Yellow Jacket

Josephine sipped her wine. Stupidly expensive, absurdly smooth, wasted on a scene like this.

Below her, the pit had split open into ten vast concrete slabs, flat as death. Each slab hosted a thousand cadet hopefuls, dropped like ants onto stone. From this height, they barely registered. Movement, noise, blood, distant, irrelevant.

Most of the slabs looked the same: chaos in miniature. Scraps of violence. Dots swarming, scattering, collapsing.

But Block One flickered.

She leaned forward.

Something about the motion wasn't right. Too many hopefuls were dropping too fast. Bodies down in clusters. The pattern didn't fit the others. There wasn't resistance.

She narrowed her eyes.

"Something's off with that one," she murmured.

Isol said nothing beside her. Just kept watching, arms folded.

She considered toggling the interface. Thought better of it. Whatever it was, it would get handled. The Citadel didn't miss details. Not twice.

Another flicker.

She frowned.

Then, abruptly, the slab repopulated. All of them where back. The swarm reloaded as if nothing had happened,stuttering in, mid-motion, blood still hanging in the air.

Josephine stared. The feed must have glitched, or maybe they had a loading error that got dealt with. Either way, that was the most excitement this part of the tournament had ever gotten.

She took another sip.

Around her, the nobles carried on, utterly disinterested in the events below. The viewing platform buzzed with light conversation, politics, fashion, travel, inheritance squabbles, anything but the pit.

One pair debated face-template trends, wondering if the new Ryan line was becoming passé. They glanced at Josephine and Isol more than once, murmuring that maybe the new look was looking old again, that sharp lines, real age, and worn presence might be the next wave.

Another group laughed over the outrageous price of a synthetic wine being peddled to lower-tier zones, real nobles, of course, drank the real thing. Still, the marketing was hilarious: a wine that claimed to simulate drunkenness without intoxication. What was the point?

A younger noble loudly speculated on who might sponsor the next round of matches, placing bets not on winners but on which corporations would seize airtime.

The noise was constant, irrelevant, detached. The violence below was just background. Until the team fights started, no one really cared.

This part of the tournament was always the dullest, more a formality than a test. Josephine barely blamed them. Even the instructors barely watched. Most cadet hopefuls didn't last past the first ten minutes, and fewer still ever stood out.

Except today.

She glanced again at Block One. Then away.

Around her, the political murmurs deepened.

The nobles weren't ignoring the pit entirely, they just weren't watching the violence. They were watching names. Predictions. Potential profit.

"I have five billion on House Kirell's second son," one thin-lipped woman whispered. "If he makes it to the third round, I double. If he dies here, it's nothing."

"Typical Neri," a man replied. "All shine, no grit. You'd be better off betting on that bastard from House Vaskor. They say his chip's blacklisted and still he cut down his training class."

"The Verdance orphan? You mean the one they're backing through proxy? I heard he's not even blood."

"Don't matter. He's got kill reports from the fringe, confirmed by three data pulls. He's the only one I've seen with actual field time."

Another pair leaned in close.

"I don't trust the odds on House Drevin's twins. They're cute, but fragile. Built for show, not blood."

"They got Augrex kits installed last month. Full nerve-thread reinforcements. They'll place, even if they don't win."

A woman in crimson tilted her head toward the far slab.

"I heard there's a no-name in Block Four who's killing like it's nothing. Doesn't slow. Doesn't waste. He might be a sleeper plant."

"Sleeper?" another noble scoffed. "Come on. This isn't espionage, it's marketing. They're all trying to sell us on whose legacy's next."

"Which means it's either terrible… or terrifying."

A brief laugh circled the platform.

Bets were exchanged in murmurs and nods. Not just in credits, favors. Influence. Sponsorship slots. The actual cadet hopefuls were pawns. What mattered was whose banner rose next.

Someone tapped a holo-display, highlighting a set of projected survivors.

"This one from House Merilith has consistent rhythm. I like that."

A pair near Josephine chuckled over how many backers had already lost their bets.

"It's always the same," one said. "Old money thinks blood matters more than experience. They sponsor some polished heir and act surprised when he dies to a gutterborn with actual scars."

"Blood's only useful if your not the one bleeding."

Isol let the conversation drift past him. He knew all the players. All the houses. All the games.

He also knew none of them had seen what he had.

The instructor gestured to the tech. "Reload anyone dropped in the first thirty seconds. The nobles will scream if their legacies get wiped before the first checkpoint."

"Even the ones he killed clean?"

"Especially those. We're not here to protect egos. We're here to avoid lawsuits. Patch the logs, call it sync bleed. Use the standard language."

The pod ID was already marked. Cooling.

"Pull him," the instructor said. "No announcements. No records outside this room."

"Flag him for observation?"

The instructor stared at the screen.

"No. That's not a flag. That's a fucking answer."

He turned to leave.

"And if he cheated?" a voice asked from the back.

The instructor didn't even pause.

"If he cheated? Promote him. That means he's exactly what we're looking for. Any idiot can follow rules. We need the ones who break them and not get caught."

He stopped in the doorway, now speaking directly to the room.

"This isn't a fluke. You don't wipe a hundred that fast unless you understand the pit better than we do. He didn't just win. He dominated. Pull the logs, break down his flow, and send it to Imujin."

He stepped into the corridor, glancing back toward the tech. "Call me on comms when the blocks hit the last twenty-five percent, we'll start setting up the next stage from there."

Then he was gone.

Vaeliyan was mid-swing.

Kill 294, maybe 295, was a blur of motion, blood, and pressure... and then everything stopped.

Time froze.

A rush of neon green swallowed his sight. The pit vanished, the concrete gone, the body in front of him erased. For a moment, there was only glow, thick and clinging, filling his mouth, nose, throat, lungs, until suddenly, violently, it retracted.

All of it.

The pod gel surged backward like it had been vacuumed out. Even the film inside his lungs slorped free, yanked back through his throat in a grotesque reverse drowning. The sensation was like having the world's biggest booger ripped out through your chest, wet, invasive, and impossible to forget.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

He convulsed.

His lungs didn't work. His chest screamed for air but found nothing.

Then a mask slammed onto his face.

A hiss. A burst. A violent, inflating rush as clean air blasted into him and his lungs remembered how to move.

The hatch opened.

Bright white light cut through the pod. A figure loomed, tall, broad, and stern, dressed in Citadel blacks.

An instructor.

The man stared down for a moment. Then... smiled.

"So," he said, voice rough with amusement. "How'd you do it?"

Vaeliyan was still gasping. Trying to speak. Trying to process what had just happened.

"Relax," the instructor said, holding up one hand. "You're not in trouble. You passed. Not just passed, aced it. Best score in Citadel history by a long shot."

He stepped back to let Vaeliyan breathe.

"Total count: two hundred ninety-three. In forty-three seconds. Son... whatever you did, if you don't already have someone sponsoring you, I'll do it myself."

Vaeliyan sat up slowly. Chest heaving. Muscles twitching.

The instructor laughed softly.

"You've got about twenty-five minutes. Use it. Take a nap, hydrate, maybe try to remember what planet you're on. I just wanted to say..."

He extended a hand.

"Welcome to the Legion. I can't wait to see what you do in the rest of the tournament."

Vaeliyan took the hand.

Still not sure what the hell just happened.

He pulled the mask off his face, voice still raw. "Hypothetically... if I'm already in, why keep going?"

The instructor raised a brow. "Because you're not in. Not really. You've just proven you're not trash. That's all this round is. If you want anything more than standard mess rations and a floor to sleep on, you need to make top sixteen."

Vaeliyan squinted. "What's in the top sixteen?"

"Private rooms. Personal AI tutors. Combat support analysis. you get a ring. Doesn't say much, but it screams everything: 'look at me, I made it.' The top four get once-a-month sessions with High Imperator Maxus Kasala."

The instructor leaned closer.

"Top two? You get to pick from one of the Legion's rarest skills. First pick gets two. Plus a Tier-Zero AI, not only combat routines. One that learns with you. Makes you better."

Vaeliyan nodded slowly.

"What's the next round?"

"Second round's a death race through a maze. All two thousand of you buggers in at once, fighting to make it to a glowing beacon. Only two hundred make it. Kill, bribe, team up, doesn't matter. Just beat eightteen hundred others to the beacon and you're on to the next round."

The instructor clapped him on the shoulder.

"Just relax. Take a breather, kid."

Then, as he turned to walk away, he glanced back. "Name?"

"Vaeliyan."

"House?"

"Verdance."

"Inner member?"

"No."

The instructor grinned. "Good."

Vaeliyan narrowed his eyes. "You got a problem with House Verdance?"

"Not at all. Love me a bug bar as much as the next guy."

Vaeliyan chuckled, despite himself.

"Anyway, good luck, Vaeliyan. You've got at least one person excited to see what you do next."

Vaeliyan didn't have to wait long for the next round. The instructor told everyone the rules, and techs clipped their cases to the main pod. All their gear would be loaded, and their bond pods activated.

And just like that, the pod lid came down, and the green gel was back in his lungs. A moment later, he was moving, mapping the maze as he ran. It wasn't really a maze, it was a ruined city. It felt like Mara, and, well, from what Isol had told him, what most fringe cities looked like. He asked Styll if she could smell Jurpat, and she said, "No Warns. No Jurpats."

Vaeliyan saw some people running on the rooftops. He dismissed them as unstable and whipped his hand lance in that direction, firing at an exposed support beam. While running, the rooftop crumbled. He kept moving as screams of pain echoed behind him.

Jurpat moved through the ruins, running toward the beacon. His first stage was close. He was built for one-on-ones. He knew he would make it, but it was closer than he would've liked. He knew Vaeliyan would make it, too. They had planned to meet up if any of the tournament stages allowed it.

But he had no gods-damned idea where Vaeliyan was. He was leaping rooftop to rooftop, trying to make his way toward the beacon, when a whistle of a flechette and a crash took the roof out from under him.

Vaeliyan made it to a wall that seemed impossible to climb. There was still no sign of Jurpat. That's when he saw a hulking figure making its way out of the alley to his left.

Jurpat had caught himself on the ledge of the next rooftop and pulled himself up, not stopping to see who was shooting at him. This was a death race, but that was the key. It was a race. He needed to finish before 80% of the others. He hopped off the roof and into an alley, moving right.

The figure was wolf-like in the upper body, extended jaw, fangs glistening, not Jurpat with his Soul Skill active, but some sort of human-wolf hybrid that could only exist in someone's nightmare. Vaeliyan didn't hesitate. He charged it.

Jurpat walked out of the alley, Soul Skill active, looking around. There was a tall wall, but he could climb it. He heard a footfall, and instantly, as he gathered his bearings, a short figure charged him.

Vaeliyan was propping up the corpse and using it as a boost to get a run-up to the wall. He managed to just barely make it.

Jurpat made a running jump and cleared the wall entirely, ignoring the corpse he left slumped against it.

Vaeliyan clambered past the wall and saw a group of figures below. Instead of confronting them, he ran along the top of the wall.

He could see that the wall led deeper into the maze.

Jurpat heard movement on the wall behind him. There was no need to turn back, he could move deeper into the maze. He moved on all fours like some kind of beast.

Why did they have to simulate smells? Styll had let one rip like some kind of beast. Vaeliyan could barely breathe. That should've been considered a gas attack.

He had smelled it before, it came. A gas attack. Someone had tried to gas him. Jurpat had lit his plasma blade, and the cloud caused a massive explosion, killing the attacker.

A massive explosion. Styll was sick. She must've eaten something bad earlier. He had told her not to eat so many bugs.

Bugs. There were so many gods-damned bugs. The ruins had become sunken, and as Jurpat ran, the blasted things were all around him, biting, stinging.

Vaeliyan used the scope on his Stinger lance to scout the terrain. He could see the wall end. He looked back and saw he was ahead of many.

Jurpat was ahead of them now, waist-deep in muck, but it barely slowed him. Then he heard a voice cry out behind him.

Vaeliyan called out to Elian. The boy he had met in the courtyard was surprised to see him. They made their way farther into the maze.

Jurpat moved farther into the maze. As he finally made it out of the sunken section, the voices seemed to be getting closer.

Vaeliyan and Elian were getting closer when Styll said over the bond, "Jurpat."

Vaeliyan froze.

Jurpat froze. He was surrounded.

Jurpat was surrounded. Vaeliyan started firing from the Stinger. Elian didn't ask, he just started providing cover fire for the boy in the muck, laying down flechettes just as fast as Vaeliyan.

Flechettes flew at him, just not fast enough. Jurpat weaved between them like he was born to it. Then his attackers started dropping like flies.

Flies. The edge of the sunken ruin was swarming with flies. It was hard to see, but when the last attacker around his friend was down, Vaeliyan called out.

The duo, now trio, regrouped.

Vaeliyan made introductions.

"Jurpat Van, meet Elian. Lord Sarn."

"Just Elian."

"Alright, Your Highness," Vaeliyan joked. "Maybe we get moving. I think we're ahead of most of them."

They moved through the maze and reached the beacon in no time at all. Vaeliyan's sense of direction moved them unfailingly toward the goal. Jurpat's ability to climb seemingly impossible surfaces had come in handy more than once. And Elian... Elian was the one who had packed rope. Like actual rope.

Jurpat and Vaeliyan had nominated Rope as the new member of the group.

Elian questioned why he wasn't asked.

They both replied, "'Cause Rope here is actually useful, and you're just some guy we can't use to get to places they don't want us to go."

Elian laughed madly at that. A real, heartfelt laugh.

They all laughed as they touched the beacon first, by a good minute.

The in Skybox

Josephine and Isol stood at the edge of the 360-degree glass, watching the terrain projection below. This time, the system had rendered the arena at ten times the scale of the last round. Still, ten times the size of a basic training arena wasn't much, not by Citadel standards. It was more spectacle than space.

They stepped away from the glass and drifted toward the betting pools. Digital odds shimmered mid-air. Some people had already bet big. A few screens showed stats flickering in real-time: the first twenty three had already reached the beacon. This round wasn't meant to impress. It was a culling, meant to slice two thousand down to a manageable two hundred.

Isol asked who the first to finish were. When the trio's names lit up, he beamed, until the last name hit. Elian. House Sarn.

One of the Nine had sent an heir to the Red Citadel.

That wasn't something he had accounted for. And even less likely? That this Elian had worked with the boys.

This was either the beginning of something tragic, or something that would rock the world. Isol couldn't yet tell which way the balance would tip.

Josephine caught the shift in his mood. Her mind followed the same path, though she didn't have all the information. A high noble brat tagging along with the boys? That could only be a good thing. Influence, recognition. If this held, they might end up favored by a future lord of the Nine. A boy who could be the next Teon, and a young noble of House Sarn? They could shake the world together.

But that frown.

There was something she wasn't seeing. If Isol was showing it this openly, he was holding back more. A lot more.

Suspicion crept into her chest.

"My dear love," she said, eyes still on the screen. "Is this war?"

Isol smiled. Not kindly.

"Yes, dear. And you already lost before you stepped out of the house."

Her face twisted. Not in anger. In calculation.

She began replaying everything. Every conversation since Isoldian had come home.

She didn't see it yet. But she would.

He must have left a clue. Some slip. Some breadcrumb.

She would find it before this was over. And when she did....

Well, she wasn't sure what she'd do to the man. Maybe kiss him all over for his brilliant maneuver. Maybe slap him first.

They had played these games many times.

They were always fun.

The last of the two hundred had finally made it to the beacon. As soon as the last one touched the glowing pillar, the terrain vanished. They woke up next to one another, moved around in the pod bay and placed in order based on their finish. Some were still unconscious, others dazed. But the top finishers were already sitting up, taking stock.

Vaeliyan, Jurpat, and Elian looked at each other with genuine smiles. They didn't speak right away, just shared a moment of quiet triumph. The instructor walked over with his usual clipped stride.

"Vaeliyan, good to see you made it. First group to hit the beacon. Impressive."

Elian and Jurpat turned to Vaeliyan, eyebrows raised. He just shrugged.

"We met before," he offered, not explaining further.

"Well, I've got good news," the instructor continued. "Since you three seem to work well together, you're going to be on the same team. Should be fun. Keep up the good work, kids."

The next round would be team battles. Ten-person squads fighting each other. Only one hundred cadets would make it through. Vaeliyan, Jurpat, and Elian had been grouped with the rest of the first ten to finish. But as they reviewed the team's composition, a problem emerged. It was lopsided. Everyone seemed built for speed. Fast, agile, evasive, but lacking in sheer force. Other groups, especially the slower finishers, had brutes. Mountains in human skin. People who didn't outrun the maze, they smashed there way thought it.

Vaeliyan said he had a plan. Only one other person really listened: a small girl named Xera from House Beezel. She had placed fourth. Sharp eyes, tighter grip, and the kind of energy that didn't waste words. The other six brushed him off entirely, as if he wasn't even worth the breath.

The rules were strange. Team killing was allowed. Only ten people could move on, regardless of team affiliation. The last ten standing would advance. It wasn't about loyalty. It was about survival.

Vaeliyan's plan was simple: hold the field long enough for him to saturate it with his Soul Skill. Jurpat and Elian agreed immediately. Xera asked a few pointed questions, cautious and tactical. She admitted she wasn't built for holding ground, more of a hit-and-run specialist, but she'd try.

Then one of the six who'd brushed them off earlier came over. He asked if they were still willing to share the plan. Apparently, the other five had been trying to use him as a meat shield. They were a group from before the tournament and didn't like losing to the trio. He had placed fifth, and they couldn't have that.

Vaeliyan looked past him. One of the girls gave him a too-perfect smile and waved, her face stylized with artificial precision, like a doll that learned how to lie.

He nodded to the boy and said, "Here's the new plan..."