jolt. Not painful. But unmistakable.

Steel.

She did not descend. She did not need to. Her presence curled through his spine like a filament catching current. The heat of her touch lived in the marrow of his bones now, alive, undeniable.

A single word bloomed in the back of his mind, wrapped in the chime of temple glass:

"Good."

A spark ignited in his chio. His interface flared.

You have reached Level 16

And then her voice followed:

"You have completed your first task. And now, as my contender, your next is simple: Stand. Assign your stats. Do it here. Do it now. Let them see what you choose to become."

Vaeliyan's breath caught. He looked around and said. "She said for my next task... I have to allocate my stats. Right here. Right now."

Everyone was watching.

Florence. Car. Grix. Deana. Batu. Nanuk. Jurpat. Wren. Isol. Cassian. Even the cats had gone still.

No one moved. No one asked why. They felt it too.

Wren stepped closer, not speaking. Just present. Steady.

He pulled up the interface.

No hiding. No excuses. The veil had given him access, but this? This was his choice.

Unallocated Stat Points: 5

Florence's eyes narrowed. "You don't have to..."

"I do," Vaeliyan said. "She said this is the next step. And I trust her."

He inhaled, slow and deep.

And began.

There was no tearing. No disassembly. No reknitting of flesh. No nanites crashing through his frame.

The pain that had once come with stat assignment, was gone.

He didn't feel anything at all.

Only clarity.

When it was done, the interface dissolved like steam.

He looked to Wren.

She gave the smallest nod. "Still you."

Vaeliyan rolled his shoulders.

He didn't feel pain. But he did feel stronger.

"Good."

Steel's voice sparked mischievously.

"Minor task, minor boon."

Another jolt. Another surge.

You have reached Level 17

"Your next task is not so simple," she said. "And I've been waiting a long time to do that, so it felt good."

Her voice carried a silver-like levity.

"You are to take first place in the entrance tournament. No other place will do. So master your new soul, my contender."

Vaeliyan started laughing. Everyone looked at him.

"She just gave me another level," he said, "for assigning my stat points. Then she says I have to win the entrance tournament. I was already planning on doing that. Now I get a reward just for doing what I was going to do anyway."

Grix folded her arms. "That task is so much better than mine. I have to find a way to make bug bars taste good."

"Is that why you make all those weird, horrible things?" Vaeliyan asked.

"Why else would I do it if it wasn't a divine task?" Grix grumbled. "Those things are sadness made barely edible."

Florence raised a hand. "I think I can help..."

"No," Grix cut in. "The Spitter says I have to do it myself." She jabbed a finger at Vaeliyan. "Also, now that you're a Verdance, Warren, it's your family that caused all this. They invented the 'everything-you-need-in-one' bug bar and cursed my patron god to saddle me with this bullshit."

Vaeliyan held up his hands. "Don't look at me. I hate them as much as anyone who's ever had the displeasure of even tasting one of those things."

"Why couldn't they have just made nut bars?" Deana muttered.

Everyone murmured in agreement, except Styll, who sat on a crate licking her paw.

"I likes bugzy barz," Styll announced proudly.

Warren remembered it too well, Styll sharing the sensation of taste with him, her perspective flooding his senses as she munched on one with bliss.

To her, they did taste good.

And that was great.

She could have them. All of them.

He would never put another one of those things near his mouth again. Not even to save his own life.

Warren had barely sat down when Isol cleared his throat and said, "You know, there are things you're going to hate about the Legion. Everyone does. But you're going to need it."

Warren gave him a long look. "Like what?"

"Endurance Training," Isol replied, calm as ever.

Jurpat furrowed his brow. "Is that like carrying a bunch of heavy stuff until you pass out?"

Isol's smile was tight, knowing. "Wrong. Let me share the class motto."

He clasped his hands behind his back, posture perfect, voice smooth as lacquered steel:

"If you collapse, you get the fuck up. Can't stand? You crawl. Can't crawl? You drag your ass with your teeth. Can't breathe? Suck in air like it owes you, and pull yourself across the line. No breath left? Then blink your sorry eyelashes until your corpse makes it over the line. You finish, or you don't fucking belong here."

Cassian paled. "That sounds fucking awful."

Grix cackled like it was her birthday. Calra muttered something that sounded like a prayer.

Isol gave a shark's grin. "And none of you are getting out of it. I might be prepping these two for the Citadel, but while I'm here, I'm training every sorry soul under level 30."

Calra tried to duck behind Batu. Deana pretended she was suddenly invisible.

"Exceptions?" Cassian asked, hopefully.

"Zero," Isol said. "You don't get to vote against the gravity of the Legion."

Wren raised her hand like she was trying to get excused from gym class. "But I have a condition."

"You're going to like your training," Isol said. "You've got that big pipe, right?"

Vaeliyan grunted, "It's called Stick."

"Perfect," Isol said. "Wren, my dear, you go at your own pace. Take care of yourself. And anyone you pass on the ground? You have my permission to beat them with your Stick until they move. Think of it as a rest break for the expected mother. Think of it as a mercy beating. Keeps them motivated. Also a light cardio workout."

"Wait, that's mercy?" Batu asked.

"Legion-style," Isol said.

Cassian took a deep breath. "At least that's the worst of it."

That earned him two slaps to the back of the head, one from Grix, the other from Calra.

"WHAT?" he snapped.

"Don't ever tempt fate like that," Grix and Calra shouted.

"You might like the next part," Isol said to Grix.

"Oh really?" she said suspiciously. "And why would that be?"

"Bug bars."

"Bug bars?" she repeated.

"Yes. The reason they're called 'everything-you-need-in-one' bug bars is because that's the truth. And they're the only thing the Legion eats."

Then a cacophony: "NO. NO. NO. NO!"

Grix lit up like she'd just won a divine lottery. She practically vibrated in place, smiling wider than anyone had ever seen. "Finally! Everyone has to eat them! Gods, this is the best day of my life."

"I don't make the rules," Isol said. "I enforce them."

Florence, Car, and Batu were practically doubled over in laughter. All three comfortably above level 30. Safe. Smug. Entertained.

"Can't we just eat literally anything else?" Jurpat pleaded.

"Sure," Isol said. "If you want Wren to hit you with her Stick, that is."

Wren smiled and said, "At least there's a bright side to all of this."

Calra turned to her with a look of betrayal. "For you there's a bright side. For the rest of us, it's just suffering."

"Suffering is a nutrient," Florence added. "Didn't you read the marketing brochure?"

"The brochure was a threat," Deana muttered.

Vaeliyan looked like he was calculating how many bug bars it would take to kill someone. "I thought the Verdance family made medicine. Not trauma."

"It's all the same thing," Car offered helpfully.

Wren looked like she was mentally preparing for childbirth by comparing it to this training.

Styll squeaked contentedly from her perch.

Vaeliyan groaned. "Is this really what school is like?"

"This is just the warm-up," Isol said. "We haven't even touched 'Cheating 101' yet."

"That's a class?" Cassian asked.

"Survival is the subject," Isol replied. "Cheating is a way of life."

A long, heavy silence fell across the group.

Florence took a bite out of her own snack bar, definitely not a bug bar, and raised it like a toast. "To suffering."

"To Legion," Grix groaned.

"To hell with bug bars," Vaeliyan said.

"I'm gonna die," Jurpat whispered.

"Only if you're lucky," Deana said.

And just like that, training began.

The sun was shining. The clouds were soft and pillowy, drifting across a perfect blue sky. In a quiet, well-manicured park on the outskirts of the Green Zone, a lone rabbit sat beneath a shady tree, twitching its nose at a single perfect flower. Peaceful. Idyllic.

Then came the screaming.

The rabbit bolted. The flower was crushed beneath a boot dragging chains and a pair of cinderblocks. Vaeliyan ran like hell, gasping, legs wobbling, half-dragging the weight behind him. Ten paces back, Isol carried double the load and looked like he could still take a nap. And he was kicking Vaeliyan. Strategically. Repeatedly.

"You call that dodging?! I've seen worms who were better at it than you!"

Cassian lay flat on the grass, very much unconscious, with a rising welt on his cheek and a trail of bruises down his ribs. Wren stood over him, wiping sweat off her brow with one hand and leaning on Stick with the other. Her belly had gotten noticeably bigger, but that didn't stop her from muttering darkly about 'proper motivation' and using Cassian's body as an example of what happens when someone stops moving without permission.

Grix passed Cassian crawling one-armed, her whole left side dragging uselessly. She grinned as she passed. "Hi, Wren."

Wren nodded back like it was a sacred rite.

Grix looked down at Cassian. "Manmeat," she whispered, like a soldier saluting a fallen comrade.

Jurpat limped by, shirt clinging to his soaked frame, one eye swollen shut. Calra wasn't far behind, crawling with both arms, teeth gritted, her hair matted to her forehead with sweat.

Nanuk jogged by at a steady pace, humming. Perfect form. No complaints. Deana trailed behind, muttering a furious prayer.

"Gods, please smite the monster known as Isol for his transgressions against our mortal flesh."

Calra coughed out a laugh. "I thought Warren was your god."

"At this point I'd accept divine retribution from a pigeon. This man is evil."

She paused to gag. "I never thought I'd feel more sorrow than eating bug bars every day."

"I know what you mean," Calra said, still crawling. Arm over arm. "This is endless."

Deana, despite everything, reached out. "Want help?"

Calra looked up, horrified, and saw Isol watching her. Smiling. Kicking Vaeliyan again.

"Nope. Nope, I'm good," she said quickly, flailing forward like the grass was lava.

Isol's voice carried above the groans and curses.

"You don't crawl? You don't finish!"

Vaeliyan wheezed, "I'm crawling! I'm crawling! Stop kicking me!"

"You're breathing too regularly. Clearly not trying hard enough."

Grix had looped around again somehow. She waved a bug bar in the air triumphantly. "Who wants a victory snack?!"

Everyone groaned.

"This is the worst," Cassian mumbled from the ground.

Wren reached down and tapped him lightly with Stick.

"Mercy cardio," she said.

Cassian whimpered.

Above them, the rabbit watched from the tree line. Still. Unblinking. Considering.

Then it ran again.

Vaeliyan Verdance — Level 17

Second threshold requirements met

Class: Blade Dancer

Alignment: The Peoples' Alliance against Isol
Unallocated Stat Points: 0

Strength: 22
Perception: 25
Intelligence: 34
Dexterity: 28
Endurance: 22
Resolve: 31

Skills

Power Strike (Active): A single, focused melee blow delivered with full-body commitment. Designed to break guards, knock targets off balance, or end a fight with clean force. Most effective when delivered from a grounded stance with intent. Requires no charge, no windup, only opportunity.

Pocket Sand (Active): A burst of particulate grit thrown directly at a target's face or optics. Causes immediate disorientation, temporary blindness, and target disruption. Non-lethal. Opens space, ruins focus, and invites mistakes. Taught to those who weren't born faster, just meaner.

Optimized Metabolism (Passive): The body operates with refined internal efficiency. Post-exertion recovery is faster. Heat regulation is cleaner. Breath control holds longer. This isn't regeneration. It's output discipline. The body doesn't burn harder. It just burns better.

Anchored Stance (Passive): Trained for balance and weight control under impact. Reduces stagger, slippage, and recoil disruption. Movement becomes deliberate. Posture resists being broken. This is not strength, it's structure that refuses to fold.

Vaeliyan's skill – All Around You

Stage Two

Vaeliyan's Soul skill – All Around You

Stage Two

Core Effect – Pressure Field

The field builds over time. The longer the user remains still, the faster the pressure intensifies. What begins as a subtle shift becomes a persistent weight. The space tightens. Air feels heavier. Focus degrades. The presence grows without sound or warning.

Passive – Suffocation Drift

The field spreads outward from the user, thinning focus and sharpening discomfort. Oxygen levels remain unchanged, but breathing feels strained. Thought slows. Tension builds. The effect is passive, progressive, and persistent.

Execution Effect – Compression Spike

The user can condense the field instantly, applying a sudden spike of directional pressure. The effect is silent, invisible, and immediate. At close range, it can stagger limbs, break rhythm, or knock weapons off-course. Applied precisely, it can mimic the force of a physical strike.

Known Limitations:

The field strengthens the longer the user remains still. Movement reduces intensity and disrupts edge stability.

Pressure loses coherence with distance from the user.

The Skill does not directly immobilize targets.

Effects are less noticeable to individuals with suppressed emotional response, advanced conditioning, or enhanced respiratory systems.

Stage Two Upgrades

Spatial Sensory Link:
Detects motion and presence through subtle shifts in pressure. Provides 360° awareness independent of sight or sound.

Directional Focus:
The user can shape the field's effects toward specific targets or soften its reach. Pressure follows intent, not command.

Passive Signal Disguise:
Sensors register the Skill as background fluctuation, vent lag, circulation faults, or minor atmospheric drift. No alert is triggered unless manually investigated.