Yellow Jacket

The pit opened.

A hard shift of light. Sandstone ruins, blown-out walls, bone-white sun overhead. No sound from below, just the visual stillness of simulation terrain settling into place.

Then came the cadets.

They began to form, avatars loading bottom-up, the way they always did. Feet, calves, thighs. Nanites shimmered into muscle and skin.

Except one.

One was already there.

Standing still, upright, weapon in hand. Not forming, finished. Ahead of the curve. Loaded five full seconds before anyone else.

Josephine's lips parted, but no words came out.

She watched, eyes narrowing.

Vaeliyan Verdance didn't hesitate. He stepped behind one forming body, still mid-load, chest unresolved, and fired a flechette through where the heart would be.

The body stiffened.

Another step. Another gleam of the weapon. Second shot, second heart.

Then a third. Fourth. Fifth.

Each one placed precisely into the unformed upper torso of a teammate whose hands weren't signaling.

Around the Skybox, nobles recoiled in real time.

"He's... he's executing them," someone muttered.

"He's filtering the ones he can trust," Isol said slowly. His voice held no doubt, but his eyes didn't leave the boy below. He didn't understand how. But he understood what. His gaze flicked to the four cadets who had loaded in with their hands down, thumbs out. "He planned this."

Another instructor leaned forward, face drawn tight. "Planned to load faster than anyone I've ever seen."

A third muttered from the corner, half under their breath. "That's not timing. That's something else. Like he's out syncing the sim. Like it doesn't apply to him the same way."

One noble leaned forward, knuckles white on the railing.

"That's not a strategy. That's cold-blooded."

"Yes it is you absolute moron," Josephine replied. Her voice didn't waver. "He didn't wait to find out. He already knew who to cut."

Four avatars continued forming near him, hands down, thumbs out, exactly as instructed.

Vaeliyan didn't even glance at them.

He was already moving forward.

The pit below erupted. Other squads were still blinking into place, many still only half-formed. Chaos was coming, but Squad One had already begun to stabilize.

Vaeliyan had claimed command before the rest of the team had lungs.

"That was five clean kills," someone whispered. "Before their eyes loaded."

"Team killing was allowed," another replied, weakly.

"Allowed," Josephine said. "Not optimized."

Isol was silent.

Then: "They'll remember this one."

As the remaining four squad members finished loading, they looked around and smiled. The first part of the plan had worked. Vaeliyan was already on the move.

The second their inner ears caught up and they could tell up from down, they moved.

Elian and Xera bolted right, disappearing behind a collapsed archway.

Jurpat and the last squad member, Wesley, charged straight into the chaos, sprinting headlong toward the other team.

Squad One wasn't just organized. It was orchestrated.

Jurpat let out a howl that shattered the courtyard's echo. His Soul Skill rippled forward, a concussive wave of force and sound.

But then Wesley triggered his own.

Something between acceleration and augmentation surged through the air, catching the howl mid-flight and warping it forward. What should have been a stagger turned into a cleave. The pressure condensed into a blade of force, howling like a banshee as it slammed into the enemy squad.

The entire opposing group folded.

Gone. In one strike.

Above, the Skybox gasped.

"What the hells did I just see?" Someone said, shocked.

"They were just trying to stagger them," another murmured. "That… that shouldn't be possible."

Isol didn't speak. He just watched as dust settled over the carnage.

The plan had been to stabilize. To hold. To control the tempo so Vaeliyan could saturate the field with pressure.

But sometimes, plans didn't survive contact with the enemy.

And sometimes, the enemy didn't survive long enough to need a plan at all.
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The pod room wasn't built for silence.

It was designed for motion, chatter, tech diagnostics, shouted orders. Dozens of technicians moved through strict, repetitive routines during every round. There were always questions to answer, damage to monitor, protocols to enforce.

But now?

Now, it was dead quiet.

Every monitor showed the same thing: Squad One standing in a loose half-circle over what used to be another team.

No countdowns. No life signs. No vitals to track.

Just gone.

Alive.

Then dead.

Instant.

The instructor stared at the screen, then at the display tracking finishers.

"That was supposed to be ten," he muttered. "We were supposed to have ten."

One of the techs leaned in from the next terminal, voice low. "We can't just arbitrarily pick five. The entire squad is gone. There wasn't even time to trigger failouts."

Another tapped nervously through the logs. "There's no error. The system recorded a successful engagement. High-impact event. No glitches. No rollback."

The instructor rubbed his face, voice grim. "So what do we do? They finished the round. Only problem is... no one else did."

Someone tried to joke, failed miserably. "Guess they don't need a team selection round anymore."

No one laughed.

The instructor looked toward the private line. "Call upstairs. We need guidance. And copy the sim data to a secure drive. Someone's going to want to see what the hell just happened."

A technician nodded, still stunned.

"And get Imujin on the line," the instructor added. "Not later. Now."

Then he looked back at the screen, five figures standing over what remained of their enemies. No movement. No threats.

Just five.

And one massive problem.

The instructor didn't say it out loud, but he was already thinking it.

Whatever Vaeliyan was… and whoever those friends of his were… they were going to be something special.

Sure, they were down five more than they should've had. But what they had?

They had three real talents at least.

Vaeliyan, who didn't even seem to have a sim load time, who moved like the simulation was real to him.

Jurpat, whose howl alone could have ended most fights.

And now Wesley, who had somehow amplified that howl into a pressure blade fast enough to erase a squad before the board could register vitals.

Those two together? That was a unit. Maybe more.

And if that was the baseline?

The instructor smiled to himself.

Imujin would be just as excited as he was. Probably more.

So would every instructor watching who didn't have skin in the game.

The Skybox was supposed to be jaded.

It was where old blood gathered to smile politely, make bets, and pretend not to care about the blood sport below. Even when someone died, they rarely flinched. It was a game to them. A showcase.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

But today?

Today had their full attention.

First came the boy who loaded like quicksilver, Vaeliyan. On his feet before the sim had even started loading the others. Executing his own teammates before most of the others even had knees.

Then came the wrecking ball: Jurpat and Wesley, names the nobles didn't know before but wouldn't forget now.

The wave of force they conjured hadn't just erased a team. It had dented the pit.

A real dent.

Something the simulation wasn't supposed to allow. Terrain damage was simulated, not structural.

And yet, as nobles leaned over the glass and stared, they could see it: a crater in the sandstone floor. The auto-repair drones were already at work, nano-smoothing the distortion, but the fact that it had happened was enough.

The match had lasted ten seconds.

Most third stage fights lasted five minutes or longer. Even the bloodiest ones had back-and-forth. This? This had been an execution.

Josephine leaned on the glass, expression unreadable.

Isol stood beside her, arms folded, watching the repair drones more than the cadets.

Even the instructors in the upper platform were murmuring. Some excited. Some unsettled. None indifferent.

Then came the footsteps.

Red robes. Silver trim. A presence like slow thunder.

Imujin, Headmaster of the Red Citadel, stopped beside Isol and clasped his hands behind his back.

"I've been getting some interesting reports," he said, voice smooth and deep. "That squad... those two. They yours?"

Isol beamed with pride.

"Why yes," he said brightly. "They absolutely are. Exciting, isn't it? The fringe always produces the most interesting of prospects. Don't you think, Headmaster?"

Imujin didn't answer immediately.

But before he could, another instructor, Velrock, cut in, face tight.

"You know this is going to cost us. The nobles will be furious about losing so many promising candidates to your fringe riffraff. It's bad enough the newest High Imperator came from one of those backwaters, now these two beasts are walking around showing up the boy from House Sarn. Can you imagine the media backlash?"

Ruby drifted in from the side, smile wide and voice velvet.

"The media will eat them up. Just like they always do. That's my job, to spin this in a way the nobles will love. Isn't it?"

A noble sneered. "What are you saying? That the media is fake?"

Ruby didn't miss a beat. "Oh shut up, Lord Johnson. No one was talking to you. The big boys are speaking. Or would you like me to tell the world about your little meetings with Lady Kelnos?"

Lord Johnson paled. Then slinked off without another word.

Ruby turned back, pleased. "Now, where was I? Ah yes. That group surrounding Lord Sarn... I can see it now. The new lord doesn't even need to lift a finger. He has his executioner and hound cannon take the competition by storm, ending threats without even drawing his own weapon. I can see the headlines now. Can you, dear Instructor Velrock?"

Velrock snorted. "That's all well and good. But what happens when they get to the solo rounds? That boy, the executioner, will end anyone before they even finish loading in. Even Lord Sarn won't stand a chance."

Ruby waved a hand. "Simple, my dear Velrock. Set a load delay. Put them in cages. Lock skill use until both parties are fully synced. Take away the advantage."

Isol laughed softly to himself.

Josephine caught it. She narrowed her eyes.

He was too calm. Too pleased.

She still couldn't see why.

Maybe he was thinking they were looking at the wrong person. Jurpat alone could wipe most of the field, if what Isol had said was true.

But that wasn't it. That couldn't be it.

Isol had told her she'd already lost the war. That line haunted her.

She ran it again in her mind. Was it Jurpat they were missing?

Or was it someone else?

He'd said Vaeliyan's bonds were special. One could speak, yes, but they hadn't done anything that changed the tide. Not yet.

And yet... Isol still looked confident.

Too confident.

What was she missing?

The pit vanished.

No warning. No transition. Just gone.

One second, they were standing over the remains of their enemies. The next, they were in neon green gel.

It was in their mouths, nostrils, lungs, thick, clinging, and invasive. It filled every space it could. Then it was ripped out with a violent pull. That part hurt. That part always hurt.

A mask slammed over Vaeliyan's face.

Most people screamed when they had enough oxygen to breath right again.

Vaeliyan wasn't most people.

He just waited, eyes scanning the pod room as his lungs reinflated.

Around him, the others gasped, sputtered, clutched their chests.

But slowly, one by one, the five of them sat up and looked at each other.

Then they smiled.

They had done it.

And the plan hadn't even happened.

Jurpat and Wesley looked at each other like they were still processing what they'd done. The blast had been meant to disorient, to scatter, maybe down a few targets.

Instead, it had wiped the enemy out completely.

Even Xera, who seemed so stoic, was hooting like she'd just won the whole Citadel.

She'd picked the right side. And the right side had won.

The instructor arrived, clipboard in hand, expression unreadable until he stopped beside them.

"Congratulations," he said. "Not only was that spectacular, we had to modify the entire tournament structure just to accommodate your outcome. We built a loser's bracket to fill the five empty slots in the top hundred. You all made history again. Please stop doing that."

He turned to Vaeliyan.

"And you... they're modifying parameters so you don't get a head start next time."

Vaeliyan chuckled. "Took them long enough."

"I want to officially congratulate you all. You are no longer just hopefuls. As of this moment, you're full cadets of the Red Citadel."

The instructor straightened his jacket.

"I am Instructor Deck. I teach Cheating 101."

Vaeliyan blinked. "Wait, that's a real class? I thought the old bastard was making that up."

Jurpat looked equally stunned. "Yeah, same."

Deck raised a brow. "Old bastard doesn't really narrow it down. Who might you be calling that?"

"Isol," both boys said in unison.

Deck burst into laughter. "Ah. So you're his sponsor picks. That explains a lot. Let me tell you something, he was an instructor when I was training at the Citadel. Wait till you get the 2 a.m. surprise exams. Who doesn't love random history checks?"

The cadets stared at him like he had to be lying.

"I'm serious," Deck said, grinning. "Just trying to warn you before that monster really gets his hands on you."

He clapped both Vaeliyan and Jurpat on the shoulder.

"Though for you two, it's already too late. They say history repeats itself. But what they don't tell you..."

He grinned wider.

"...is that history class will try to kill you."

Instructor Deck waited for the last mask to come off before he stepped forward. The hopefuls, no, full cadets now, were still coughing, some laughing, others staring wide-eyed at the memory of what they'd just done. Deck gave them a moment, then cleared his throat.

"All right, listen up. You're not hopefuls anymore. You've made it. Welcome to the Citadel. But don't get comfortable. The tournament isn't over. Not even close."

He paced slowly in front of all of them, letting the weight settle in.

"Here's how it works from this point on: once we finalize the top 100, which will happen shortly, the real tournament begins. The next phase is pure one-on-one elimination. No teams. No distractions. No excuses."

Deck stopped, made sure they were all paying attention.

"The first round cuts the 100 in half. Fifty make it through. The rest? Gone. But not all of them stay gone. Fourteen wildcards will be selected by the instructors. Performance, potential, we decide. That brings the total back up to sixty-four."

He let that hang.

"Then it's clean from there. Sixty-four down to thirty-two. Thirty-two to sixteen. Sixteen to eight. Eight to four. Then two. Then one. That's it. No fuss. No muss. No buts."

The room was silent.

"You want to stay in this thing? Fight like you belong. Welcome to the Citadel. Now act like it."

He turned and walked out without another word.

Behind him, the new cadets stood straighter than they had moments before. They weren't just in. They were in the thick of it now.

The real tournament started now.

The pit adjusted. Not visibly. It simply was now what it needed to be.

Flat terrain. Hard-packed earth. No obstructions. The kind of place where nothing got between two people. Where one-on-one meant one-on-one.

Both cadets began in separate containment cages, thick, seamless, transparent walls humming with stabilizing charge. As soon as both avatars fully loaded in, the cages dissipated like mist, leaving nothing but silence and open ground between them.

Vaeliyan stepped forward.

The other cadet, new like him, not even officially Year One yet, emerged opposite. Bigger. Older. Easily a foot taller. A full head and a half of muscle, rage, and desperation.

He wielded a maul. Military-grade. Worse: it moved wrong. Too fast. As if the air bent around it. A blur of weight and metal.

A Soul Skill probably.

Vaeliyan brought nothing.

No weapons. No armor. Just his body. Just a song.

The maul snapped up with a hiss. Air cracked from the speed.

Vaeliyan smiled.

"La donna è mobile..."

The lyric floated like silk. The air shifted. Cadets leaned forward. Techs held their breath. The instructor looked confused.

The maul came down.

Vaeliyan wasn't there.

"Qual piuma al vento..."

He was already behind the cadet. A flash of movement. A pivot on bare feet. He struck the back of the knee with surgical precision, just enough to compromise the stance. The joint bent wrong with a pop.

The cadet snarled, turning.

"Muta d'accento..."

The maul spun, faster than before. Unreadable. It screamed through the air. Vaeliyan dipped under it, impossibly calm.

He rose into the cadet's ribs. Elbow. Elbow. Fist. The rhythm of percussion. Cartilage gave way.

"E di pensier..."

The cadet staggered back, gasping, wheezing. Brought the maul around again in a desperate arc. Vaeliyan caught the handle on the downswing. The force sent dust swirling, but his grip held.

A twist. A crack.

The cadet's wrist snapped sideways. The maul tumbled to the dirt.

"Sempre un amabile..."

Vaeliyan flowed. A dancer, not a fighter. A pirouette became a kick to the spine. A sidestep became a sweep. The cadet slammed to the ground. Tried to rise.

"Leggiadro viso..."

Vaeliyan circled. Calm. Singing. The melody rising with every step.

The cadet grabbed at his maul again.

Vaeliyan stepped down, on his hand.

Bones crunched.

"In pianto o in riso..."

The scream tore free.

Vaeliyan crouched beside the cadet, palm resting against his chest.

"È menzognero."

Then: a palm strike to the face. Another. Another.

Nose shattered. Teeth scattered.

"La donna è mobile..."

He lifted the cadet by the collar. Let him sway in the air. Then drove a knee up into his gut. The body folded and dropped.

"Qual piuma al vento..."

The cadet dragged himself across the dirt, desperate, reaching again for the maul.

Vaeliyan swept the weapon away with one bare foot.

"Muta d'accento..."

He lifted the cadet again, this time by the throat. One hand.

The cadet's feet kicked. Soul Skill trying to activate again. The maul twitched. Then fizzled. No air left. No coherence.

"E di pensier..."

Vaeliyan walked him across the pit. Still singing. The hand behind his back now, like a prince on parade.

He tossed the cadet through the air. The body hit hard. Rolled. Coughed up red.

"Sempre un amabile..."

Vaeliyan followed. Calm. Deliberate.

"Leggiadro viso..."

He crouched. Lifted the cadet one last time.

"In pianto o in riso..."

A headbutt to the face. Loud. Wet. Final.

The cadet dropped.

Unconscious.

Barely breathing.

"È menzognero."

Vaeliyan stood over him. Barefoot. Bloodied. Serene.

He turned to the silent crowd.

And sang it one final time.

"È menzognero..."

A bow.

Then silence.

Not applause. Not awe.

Just fear.

Because what they had seen wasn't a cadet.

It was a siren's song.

And it had only just begun.

The Skybox went silent.

Josephine just stared. "What in the hells was that?"

Below, the pit had gone still. Vaeliyan stood motionless over the wreckage of the other cadet, no weapon, no armor, no Soul Skill. Just his body. Just his voice. A voice too pure for violence, too elegant for brutality. And yet, he'd taken the other boy apart like it meant nothing.

"How..." Josephine whispered, eyes wide. "How can a voice that sweet come from something so violent?"

Across the Skybox, Ruby leaned forward, her lips curling into a grin as she turned to Headmaster Imujin. "I want him," she said, voice musical. "Can I have him? The world would love to see that. You need to let me post this."

Her ever-present drones hovered nearby, recording everything in perfect clarity.

Imujin didn't look at her. His eyes were locked on the pit below, but his voice was sharp. "You know the rules of the entrance tournaments. You're only allowed to record for internal review. The holos are Legion property. I can't let you take that public."

Ruby pouted, lips just slightly parted, face still flawless. "You're no fun, Mujin."

Imujin's expression didn't change.

Josephine didn't hear any of it.

She was replaying everything in her mind. Every moment. Every misstep.

Isol had said Jurpat might be the next Teon.

And that was all she'd heard.

She hadn't read between the lines.

Vaeliyan had never treated Jurpat like a future king. He didn't orbit him. He didn't defer. If anything, it was the other way around. Jurpat had followed him. Not out of duty. Out of belief.

And she'd missed it. Because Vaeliyan wore a cheap duster, didn't know fashion, and only seemed mildly interesting because he could load faster than the others.

Then it hit her.

The visual glitch in the first round.

The one they wrote off.

The one that was never fully explained.

That was his block.

Ruby and Imujin were still quietly arguing about Legion footage and fair use when Josephine finally found her voice.

"Headmaster Imujin," she said, cutting through the room like a blade. "What was that boy's score in the first round?"

Imujin didn't hesitate. "Interesting you ask, Instructor. His recorded score was 293 kills."

A pause.

"In forty-three seconds."

The Skybox froze.

Even Ruby stopped mid-sentence.

Silence. Breathless. Horrified.

Then Isol laughed.

Low. Pleased. Knowing.

He didn't even turn around.

"So you finally figured it out, my dear."