Yellow Jacket

Jim glanced over at Vaeliyan, then back at the rest of the cadets picking through scrap like it might bite them. His eyes swept the rusted battlefield of twisted rebar, scorched drone husks, and jagged plating with the easy comfort of someone who'd bled on steel enough times to call it home. His voice came low, rough, and certain, gravel layered with dry amusement.

"Listen, kid... I'm gonna be straight with you. I don't think I've got a godsdamn thing to teach you. Not this year. Maybe not the next three. Hells, maybe the whole course is just a wash for you."

He scratched at his chin with a gloved hand, then shrugged, more a shift of his armor-plated shoulders than any real gesture. There was no insult in his tone, no challenge. Just honesty.

"This class is for cadets who need to learn how to turn junk into murder. Who still think weapons only come with instruction manuals. You? You already think like the battlefield owes you answers. Hells, you probably look at a business card and start calculating how deep it needs to go to puncture the carotid."

Vaeliyan tilted his head slightly, deadpan. "What kind of stock we talking?"

Jim snorted, caught off guard for half a second before that crooked grin returned. "See, that's exactly what I mean."

He gave a short laugh, almost fond, like someone watching a kid do something dangerous with expert precision.

"You're what I'm supposed to be turning the others into after months of breaking them down and rebuilding them from ash. So what am I gonna do, grade your instincts? You already know how to weigh a shard of glass against a bolt and decide which screams louder. I don't teach wolves how to bite."

He kicked a rusted coil of wire out of his path as he walked a slow, idle circle, glancing toward the other cadets still hesitating over scraps. His tone shifted, just a notch more thoughtful.

"If you ever get bored, and I mean truly bored, you're welcome to stick around. Help me with the sims. Rewrite the scenarios. Maybe even screw with the others' heads a bit, see what they do when the floor starts bleeding or the air smells like hatred and regret. You're the kind of sick genius who'd turn a coat hanger and half a battery into psychological warfare."

He stopped pacing and looked back at Vaeliyan, all pretense stripped away.

"But as far as credits go? You're done here, Vaeliyan. You passed before you even stepped on the pad. Before you breathed in the smoke. Before you said a single word."

Jim leaned against a slagged engine block, arms crossed.

"Only question left is whether you're gonna haunt this yard for fun or vanish until someone makes the mistake of thinking you're just another cadet. Either way, I'm good with it. Just remember: if the day ever comes where you want to break a simulation so bad it leaves scars on people who didn't even run it... you come find me. I'll clear the whole floor."

He grinned again, this time with the full knowledge that whatever monster Vaeliyan was, he recognized it. And maybe, just maybe, respected the hells out of it.

"Gods, I wish I could've made you my apprentice," Jim said, voice lower now, rougher with something that almost bordered on regret. "But someone else already claimed you. And honestly, kid... most of us want you. We just... we saw the writing on the wall. But you were already chosen before any of us figured out what we were looking at."

"What do you mean I was chosen?" Vaeliyan asked, his voice cutting through the dry heat of the training yard.

Jim didn't answer. Not immediately. He just exhaled slowly through his nose, like the weight of the question deserved patience. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he pointed across the cracked and sun-bleached yard toward the raised pad near the far wall.

A small crowd had gathered there.

Not cadets.

Instructors.

All of them.

Standing in absolute stillness. Watching.

Waiting.

Some had arms crossed, others stood like monuments, their faces carved from stone. A few leaned forward slightly, as if trying to read something in the way Vaeliyan held himself. Isol was scrolling on a tablet without looking up. All of them wore the same look: curiosity sharpened into focus, attention honed like blades. It wasn't just interest. It was expectation.

They were all there, every damn one of them. Even instructors from classes that hadn't started yet. Even faces that shouldn't know his name. Yet they stood there, shoulder to shoulder, forming a silent gauntlet of reputation and judgment, and every single set of eyes was locked on him.

Vaeliyan tilted his head slightly, catching the shape of the moment. "That's not normal, is it?"

Jim gave a dry grunt that was almost a laugh but didn't quite make it. "Kid, nothing about you is normal. That's the problem." He looked at the pad like it was a cliff edge the rest of them had to climb, but Vaeliyan had just been dropped on top of it.

"And the reason they're all standing there? That's the solution."

Before Vaeliyan could ask what the hells he meant, Imujin moved.

The Headmaster didn't stride or stomp, he simply walked. But the way the instructors parted for him felt like gravity shifting. As if his presence pulled space around it. Just a quiet nod to Jim, one massive hand already reaching forward.

And then, with the calm precision of someone snapping closed a toolbox, Imujin clamped his hand around Vaeliyan's entire head.

Not his shoulder. Not his collar.

His head.

Imujin's fingers wrapped around the skull like he was lifting a helmet, and then Vaeliyan was off the ground. Clean. Effortless. His boots never touched dirt again. There was no ceremony, no formality, no warning.

He didn't resist. Didn't have time. One moment he was standing next to Jim, asking questions, and the next he was being hauled backward through the air like luggage.

Imujin turned with him suspended and began walking back toward the pad, carrying Vaeliyan like a tool too important to lend out again. Like something that already belonged to him.

No one on the pad said a word.

They were already making room.

When Vaeliyan touched the ground again, it was in an office.

Massive. Silent. Encased in 360° glass. It looked like it overlooked the entire Citadel, the whole city-sized structure laid bare beneath it. But instead of meaningless grandeur or decorative spires, what Vaeliyan saw were the parts that mattered: courtyards dense with movement, classrooms carved into reinforced walls, Jim's junkyard piled with scavenged tech and the rest of Class One trying to survive chaos theory in real time, Alorna's forest with its unpredictable terrain drills and silent war games, the cadet lounge buzzing with cadets too exhausted to posture, and Lisa's mega gym where people either broke limits or broke completely.

It reminded him of the observation rooms back at the World Tree Inn.

The desk in front of him was simple, dark, and imposing. Authority wasn't declared. It was assumed. Carved into the grain. The gold nameplate glinting on its edge confirmed what he already knew: Imujin's office. Of course it was. Now that his skull was no longer cradled like a trophy in the man's hand, the shape of the space made sense.

Vaeliyan looked around.

Every instructor was here. Every single one. Except Jim. They were arrayed in a loose circle around the room like wolves too disciplined to growl. Some leaned. Some lounged. Some stood ramrod straight. All of them watched him.

Still silent.

He felt like a frog in a vivisection tray.

"Did I… do something wrong?" Vaeliyan asked. The words weren't soft, but they weren't sharp either. He knew how to kill things. He didn't know how to read rooms like this. This wasn't war. This was worse.

"Wrong? WRONG?" Imujin let out a barking laugh, short and loud and somewhere between affection and horror. "My dear Vaeliyan, you are the most terrifyingly perfect individual we've seen in generations. At the Citadel. Possibly ever."

He walked forward a step, and it felt like the floor braced for him.

Royal Road is the home of this novel. Visit there to read the original and support the author.

"The problem," he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes, "is that… well. We all want you."

Gwen leaned against the glass, arms folded tight across her chest, boots crossed at the ankle. "Honestly, Gramps, he's great. Top tier. But I already picked my new apprentice. He was a close second, and that's saying something. I'm just here to watch what unfolds."

Deck, flopped across Lisa's back like a grotesque parasitic scarf, waved a lazy hand. "Honestly, Jim got fucking robbed. Did you see the duck kill? That's textbook Jim chaos, and he can't even claim it. That's theft, that's what that is."
"I love it. Are you sure I can't have him?"

Every instructor in the room shouted at once. A single, unified.

"NO."

Even Alorna, who hadn't said a word until then, pulled out a small crumpled piece of paper from her coat pocket. She unfolded it, held it up like a protest sign. It was a stick-figure drawing of herself with her mouth open in jagged, exaggerated rage. The caption just said NO in big, scribbled letters.

Lisa didn't blink. "I'm picking Sylen. Don't get me wrong, Vaeliyan's brilliant. Dangerous. Half of me wants to put him through the worst and see what crawls out the other side. But I'm just here to see what happens."

Dr. Wirk stepped forward with his hands clasped behind his back, eyes clear and hungry. "I still think I should be the one who gets him. How many first years still have their level twenty class and an evolution point left? He is the only one who's name I even remember."
Deck jolted upright slightly, eyes wide. "Holy shit. You actually remember his name? Fuck me, I think I'm gonna have to stand up for this." He patted Lisa's shoulder twice. "Lisa, my love, could you help me down?"

Isol, standing like he was already bored of the room but too polite to leave, nodded. "Honestly, you all know Josaphine and I would've taken him immediately. If we didn't think there were better options. For him. For what he's becoming."

Dr. Lambert crossed her arms, gaze unreadable behind smartlenses that blinked microscopic data across her corneas. Her tone was clinical. "I just want samples. If he were my apprentice, I could get a full biometric baseline."

Velrock snorted, one arm resting across his massive chest. "I suspect he'll pull something equally bullshit in my class today as he did in Jim's. Honestly? I'm half-hoping for it."

No one disagreed.

They weren't talking about a student anymore.

They were already trying to shape a myth. A weapon. A legacy. Something so potent it would outlast all of them.

And Vaeliyan just stood there, trying to figure out if this was praise, threat, or prophecy.

Vaeliyan put his hands up slowly, glancing between the instructors like they might start throwing punches.

"What the hells is happening here?"

Isol, hands in his coat pockets, sighed like this was somehow his problem to manage. "Vaeliyan, basically every instructor in this room has decided they want you to be their apprentice. It's one of the steps toward becoming a High Imperator."

Vaeliyan blinked. "Okay... I'm confused. But not about that. I'm confused about the logistics. There are twelve of you. And it sounds like you can each only have one apprentice, if I'm not mistaken. So how in the hells did the entire sixteen members of Class One of the 49th all become High Imperators when they graduated?"

He paused, then added, "Also, Instructor Sarn said she did a mission that would've made her a High Imperator. Was she a cadet when she was out there, or can you get that rank in the field after graduating?"

Sarn shrugged once, voice level. "I can answer that last part. Imperators who prove themselves can be promoted while out in the field. You don't have to be at the Citadel when it happens. If you're good enough, the title finds you."

Josaphine stepped forward next, arms crossed, her voice measured but clear. "As for the first part… it's a bit more complicated. Yes, it is possible to become a High Imperator straight out of the Citadel. And yes, Class One of the 49th did exactly that. All of them. But they had to pull off some rather miraculous things to make it happen."

Vaeliyan tilted his head. "Can you tell me what those things were?"

Isol cut in before Josaphine could answer. "No, we can't. That's just not how it works. It's in the bylaws of the Legion. Some things you don't get told. You have to figure it out yourself."

He gave a small, dry smile. "You're a smart boy. And I do believe your class has the potential for greatness. Every single one of you would've placed top of your year... if you hadn't all started together."

There was a short pause. Then Isol added, "Also, just so you know… Josaphine is picking Jurpat. Sarn's picking Elian, if that wasn't already the most obvious thing in the world. Deck's picking Ramis, since he can't pick you."

Lisa chimed in, "And Alorna… well, she isn't allowed to pick anyone right now. Because of the ban."

At that, Alorna held up a hand-drawn image on a crumpled piece of paper, stick-figure Alorna with her face buried in cartoonish hands and a giant speech bubble reading PLEASE scrawled above her head in red marker.

Vaeliyan raised an eyebrow. "And I'm guessing… you picked me?"

Isol shook his head. "Wrong, my boy. That would be me," said Imujin with a smile like a loaded gun.

"I did. But Imujin used his veto," Isol added, gesturing with a small shrug. "He stole you from all of us."

Imujin's grin widened. "That's what being Headmaster means. You see something worth collecting, you don't wait. You take it."

Vaeliyan didn't respond right away. He was too busy recalculating everything.

Because apparently, being terrifyingly perfect came with paperwork and politics too.

Vaeliyan crossed his arms, eyes narrowed just slightly, the weight of too many questions pressing in at once.

"Now I just have so many more questions," he said. "Like... why didn't you just tell me this morning that you were planning to make me your apprentice?"

He glanced around the room, then back to Imujin. "And what does it even mean, exactly, to be an apprentice? I'm guessing I'm one of four? Since you all must pick one each year?"

There was a pause, short but heavy.

"And do I get to pick too?" Vaeliyan added. "Because honestly, Headmaster... I do love the Fist. But if I'm being truthful, no offense meant, I think Dr. Wirk might be the right person for me to be apprenticed to. From everything Isol and Josaphine have told me, he's the one I'd benefit from most."

He held Imujin's stare without flinching. "If this is about what's best for the Citadel... and for me... shouldn't I get a say?"

Dr. Wirk folded his arms and nodded. "You heard Vaeliyan. He'd pick me. Sure, you can teach him how to break continents and be a threat that turns people's blood to stone... but I can build him into more than just a weapon. I can teach him to master the System itself."

Vaeliyan blinked. "Wait, what did you mean 'break continents'? Like metaphorically, right? Just... have to make sure that's what you meant. Because if not... gods, that's fucking awesome."

Imujin chuckled. "No, Vaeliyan. Not metaphorically. I am technically both an instructor and a High Imperator, as all headmasters are. I'm classified as a continental threat."

He waved a hand casually. "Don't get me wrong, you raise excellent questions, and I'll answer them. I didn't say anything because we don't normally announce our apprentice picks until the end of the first month." He glanced at Gwen, who just shrugged like this was all perfectly normal. "Sometimes even later. You? You're two days in, and nearly every instructor has already made a decision. Your class... is almost all going to be apprenticed."

Imujin turned then, gaze shifting to Alorna, who was still silently weeping in the corner.

"Fuck it. I'm the Headmaster," he said. "Alorna, you can have the twins. They basically count as one person anyway."

Alorna's head snapped up, tears vanishing instantly as a fierce, victorious smile replaced them.

Imujin looked at her. "I just got played, didn't I?"

"yep," Deck muttered, grinning like he'd been waiting all day for that exact moment. "That was beautiful."

Vaeliyan frowned, confused. "Wait... doesn't that mean thirteen of the sixteen of us can be apprenticed? Why not just make it sixteen, then?"

Imujin rubbed his brow and muttered, "Fine, I'll just tell you. I probably already made the biggest mistake of the year anyway."

Behind him, Alorna was dancing in the background with Gwen, both grinning.

"You know how all the Class Ones have training with a High Imperator once a month? Well, technically, they're allowed to pick four apprentices from any year. That's how they did it before. That's how the 49th did it."

Isol raised a hand lazily. "I'm going to have to write a report about this to Legion Command. That's two infractions in one meeting, Headmaster. Not that I'm complaining. It's just my job, you know."

"Isol, my friend, I know," Imujin sighed. "But it was worth it, I think. Although... I am regretting lifting Alorna's ban."

Alorna spun in place and threw her arms in the air, holding up a hand-drawn sign in thick black marker. It showed a cartoon version of herself screaming into the void, with jagged letters above her head that read: I REGRET NOTHING!

Dr. Wirk stepped forward, tone calm but deliberate, a glint of genuine intent behind his normally clinical demeanor. "I have an offer for you, Imujin."

The headmaster tilted his head slightly, watching him with that unreadable calm of someone used to being surprised but rarely impressed.

"Vaeliyan here has a spare period in his current schedule. Why can't I just use that time to offer him my tutelage? I don't care if he's officially my apprentice or not. Titles don't matter to me. I just want him formed right, with the maximum amount of knowledge I can give. We both know how rare he is. It would be a waste not to shape that potential with precision."

Imujin folded his arms, eyes narrowing slightly as he mulled it over. "I don't really see a problem with that," he said at last, nodding slowly. "It's agreed then."

Dr. Wirk looked momentarily pleased with himself. "Does that mean I don't have to take an apprentice, then?"

He sounded just a little too hopeful, the kind of hope born from years of trying to avoid the messiness of mentorship attachments. Vaeliyan raised an eyebrow at the tone but didn't comment.

"No, Wirk, you still have to take an actual apprentice," Isol cut in firmly, stepping forward with a familiar air of someone constantly corralling chaos. "It's mandatory. Legion mandate. One apprentice per instructor per year. Non-negotiable."

Dr. Wirk scowled, muttering under his breath before lifting his voice. "But Alorna has two. So if I can't be Vaeliyan's Mentor, then it should be okay for me to have zero. Balance it out."

Josaphine groaned, pinching the bridge of her nose like she'd heard this argument more times than she could count. "Alorna is crazy, and you know it. Think about the year she apprenticed all sixteen cadets. They changed the godsdamned bylaws just because of her."

Dr. Wirk jabbed a thumb toward the hallway like he was pointing at the concept of institutional hypocrisy itself. "But Imujin just gave her two again. Isn't that against the bylaws too?"

"Yes," Josaphine said bluntly, no hesitation. "It absolutely is. But when Legion Command finds out it's Alorna, do you really think they're going to say anything? Or are they just going to be relieved she didn't mama bear the whole class again and rewrite our operational doctrine with crayon drawings and death glares?"

There was a long pause in the room as that settled in. Alorna, dancing somewhere out of view with glee, was probably already drafting a celebratory note in stick-figure form.

Dr. Wirk sighed heavily, shoulders slumping with resignation. "Yeah... fair point," he admitted, but there was still a stubborn glint in his eye.

Vaeliyan, quiet until now, looked between them with growing interest. He wasn't used to people fighting over him unless there was blood on the floor. This was new territory.

"Wait," he said, brows drawing together, "what the hells is going on here? How old are you people? Because Imujin just said the 49th needed High Imperator approval to get apprenticed... but Alorna had sixteen at one point?"

Isol sighed like a man preparing a long answer. "No one in this room is younger than seventy-five, my boy. Wirk's actually the youngest one here."

Vaeliyan blinked. "Gods, I hate faces as a form of fashion."

Dr. Wirk gestured emphatically. "Thank you. At least someone else gets it."

Isol and Josaphine both nodded, looking older than anyone else in the room other than Wirk.

Imujin gave them a slow once-over. "I do like the looks you two have going, though. It's new. Distinguished. I think I'm going to see what mine looks like."

Gwen barked a laugh. "No, Gramps, don't do that. Maybe try something less than a hundred. Maybe less than seventy would be good."