Yellow Jacket

They jogged up the hill, an easy, natural pace that felt like a proper jog, not one of Isol's so-called "light walks," which were actually death runs with haulers chained to their backs. it really wasn't bad. Their legs moved with ease. Breathing stayed even. Muscles cooperated. Compared to Isol's brutal idea of a casual morning stroll, this was like taking a scenic lap through a dream. A stroll. A warm-up. Something they could do in their sleep and still have energy left to argue.

It was almost refreshing. The wind was crisp. The strain felt distant. For the first time in weeks, movement wasn't punishment, it was freedom.

Then they saw it.

Hovering above the crest, half-wrapped in early morning haze, was the shuttle.

Steel-gray, sleek, with sweeping angular lines and glowing amber neon lights tracing its edges like veins of purpose. The ship was massive, long as a stadium, smooth as glass, and beautiful in the way only military luxury could be. It hovered just a few feet off the ground, its underside lined with softly humming repulsors. A ramp extended downward like an open invitation.

The interior shimmered behind transparent alloy glass. Just like the World Tree Inn, it had 360-degree panoramic windows, but with a twist, they only activated when you wanted to see out. Otherwise, the world stayed out of sight. Controlled. Optional.

Jurpat whistled. "So this is what real credits looks like."

"Last leg of the journey," Isol said, stretching his back with a satisfied grunt. "Then a week of… well. Not rest. But something like it."

Vaeliyan narrowed his eyes. "You know what we're doing, don't you?"

Isol nodded. "Paperwork. For me. For you two? There should be a sponsored Legion cadet mixer happening. For new hopefuls. You'll want to go. Scope the competition. Pretend to be social."

Jurpat groaned. "That sounds like homework."

"It's worse," Isol replied. "It's politics. Once you're signed up for the tournament, everyone's going to want to know who you are, what you're hiding, how you fight. Try to learn what you can about them. But don't share anything you wouldn't want a den of vipers to overhear. No one is your friend. Everyone's out for themselves, or for whoever's paying them the most."

He paused, tapping the back of Vaeliyan's neck with two fingers. Then Jurpat's.

A soft chime appeared in front of both of them:

Isoldian Brent would like to initiate a credit transfer. Accept?

They both thought YES.

Isoldian Brent has transferred 20,000,000 credits to your account.

Vaeliyan blinked. Jurpat dropped his jaw.

Vaeliyan leaned in, whispering, "I was told ten million was a lot. You just gave me twenty."

Isol smirked. "You didn't think being a Legion instructor paid nothing, did you?"

Jurpat stared at his wrist. "I could buy my own island with this. All the food I ever wanted. I had twenty thousand credits as an enforcer and I felt rich."

Vaeliyan frowned. "Wait. That treatment you got back in Mara... how much would it have cost if you weren't playing enforcer?"

Isol shook his head. "You really, really don't want to know. Let's just say it's the only reason I was in a remote village like Mara."

Jurpat squinted. "You keep saying stuff like that, but... the cities can't be that much bigger than Gastlan, right?"

Isol chuckled darkly. "Boys. Where we're going? There are buildings that could fit three Gastlans inside them, and still have room to spare."

"How does anyone get around in a place like that?" Vaeliyan asked.

"Transport pads," Isol said simply.

Jurpat lit up. "They're real?"

"Oh, very real," Isol nodded, glancing at Vaeliyan. "Every building has them. Step on, think about where you want to go, and boom, teleported. Never get lost. Think 'home' and you're there. Your dorms. My estate. Whatever counts."

Vaeliyan blinked. "You have an estate in the city?"

"All instructors do," Isol said. "I'll be staying there while I'm teaching at the Citadel."

"Wait, you're going back to teaching?" Vaeliyan asked.

"Of course. I have to re-learn the curriculum if I'm going to set up a proper Legion in Mara."

Jurpat frowned. "And they're just going to let you?"

Isol gave a theatrical shrug. "Boys. I have tenure. I don't ask. I just kick out whatever junior instructor's squatting in my class."

Vaeliyan narrowed his eyes. "What class do you teach?"

There was dread in his voice.

Isol smiled. "History."

"Thank the gods," Vaeliyan said, exhaling.

"What, you thought it was Endurance Training?" Isol asked, laughing.

"You look like you could bench a house."

"And that's exactly why I don't teach it," Isol grinned. "Too physical. Far too sweaty."

They stepped into the shuttle.

The doors closed.

And the sky opened.

They were sitting in their own private cabin, tucked into the forward observation tier of the shuttle. It wasn't large, but it was pristine, three reclining seats of adaptive fabric, a translucent drink shelf that adjusted to taste, and panoramic window walls that responded to thought. The lighting was soft, the air filtered with some synthetic scent halfway between pine and ozone. It didn't feel like transit. It felt like being chauffeured through a dream.

The shuttle moved with a grace that betrayed its size, cutting through the air like a blade honed by centuries of design.

A soft chime echoed through the cabin. The AI's voice was gentle, calm, and unshakably polite.

"We are about to pass over the Southern Ocean."

Vaeliyan leaned toward the window instinctively, and the world opened.

He had heard of oceans before. He had walked the Glass Ocean, where molten glass shimmered beneath his feet and the sky burned red. That had been an ocean of fire.

This was something else entirely.

An endless expanse of sapphire, clear and bright, so vast it looked like it could swallow the horizon whole. The surface rippled with currents like veins of light, broken only by a scattering of white crests and glimmering sunlight. It was so beautiful it almost didn't seem real.

And then it was gone.

The shuttle moved too fast, far faster than he could comprehend. One moment, the ocean stretched like infinity itself. The next, it was memory.

The AI chimed again, smooth as glass. "To your right, you will see the Kolanit Peaks, the tallest mountain range in the world."

Vaeliyan turned just in time to catch the sight.

They weren't mountains. They were sleeping giants.

Massive ridgelines of deep purple stone, veined with streaks of white and gold, rising into the sky like ancient guardians. Some were capped in snow. Others broke through clouds like the bones of the earth made visible. The range stretched farther than his mind could follow.

And then, like the ocean, it too was gone.

An entire world, glimpsed and left behind in seconds.

They passed over a vast city, so large that Vaeliyan couldn't even see its end. It stretched beyond the horizon, glowing with motion and light, a living grid of steel arteries and pulse lines. The buildings weren't tall, they were endless. Low and wide and sprawling like a mechanical organism that had outgrown logic.

"Is that... is that the city we're going to?" Vaeliyan asked, leaning forward, eyes trying to map it all.

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Isol glanced out the window, squinted, then shrugged. "No idea. I don't even remember which one that is. There are a few like that. Just wait. You'll know when we get to the Citadel."

"Why?"

Isol smiled. "Because it's called The Citadel for a reason."

He sat back with the smug satisfaction of a man who knew what came next.

Vaeliyan sat forward again, watching the city vanish beneath them. Another impossibility, here and gone.

"I really wish Wren could see this," he murmured, voice low. It wasn't just about the sight, it was about the feeling. The enormity of it. The beauty. The fact that it was real.

He sat back slowly, eyes wide.

Jurpat whispered, "We're really not in Mara anymore."

Vaeliyan didn't answer.

He was still trying to understand what it meant to live in a world this large.

His thoughts drifted back to Wren. He hoped she was okay. He hoped their future child was okay. That Mara was holding together, that the people they left behind were still safe. He hadn't just left for himself. He left so that maybe, just maybe, this would all be worth it.

He imagined her voice now, clear and familiar in the back of his mind, complaining about Isol's brutal training. He smiled. She would've hated the hauler runs, cursed every bug bar, and then, like she always did, laughed through it anyway. She would've loved the ghost bed, the view from the shuttle, the absurdity of flying over oceans and mountain peaks like they were footnotes. Every second of this journey, she would've turned into a story. A complaint. A memory worth keeping.

One day, he thought, she'll sleep in a ghost bed too.

He didn't just want to win for himself. He wanted to build a future she could live in. A place where she and their child wouldn't just survive, they could dream.

And maybe, if he played this right, they'd never have to see fire again.

The shuttle curved low over the skyline of Kyrrabad, the vast mega city unfurling below them like a map designed by gods and militaries. Towers stacked atop towers. Transport lines gleaming like veins of light. The outer slums, hidden behind walls and weather filters, vanished into mist. The rot of the world pushed out of view so the interior could believe itself untouchable.

Then he saw it.

The Red Citadel of the South.

It wasn't a building. It wasn't even a fortress. It was a monument to dominance. A blood-red colossus that rose from the center of the city like a buried blade erupting from the earth. This was no monument. It was a signal to the world that power lived here.. Every surface was armored, angled, designed not to impress but to endure It bristled with comms towers, weapon arrays, and hangar ports large enough to swallow warships whole. The entire Citadel was a city unto itself, an obsidian heart stained red, pulsing with power.

And it was only one.

One of five.

Vaeliyan felt his stomach twist.

This was what he had declared as his enemy. This. A structure bigger than the ocean. Larger than the Kolanit Peaks. A war-machine so vast that its upper levels pierced the clouds while its foundations dug deeper than sight.

And he had said this was his target.

He gripped the arms of his chair, knuckles white. His breath caught. His pulse staggered. The glass felt too thin. The world too wide.

Outside Kyrrabad's filtered walls, the world lay broken, ruin and ash stretching to the horizon. But the citizens here would never see it. Their world was clean. Controlled. Entire. Perfect, if you didn't know where to look.

And he was here to break it.

What was he thinking?

He wasn't a god. He was just a monster playing at being a man, but in this moment, he felt like a bug. He wasn't even from this world.

He was just a scav.

A kid from nowhere with blood on his hands and delusions of revolution.

The panic came in slow at first. Then fast.

His vision blurred.

"AI," Isol said, calm but sharp. "Activate privacy mode."

The voice replied instantly: "Privacy mode active. Account charge initiated."

The windows dimmed. Sound dampened. The world pulled back.

Isol turned to him, eyes soft for once. And he said the name.

"Warren."

Not Vaeliyan.

"Warren, listen to me. You can do this. I know you can. I've seen what you did with nothing. I've seen how you moved when you had no resources, no support, no backup. And now... now you're going to be offered the world."

Warren stared forward, barely breathing.

"You're not just some nobody scav from a forgotten backwater. You're a force of nature. And this place? They'll never see you coming."

Warren turned to him slowly. Eyes searching. Distant.

Isol leaned in. "Would you like to know a secret?"

He nodded.

"I trained a High Imperator once. They call him the World Breaker now... but when I met him, he couldn't even throw a proper punch."

"When he started," Isol continued, "he wasn't half as skilled as you are, my boy."

Jurpat's voice came from the other side, stunned. "You trained the World Breaker? Isn't he, like... the number two strongest High Imperator alive?"

Isol gave a small nod. "Yes. I did. And yes. He is. But let me tell you something else."

He turned back to Warren. There was pride in his voice now. Fire.

"The night you fought the chieftains, the night you carved the field red, I saw something I've never seen before. The world bent to your will, Warren. A stage one Soul Skill. And the battlefield bowed to it. You weren't even using the rain. You weren't even calling the storm. Just blood. No rage. Just you.

I asked Wren, when you went to get your umbrella, what you were doing. And you know what she told me? She said, 'He's about to fly.'

I didn't really understand what you truly were until that moment. And now I know she was right.

Warren, you are a war god made man. You just don't see it yet."

Silence filled the cabin.

Isol leaned back.

"You will be a High Imperator. That much is obvious. The only question is... is that the end of what you are? Or just the beginning?"

Warren didn't speak.

He couldn't.

But he stopped panicking.

And he didn't look away from the Citadel.

Not anymore.

The shuttle touched down without ceremony. The ramp extended. No guards, no announcements. Just the soft hum of a landing pad releasing pressure.

They stepped into Kyrrabad proper, and Isol led them directly to the nearest transport pad. It was the size of a small room, lit from beneath in soft pulses of amber light. The moment they stepped on, it hummed and shimmered.

"Think of the location," Isol said.

A flicker of thought. A lurch in the gut.

Then they were standing at the gates of a floating mansion.

It hovered above its own sculpted foundation, suspended by tech no one mentioned and wind that never stirred dust. Trees ringed the perimeter. Idyllic things, artistically imperfect, with sweeping branches and leaves that swayed in a rhythm that felt choreographed. The grass was a deep electric blue, alive and soft and warm, yet never overgrown. Wind moved through it, cutting the ever-present warmth with perfect crispness, like the world breathing in harmony.

Birds flitted between branches. Or maybe they were bots. Hard to say. They looked like birds, sounded like birds, but their songs were too perfect. Notes held too long. Harmonies never missed.

A personal stream flowed through the treeline, not wide but flawlessly placed. It twisted with intent, like it had been poured from the sky to land exactly there. The water was clear enough to see the bottom, reflecting the sunlight like sheets of cut silver.

And Isol cared about none of it.

The estate was enormous, gated, walled, and surrounded by real grass. Not synth turf. Not artificial moss. Real grass, with wind and temperature tuned by its own atmosphere generator. A private climate, wrapped in a dome of invisibly layered defense systems.

A man stood at the front steps, waiting.

At first glance, he looked human: slightly older, formal posture, perfect attire. But the closer you looked, the more off he seemed. Too still. Too symmetrical. A second longer, and the truth clicked: he wasn't human.

"Isoldian Brent," the butler said, voice smooth and faintly amused. "If I lived... and well, I don't breathe or live for that matter... I might have missed you."

"Nigel," Isol said, walking past him. "These are my two newest cadet hopefuls. Take their bags to the dorms. They already have my full sponsorship. But they'll also be participating in the entrance exam. Please sign the proper documentation."

Nigel tilted his head. "You just got home, and you don't even stop to breathe your own perfect atmosphere."

"It's nice. Don't care," Isol said. "I have business to take care of. I want to see them compete. Now, just tell me. Josephine. Is she home?"

"Yes, Mrs. Brent is upstairs in her games room."

Isol smiled. "Boys, come. We have more important things to do than talk to this old bot."

"Old? Who are you calling old? Have you seen what your face looks like lately? I don't think Mrs. Brent will be thrilled."

Isol laughed. "I think I look rather good. Might bring around a new trend. Maybe Josephine will enjoy seeing the real me for once."

Then he took off, striding through the entrance.

The boys rushed after him.

Jurpat and Vaeliyan ran up the stairs after Isol.

"By the gods," Jurpat gasped, "there are so many stairs."

The house was beautiful. Vaulted ceilings. Hand-carved molding. Doors that looked like art installations. Every room they passed looked like it belonged in a gallery. It was almost too perfect.

"Why isn't there a pad in this house?" Jurpat called.

"Why in this godsdamned world do you have so many stairs?" Vaeliyan shouted.

Isol answered without slowing down. "Josephine loves this house. She designed it herself. Don't let her catch you saying anything bad about the stairs. They were her mother's."

"She gets sick from transport pads anyway," he added. "Usually she's home playing her war games."
"And she's still the only person in Kyrrabad who can beat me at them," he added with a shrug that couldn't quite hide the pride.

They reached the top floor and stopped outside a wide, wood-framed door. A note was pinned to it. It was handwritten and very clear:

Nigel, if you interrupt me again during a clan war, I will rewire you. Unless my darling Isol is home, no one is to so much as knock.

Isol grinned and, in a perfect Nigel voice, said, "Mrs. Brent, the fuel for the hover ring is low again."

A sharp scream burst out from inside the room.

Then: "Godsdamn it, I'm coming!"

The door slammed open and a young-looking woman stepped into the hallway, holding a black cube in her hand. She was striking, graceful and sharp, with deep bronze skin and violet eyes that gleamed like polished glass. Her hair was coiled in intricate loops down one side of her head, the rest cascading in loose waves that shimmered with highlights. She wore a high-collared tactical robe over a sleeveless bodysuit lined with subtle tech-thread, casual in the way only extreme wealth allowed. Her face was beautiful, composed, but unmistakably irritated.

"Who are you," she demanded, "and what have you done with Nigel? I'm warning you. I know how to use this."

Isol's voice came from the grizzled mountain of muscle. "I would hope so. I taught you how to use that, didn't I?"

She blinked. Then screamed again. This time like a giddy girl seeing her man come home.

She ran forward and jumped him, showering his face in kisses. "My darling, my love, you're home! Finally! But... what happened to your face?"

"Got tired of the old one," Isol said. "Wanted to just be me for once."

She stepped back and gave him a once-over.

"This is the old one? Gods, I don't even know what you look like anymore. It's... interesting. So unfashionable it might actually be fashionable."

They were clearly about to start making out again. It was exactly as gross as it sounded: muscle grandpa and the beautiful woman.

Vaeliyan cleared his throat.

Styll's voice came into his mind. I am very young, and I haven't seen many things. But I know that this is weird, Warns.

Isol turned. "Yes. Josephine, these are my two newest cadet hopefuls for the Legion."

She blinked. "So your vacation is over?"

"Yes," Isol said, smiling. "I do think that is the case, my love."

He gestured. "This is Jurpat of House Yan, and Vaeliyan of House Verdance."

Josephine tilted her head, examining Vaeliyan. "Well, it's an honor to meet you both. But tell me, Vaeliyan, how close are you to House Verdance?"

Isol cut in. "Bastard's bastard. Close enough to be a problem. But also a solution. If he does well. And he will."

She turned to Jurpat. "And House Yan? I don't believe I'm familiar."

Jurpat smiled. "We're a very small house. It's really only me and my parents. But my great-great-great-great-great-grandfather invented the stabilizing array for the holos. So it is a noble house nonetheless."

Isol added, "They'll be participating in the tournament."

Josephine's eyes lit up. "Next Teon?"

Isol glanced at Jurpat and nodded. "Next Teon, with enough time and effort."

She gave Jurpat a long look. "Good build. Average height. Looks disciplined enough. I can see it."

Isol nodded again. Jurpat smiled proudly.

Vaeliyan, however, caught only one part of that comment. Average height.

He looked at the boy next to him, who stood about three inches taller, and groaned. "I thought I was finally tall."