Yellow Jacket

Vaeliyan barely made it home in time to get enough sleep for the next morning's classes. His entire body felt like it had been dragged through grease and static, and his brain was still humming with the aftershock of the synth rebellion. He crashed face-first onto his bed the moment the door sealed behind him, not even bothering to take off his boots. Just enough time to rest. Just enough to survive the next day.

Jurpat had shown up long after, maybe an hour or so later, moving with that exhausted but purposeful stride of someone who had just finished a patrol. Because that's basically what he'd done, made sure the rest of their class got to their rooms safely. At least, the ones who left. And that was the thing: most of the cadets hadn't. Nearly ninety percent of the people who came to the party just crashed at Merigold's house. Some on couches. Some in hallways. A few in bathtubs. It wasn't planned, it just... happened. Mostly due to the overwhelming food comas they were in, courtesy of Vaeliyan.

The synths he unlocked had been a culinary apocalypse. Pancakes, fries, dumplings, real seasoning. Some people hadn't tasted salt in months. Others wept over ketchup like it was divine ambrosia. He'd broken something sacred, and the aftermath was everywhere, plates abandoned mid-bite, cadets passed out hugging baguettes like comfort animals.

Luckily for Vaeliyan, he hadn't taken the pad home like Jurpat had. That was the one mistake he didn't make. If he had, Deck might've gotten his grubby hands on the case, and that would've been catastrophic. The only reason he hadn't? Excessive caution. Paranoia, really. The kind of paranoia that came from knowing who you were up against. Deck had once admitted, out loud, and proudly, that he could tamper with the Citadel-issued pads. Said it like a fun fact, as if he were talking about custom lunch settings. That offhand flex had turned out to be his downfall.

Apparently, House had a holo recording of Deck trying to break into the manor itself, and it was a masterpiece of violent hospitality. The man hadn't even tried to be subtle. He stood outside the access pad with a toolkit in one hand and an expression of mild curiosity, muttering to himself like he was working on a crossword puzzle rather than attempting a breach.

Then he tried an override.

That was when House activated the Wholehearted Welcome protocol.

The turrets slid out of the walls with an unsettling purr, targeting his heart from six different angles. A pleasant voice chimed through the entry speaker, syrupy sweet and absolutely fake: "Welcome, honored guest. Please remain still while we verify your enthusiasm."

Deck didn't flinch, but he did take one step back. Then another. Then another. The recording cut right as he dove sideways over the garden wall to avoid a net cannon that had armed itself in the flowerbed.

Vaeliyan had watched the footage five times before bed. House even added custom music the fifth time, something dramatic and overblown, with choral swells and faint screams in the background. It was better than lullabies.

But Vaeliyan knew, deep down, that if Deck really wanted in, there was nothing he could do to stop him. The man wasn't just an instructor, he was a professional saboteur teaching a masterclass. But Deck had rules. Or, at least, he had style. He seemed to be operating at a level the cadets could, in theory, handle. A game within a game. By all rights, Deck didn't have to be subtle. He didn't need to give them a chance. But that was the trick. Even if there were no official rules, he didn't want the win to feel cheap. He wanted them to suffer, scramble, adapt, and still somehow find a path forward.

And honestly, if it had been most other cadets, they wouldn't have. They'd have been eaten alive.

But Vaeliyan was a dirty cheat.

And proud of it.

The first part of the day was excellent.

Deck had made another attempt at pad sabotage, an impressively underhanded one, even by his standards. The goal was obvious: delay Vaeliyan just long enough that he'd miss morning attendance, giving Lisa Verdance enough plausible reason to incinerate the stack of incriminating synth notes before she ever laid eyes on them. Under normal circumstances, it might've worked. But Vaeliyan wasn't interested in playing normal.

Instead, he flew his entire manor right up to the gate of the gymnasium. He'd spent the previous night doing quiet reconnaissance, asking around, checking maps, and finally verifying the building's proximity to the instructor parking zone. It turned out the gymnasium was close enough that, technically, he could land his house in the staff lot and stroll the rest of the way. So he did.

The sub-instructors were livid. The parking lot, normally reserved for elite staff and instructors, was not designed to accommodate airborne mansions with integrated defense systems and sadistic security protocols. One instructor even tried to cite him for airspace violation, but backed down when House's perimeter defenses locked onto his hoverchair. Vaeliyan didn't flinch. Not only was he in Class One, but he was Imujin's apprentice, and that kind of backing gave him a lot more room to not care.

When he finally handed Lisa the notes, the reaction wasn't what most of Class One expected. She didn't tear them up. She didn't glare at him. She just stood there, radiating cold fury, but none of it directed at Vaeliyan. She was mad at Deck. Furious, in fact, that he hadn't scrubbed the notes before Vaeliyan got access to them. The pages were legitimate. Deck had signed off on hundreds of missed punishment laps across years of synth tampering.

There were enough notes in the case that Class One, in theory, would never have to do a punishment lap again for the rest of their time at the Citadel. Lisa confirmed it with a straight face and a dry tone that made even the most skeptical cadets start cheering.

Hard growling stat-blocker laps still applied, obviously. Those were part of the training regimen. But no motivational tiger laps, no spite laps, no extra "you failed as a unit" laps. None of it. They were clean.

Deck, to his credit, didn't throw a fit. In fact, he was so thoroughly impressed by how expertly Vaeliyan had played the entire board that he approached him during his class and asked for help. His goal was to collect the rest of the synth note trail across the Citadel, hundreds of hidden notes.

Vaeliyan only agreed on one condition: that Deck didn't come after him for this. Having the Cheating 101 instructor treat you like an enemy was asking for problems. Deck agreed with no hesitation. Vaeliyan's AI recorded the conversation in full and filed it under "Mutually Assured Destruction."

Skill Adaptation that day turned out to be more than theory. Dr. Wirk rolled out a lab setup that took up the entire back of the classroom. He introduced them to micromarkers, tiny, hyper-detailed patterns woven into the structure of each fragment. Most cadets had been treating fragments like mysterious puzzle pieces or glorified random skill makers, but Wirk was having none of that.

He explained that every fragment carried a potential. Not just in a general sense, but something closer to a genetic predisposition toward a certain type of skill. These micromarkers hinted at how the fragment wanted to behave.

Vaeliyan's fragment, when scanned and displayed on the holoboard, showed a pulsing sequence of area-type markers. Jurpat's, on the other hand, burned with combustion markers. Alone, they meant nothing. Together, they could form the basis of a ring of fire-type skill, if used in tandem during the forging sequence.

But then Wirk added a third fragment to the hypothetical, one with aquatic micromarkers. Suddenly, the entire outcome changed. The simulation shifted, and what once might have been a ring of fire morphed into something closer to a napalm burst, a hybrid of fire and liquid viscosity.

The possibilities were overwhelming.

And it wasn't just theory. Wirk explained that skill crafting with fragments was a literal language. A hidden one. Each hardened nanite core, each fragment, carried encoded syntax. An actual written language, ancient, layered, and reportedly native to Hemera itself. The symbols weren't human. They were identical to the so-called natives' written language.

When Rokhan, asked if uninstalled chips carried the same kinds of fragments and micromarkers, Wirk paused, then nodded. "Yes," he said. "Uninstalled chips still carry fragments. They're part of the encoding."

Rokhan frowned. "So… if we had different chips, would we end up with different Soul Skills?"

Wirk smiled. Not his usual disinterested smirk, but a real one.

"You... I'll remember. That was an excellent question. But the answer is no. Soul Skills are formed based on you, your soul, your core identity. The chip simply locks in that pattern. The micromarkers synchronize the moment your Soul Skill manifests."

The class fell into a thoughtful silence after that. For the first time in a long while, Class One looked like students. Just kids trying to understand how they worked.

By the end of the lesson, Dr. Wirk picked Rokhan out of sheer potential. He stopped in front of him, looked down for a moment, and said flatly, "You are my apprentice now."

Rokhan blinked. Once. Twice. Then just nodded, very slowly, like he wasn't sure if he'd been praised or condemned.

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Wirk didn't explain. He just moved on like nothing happened. But the rest of the class stared at Rokhan like he'd been chosen by a god who hated people.

The break was special due to two things. First, cadets were smiling. Not the empty, forced expressions of survival, but real, genuine smiles, like the weight of the world had lightened just enough to breathe. Second, the mood in the cadet lounge had shifted so dramatically it felt like they were in a different place entirely. The suffocating pressure, the quiet desperation, the ever-present hunger, all of it cracked open the night before.

The Pancake Rebellion had changed things. Not everyone had been there, but word spread fast. No one was eating bug bars anymore, not the ones Vaeliyan had helped, anyway. There were still a few stubborn or clueless cadets gnawing away at the compressed slabs of despair, either unaware that the synths could be fixed or, somehow, liked the taste of defeat. But they were now the minority.

For once, the lounge felt like it belonged to them. There was sound, laughter, talking, even a half-broken speaker someone had duct-taped to a ceiling vent pumping out distorted music. People joked. Some shared synth recipes. Others pulled up chairs, trading war stories from their first brutal weeks at the Citadel. It was loud, chaotic, human. For a brief moment, it didn't feel like training for war. It felt like they had a chance at living.

And then the asshole showed up.

Not one of the Stones. That might've been manageable. No, this was worse. Sub-instructor Michael.

He stomped straight through the lounge like he owned the air they breathed. His boots hit the floor with the cadence of someone who thought he had authority. He moved with the stiff energy of a man itching for conflict. And when he reached Vaeliyan, he didn't hesitate. He jabbed a finger at him like he was issuing a divine edict.

"You," Michael snapped, voice sharp enough to cut steel. "You are to come with me immediately. I have several questions that require your answers. Furthermore, you will reset your House's AI and structural systems to the default Legion configuration. It is Legion property, and you have no right to alter any of its internal functions."

Heads turned. Conversations died. All eyes were now locked on the two.

Michael wasn't done. Of course he wasn't.

"Additionally," he said, louder now, puffed up like a preening bird, "I have filed an injunction with Headmaster Imujin regarding your unauthorized use of the staff parking area. That violation alone would warrant severe punishment. But given your behavior, I will also be recommending your removal from Class One on grounds of dishonest and subversive conduct."

Vaeliyan stared at him for a long second, then glanced sideways, as if checking to make sure the man was real.

"Who the hells are you?" he asked flatly. "And why should I give a damn what you have to say? You're not one of the instructors I've ever seen. Oh wait..."

The grin bloomed slow and dangerous.

"You're the guy who tried to break into my House while I was away. Using Isol's override, didn't you?"

Michael's face twitched.

"How'd you like House's warm welcome? Toasty, wasn't it?"

A low ripple of laughter broke the tension in the room. Someone snorted. Another chuckled. The cadets were still listening, but the power dynamic had already begun to shift.

Michael flushed crimson. "That was a direct attack on an instructor. That is grounds for expulsion."

Vaeliyan just laughed, sharp and amused. "But that's the thing, Sub-instructor. Do you really think any of the actual instructors will side with you? Or with me? Sure, maybe you've got a line to the higher-ups, but I'm first-ranked in Class One. And more importantly I've actually read the bylaws."

He took a slow step forward, calm and deliberate. "I know you can't make me do anything. I know you're throwing around power that isn't yours. I know you're digging for something on Isol, hoping I'll slip up. But here's the punchline: nothing you do matters. You're not my instructor. You're not a Platinum Ring. You're just some nepo baby no one can get rid of. And if they could?"

Vaeliyan tilted his head.

"You and I both know they would."

The silence that followed wasn't awkward. It was thunderous. A few cadets clapped. Someone let out a sharp whistle. The laughter returned, this time louder, more energized.

Michael stood there for another half-second, face unreadable. He didn't storm out, didn't shout, didn't rise to the bait. Instead, he adjusted his cuffs, smoothed the front of his uniform, and looked Vaeliyan in the eyes.

"We'll see how long you stay in Class One now that you can't cheat your way into victory," he said, calm as still water.

Michael turned with clinical precision and tried to walk out at a measured pace. He didn't need applause. He wasn't trying to win the room. He had a mission, and Vaeliyan had just made himself part of it.

"Oh Michael," Vaeliyan called after him, casual and clear. "Just so you're aware, I'm Imujin's choice. In case no one bothered to tell you."

Michael missed a step. Just one. Barely noticeable. But to Vaeliyan, it was everything.

Alorna's class was just as fucked up as the first time, but for entirely different reasons.

This time, it wasn't about brute force or trauma bonding, not really. No one was being beaten into cohesion, and no one was screaming about logs or rocks. Instead, the chaos came from a completely different flavor of psychological warfare. Alorna spent the entire session orbiting the twins like a paranoid hawk, radiating something between maternal obsession and battlefield paranoia. She didn't speak, Alorna never spoke, but communicated exclusively through stick figure drawings. And somehow, with nothing but crude scribbles drawn on scrap paper, dirt, or occasionally the side of someone's arm, she managed to express tactics, encouragement, disappointment, aggressive praise, spiritual guidance, and what might have been an existential crisis.

These weren't ordinary drawings, either. They were the fevered sketches of someone who had clearly seen things. Sometimes the stick figures were bleeding. Sometimes they were dismembered. Occasionally they had speech bubbles that just said things like "WHY" or "RUN." It felt like watching interpretive dance, if the dancer had suffered a head injury and was armed with a permanent marker. The whole class spent the session trying to interpret the madness.

The assignment? Catch a single fly-sized drone.

It sounded easy. It wasn't. Not even close.

Each cadet was given a simulated injury. That meant ropes, ots of them. Tied arms, twisted ankles, neck braces, fake cast-like bindings. Sylen got strapped to Fenn as a "missing limb" scenario. Vaeliyan, of course, got the worst of it. They blindfolded him with a rope so coarse it might as well have been steel wool. He was still itching from it two hours later.

Falling was common. Cursing, even more so. The air was thick with shouted strategies, accusations of sabotage, and more than one honest plea for Alorna to at least draw instructions that didn't look like stick figures committing war crimes.

All of them had chased the drone at first, thinking it would be easy to catch, just a simple grab and done. It didn't help that the damn thing never flew higher than eye level. It stayed annoyingly within range, taunting them.

Torman had only one leg tied, which was bad enough, but poor Wesley had both bound and was made to crawl like a worm through the underbrush. Torman tripped early, cursing as he face-planted into a patch of dried leaves and moss. When he got back up, muttering about splinters and rope burns, he instinctively grabbed the nearest tree to steady himself, a tree thick with sticky, golden sap.

And that was it. The idea hit him.

There was so much gods-damned rope lying around, and enough sap to drown a squirrel. With wild focus, he began weaving rough rope lattices and slathering them in sap. He didn't keep it to himself either. Once he had the prototype, he shoved bundles of netting into his classmates' hands with no explanation other than a manic grin and a sharp nod. They didn't question it. They just joined in.

It became a bizarre group effort: spinning, swinging, launching nets like drunken carnival performers. And it worked. They caught everything. Twigs. Dirt. A bird. Alorna twice. One of the twins almost got bagged. Pure genius, or mad science. But effective.

Turns out, Torman liked weaving. Said it helped him think.

By the end, they all smelled like sap, sweat, and raw frustration. But when Alorna saw the drone stuck in the net, she didn't draw a complicated diagram. She just sketched one simple stick figure with a thumbs-up.

And that was enough.

Alorna didn't just demand respect, she absorbed it. Even the most rebellious cadets found themselves craving her approval without understanding why. Her presence didn't just loom. It settled in their bones like old fear. No one wanted to disappoint the stick figure prophet.

And they'd do anything to make her proud.

The next class was... well, it was fucking Dr. Lambert's class. And everyone in Class One was equally terrified and curious, mostly because the first class hadn't just felt like involuntary surgery. It was involuntary surgery.

So when they stepped off the pad, their nerves were already high-strung. They were expecting a lab. Maybe a clean room. A surgical arena lined with bright lights and gleaming, unfeeling tools. Something clinical. Something soulless.

What they got instead was Lisa's gym.

Confusion hit first. Then dread. Lisa's gym wasn't comforting. It was where dreams of strength went to die screaming. And now it was the stage for whatever fresh nightmare Lambert had in store.

All the instructors were there. Standing in a perfectly arranged semicircle behind Dr. Lambert, who had her usual serene, slightly unhinged smile. And in front of her: sixteen tall, sealed glass cases. Each one stood like a sarcophagus, misted from within.

Inside every case was a suit of armor.

Not just any armor, Class One's Legion armor.

Unique. Personalized. Intimidating.

Each set of armor was completely different from the others with aspects of the cadets' Soul Skills woven directly into the design. The integration wasn't subtle either. It wasn't like looking at manufactured gear. It was like staring into the heart of someone's evolution. There were horns, segmented spines, extended limbs, extra plating, reactive filaments. Not a single set looked standard.

"All right, everyone," Dr. Lambert said brightly, far too cheerful for someone who had likely vivisected someone that morning, "go meet your second skin."

She tapped her pad.

The cases clicked and unlocked in near unison. Mist curled out in slow ribbons, thick and sterilized, crawling across the gym floor like the breath of a caged god. Each armor frame eased forward slightly, almost like it was alive and eager.

Every cadet froze.

There were no instructions. No explanations. Just them and the armor.

The suits looked like something out of a nightmare, sleek, segmented plating, reinforced joints, helmets with glinting eyes. Each one different. Each one tailored. They hadn't even put them on yet, but already it felt like the armor knew them. Was judging them.

There was something deeper, unspoken, in that moment, a sense of recognition. Like the suits weren't just armor, but something that had always been waiting for them, unfinished until now.

The room pulsed with silence.

The reactions rippled through the group. Some cadets looked like they were about to cry. Others were grinning like maniacs. Most just stared, paralyzed somewhere between reverence and dread.

This wasn't a simulation. This wasn't training gear. This was the real thing. The Legion armor was more than just a uniform. It was a second body. A weapon. A promise.

And it was theirs.
Lessa stepped forward first. Slowly. Her hand hovered in the air, trembling, not with fear, but with reverence, as if she thought touching the armor might break it. Or maybe it would break her.

Sylen didn't move. He just stared at his own reflection in the helmet's visor, something flickering behind his eyes like he'd seen a ghost... or a promise he wasn't sure he deserved.

One of the twins, probably Leron, tilted her head slightly. The expression on her face wasn't confusion or awe, but familiarity. Like she'd met this armor in a dream, and it had been waiting for her to wake up.

Fenn whispered something under his breath. No one caught the words, but the way he smiled, giddy and unguarded, said everything.

Even Eliant, tall and usually unreadable, had to blink a few times, then run a hand down the side of the plating like he didn't believe it was real.