Yellow Jacket

Imujin stood over Warren, holding him upright as he blinked back into consciousness. Barely seconds had passed since he collapsed, but it felt like the world had shifted. His lungs dragged in heavy breaths, every inhale scraping like gravel against the inside of his chest. Warren looked up through half-lidded eyes and forced a crooked smile. Imujin smiled back, a rare thing, then caught the fist Warren swung at his face.

"You fucker!" Warren rasped, voice raw and shaking. "How dare you! You deserve that!"

"Well, it wouldn't be that fun if I just let you hit me," Imujin replied evenly, his grip tightening to keep Warren steady on his feet.
Warren shook his head, his anger hot. "You forced this on me."

Imujin's eyes narrowed. "No. You forget yourself. I asked. You agreed. Perhaps you didn't understand the depth of what you said yes to, but it was still your choice. Do not blame me for the weight of your own answer."

"You know what you did."

"Of course I do."

"I succeeded."

"Yes, you did."

Warren's chest rose sharply as he tried to steady his breath. His heart hammered as though he had run miles, and his eyes flicked to the ring on his finger. "But what am I supposed to do now, can I go in and talk to…" The word caught in his throat. He tried to say the Emperor, but what came out was only the word it. Warren stammered, trying again and again, each attempt failing, his voice breaking in frustration.

"You cannot explain it," Imujin said. "That's part of the rules. You're bound, as I am."

"Well, fuck. What if I'm trying to talk about it outside the context of the ring?" Warren pressed, his voice rising with irritation.

"That's fine. But you'll feel the boundaries. You don't need to ask me, you'll know. The rules are part of you now."

Warren pointed at the ring, its glow faintly yellow, pulsing with a quiet heartbeat. "Why is mine this color?"

"That's why my Citadel is red. Yours will be yellow, apparently."

"Oh. Did it do that on purpose?"

"Of course. It has nothing better to do than mess with you."

"Fair enough. At least it's a nice color." Warren stared at it, feeling the weight of something alien pressing on his bones.

A ripple of unease spread through the gathered cadets. Sylen's voice cut in sharply, "What's going on?"

"Are you hearing this right now?" Wesley muttered. "He's talking like, like…"

"Like they're the only ones here," Ramis finished, his face pale. Others shifted uneasily, their voices breaking into nervous, overlapping protests. Fear curdled in the air, sharp enough to taste.

"Headmaster, with respect, what the fuck is happening?" Xera demanded, her tone caught between awe and anger.

"This doesn't make sense," Lessa whispered, her hands tight on her band. "I'm pretty sure we're not supposed to even see this kind of thing."

The air filled with mutters, fear edging sharper with every word. Some cadets looked ready to bolt, others stared in disbelief, jaws tight and eyes wide, but none of it reached Warren or Imujin. The two of them carried on, unmoved by the protests, their voices cutting through the noise with steady certainty. The cadets' questions scattered into the air without weight, while Warren and Imujin kept speaking as though they were the only two who mattered.

"You ask what you do now," Imujin said, leaning closer. "They all have rings. You need to bind those rings to you."

The protests rose again, anxious and ragged, growing louder. "Bind us? What does that mean?" "He's not supposed to have…" "This isn't right…" But they were background static, ignored completely. Fear threaded into the sound, the kind that made hands tremble and eyes flick nervously from one cadet to another.

"Will they have the same experience I did?" Warren asked, his voice tight.

"No. They won't. Don't worry about that."

"How do I do it?"

"You touch your ring to theirs, after asking if they're willing to take on the platinum. The words will come to you automatically."

Warren tugged at the band, frowning. The metal refused to budge. "And if I'm not supposed to have this, how do I hide it?"

"You can't take it off. Even if you lose a hand, it will return. It's bound to you."

"That's creepy."

"I think so too. Luckily, I've kept my hands." Imujin's mouth curved in a humorless grin as if remembering something darker. "Headmaster Waylon of the Blue wasn't so lucky. He lost an arm in a fight. They say the severed thing crawled its way back to him after six days, half-rotted, while he'd already begun the regrowth process. The ring wouldn't come off that arm, no matter what he tried. In the end he had to cut off the fresh-grown finger and reattach the corpse of the old one, because the bond was stronger than the body itself."

The cadets whispered nervously behind them, caught between fear and horror, but neither Warren nor Imujin so much as glanced their way. The words of the others became a dull hum, like insects buzzing, as their conversation pressed forward.

Warren's jaw tightened. "What if I want to see it again? To… train in there?" He couldn't even say the words properly. They twisted in his throat, the sound coming out broken.

"Interesting," Imujin muttered. "Yes, the rules are absolute. There are ways to gain from it, but not in the way you're imagining. And no, it's not a communication network. You'll know what's allowed soon enough. What you need to focus on right now is binding these fifteen others to you."

Warren's glare sharpened, his whole-body tense. "Imujin, what you did was fucked up. I wasn't supposed to have this."

Imujin's voice turned cold, iron-clad, carrying enough weight to silence even the cadets' muttering. "Yes, you're not supposed to. But you're too important. I cannot trust your secret to children who might falter. If they want to survive, they cannot know without being bound to you. That's it. I'll not hear more of it. I am sorry, but it had to be done."

The cadets fell into uneasy silence, their fear thick in the air. Some clutched at their hands as though their rings might turn molten; others stared at Warren like he was something alien. Warren looked down at his own hand, opening his mouth as if to demand, "Is there any way to hide this ring? It's bright yellow, glowing, and every eye in the world will be able to see it for miles." Before the words fully formed, the ring responded on its own. The yellow wood and its faint golden glow rippled, twisting into something new. The gleam dimmed, the light snuffed out, and the surface hardened until only a plain band of iron remained, dull and unremarkable. Unremarkable to any outside eye.

Imujin nodded slowly, his gaze sweeping the group. "It's not uncommon for entire squads to wear matching bands. It's rare among cadets, but not unheard of. To most eyes, that's all it will ever look like." He let the silence stretch before adding, "Right now yours is iron because it hides you. When you bind them, their platinum will turn iron as well. That is the seal. To anyone else it will look like you share a plain token of unity, nothing more. But each one of those bands will tie them to you in a way that can never be severed."

No one answered. The cadets stood frozen, the meadow heavy with their unspoken dread, while Warren clenched his fist around the ring, feeling the quiet truth sink in, there was no going back now.

Warren walked over to Jurpat first. It made the most sense to him, to begin with his oldest companion among the cadets. The others watched in tense silence as Warren reached out, the faint yellow gleam from his ring catching in their eyes. He placed his hand on the other boy's ring, and as he did, the words began to form on his tongue without effort, heavy with a rhythm older than either of them.

"Jurpat, I bind you to me with this ring. Not only as a brother in arms, but as one who will walk beside me when all others have fled. I bind you as a guide when the path is unclear, as counsel when my judgment falters, and as the final hand of execution should my will turn astray. This oath is not light, and it is not temporary. It is meant to endure, until your life is broken. Do you accept this burden, and the promise that comes with it?"

Jurpat looked at him without flinching, though his jaw tightened as though he understood the weight of what he was agreeing to. "I do."

The moment the words left him, a sharp prick of pain lanced Jurpat's finger. A drop of blood welled up, vanishing instantly into the platinum band as though it had been drunk by the metal itself. He winced, his breath catching, and then the yellow light burst from Warren's ring, searing into his own. The platinum flared, gold shimmered within it, and Jurpat's voice rose again, echoing Warren's vow line by line.

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"As you will lead, I will follow. You will guide my path when it is unclear, and I shall guide yours. You will hear my counsel in your darkest hours, and I will hear yours. Should your hand falter, I will take on the burden of final judgment. This bond endures until my life ends."

The metal rippled like water under stress, the glow collapsing inward until it vanished, leaving behind only a plain iron band. Where once had been platinum, now there was only iron, unassuming, unremarkable, and hidden from any watching eyes, just as Warren wanted. Jurpat flexed his hand, staring at the change in silence, lips pressed thin, but he said no more.

Warren next stepped to Sylen, the second most natural choice after Jurpat. The same words welled up unbidden, shaping themselves as he pressed his hand to her ring. They carried the same cadence, the same inevitability, like a ritual that could not be resisted.

"Sylen, I bind you to me with this ring. I claim you as a sister, as one who stands at my side when the storm breaks. I bind you as a guide when I am blind, as counsel when my heart betrays me, and as the final executioner should my hand falter and my will collapse. This bond is more than loyalty. It is truth made iron, and it will endure beyond either of us. Do you accept this burden, and the promise that comes with it?"

Sylen's eyes softened, though her voice was steady. For a heartbeat Warren thought she might hesitate, but she did not. "I do."

The instant she spoke, the same prick cut her flesh. A bead of blood welled, consumed by the platinum. She hissed at the sting but steadied herself as the yellow ripple flowed into her ring. The light shimmered, and Sylen's voice followed, echoing Warren's vow line by line.

"As you will lead, I will follow. You will guide my path when it is unclear, and I shall guide yours. You will hear my counsel in your darkest hours, and I will hear yours. Should your hand falter, I will take on the burden of final judgment. This bond endures until my life ends."

The metal dulled, platinum swallowed by iron, until only a plain band remained.

One by one, Warren moved to the rest of the cadets. The words came again and again, each time the same, heavy and undeniable. Each cadet answered first with "I do," then winced at the sharp sting as their rings drank their blood, the yellow pulse running from Warren's ring into theirs. And each cadet, without fail, echoed the vow line by line:

"As you will lead, I will follow. You will guide my path when it is unclear, and I shall guide yours. You will hear my counsel in your darkest hours, and I will hear yours. Should your hand falter, I will take on the burden of final judgment. This bond endures until my life ends."

Some spoke it strong and steady, others halting and shaken, but every voice carried the same words. Some accepted without hesitation, their eyes unwavering. Others paused, their expressions betraying doubt, fear, or quiet resentment. Tormen in particular faltered, his hand trembling before he finally whispered his assent and the vow, fear etched in his features. Yet in the end, not a single cadet refused. They all spoke the words, because they knew they had no choice. It was this or death, and compared to the shadow of death, this binding seemed a bearable burden.

With every vow, their rings flared with yellow light, shimmered with traces of gold like sunlight trapped beneath water, and then dulled into plain iron bands. The transformation was the same each time, but no less unsettling for its repetition. Platinum was erased, iron took its place, and the truth of their bond was hidden beneath the guise of something ordinary. The meadow echoed with faint gasps, uneasy silence, and the whispers of metal shifting. By the time Warren stepped back, all fifteen had been bound to him, their fate sealed in silence.

When it was done, they all looked at him differently, and Warren could feel it in the marrow of his bones. Their gazes carried weight now, as if a piece of him lived in each of them. They weren't bonded the same way he was to Styll and Bastard, whose ties were born of love, storm, and soul, but something had been forged between them nonetheless. A bond of truth ran through the group, subtle yet undeniable. Warren could sense their lies and hesitation, the flicker of doubt hidden behind their eyes. He could feel the way their unease pressed against him, and he knew they, in turn, could see him more clearly than ever before. Not all of what he was, not the depths that only his closest bonds shared, but enough. Enough to understand the weight he carried, and enough to realize that what he was, was precisely what they needed. The silence after the binding was heavy, not of fear alone, but of recognition. They belonged to him now, and though none of them had asked for it, they all understood there was no undoing what had just been done.

Imujin stood before the cadets, his expression sharp and unreadable. His voice cut the air with the weight of command. "You lot, listen closely. There's going to be a change to how your classes are run. From this point forward, your schedules are combined. You'll only have four classes, but you'll have them every day. We will weave instruction into each from multiple angles, so you'll find yourselves tested in ways you've never experienced. Today, however, you'll have this period off. We instructors are still hammering out the structure that will carry you forward."

The silence pressed down as his gaze swept across them. When he spoke again, his tone darkened. "But know this, we are going to break even more rules. There's no way any of you will make it into the ranks of the High Imperators if you don't actually understand what the fuck it is you're supposed to do. I'll be honest, Warren, I didn't expect what you pulled to work. And now it's a massive problem, because with that stunt, you and your class have proven you deserve to stand among the High Imperators. But there are trials. Actual trials. And those can't be sidestepped."

His eyes found Warren, steady and piercing. "So, I'm assuming you've already explained the commander trials for a squad commander, at least?"

Warren nodded once, grim but sure.

"Good. That's one thing down. There are four more of those nights ahead of you. Luckily, one comes every week. Four weeks, and that part will be finished. After that, each of you will need a master. Most of you already have one, but every single one of you must secure a sponsor among the High Imperators. Bargain, steal, or claw your way into their classes. Without that, you'll never guarantee apprenticeships. And every master has their own trial."

He turned fully toward Warren, his eyes narrowing with intent. "For you, Warren, I'll make mine plain. You already know one part; you must land a clean hit on me. Not a sucker punch like before. A true strike. Then, you'll need to create your own technique for the Fist of the Legion, or at least forge a true modification of its principle. And finally, you'll need to survive a full-force blow from me. I'll strike with nothing but my own strength, no skills, no tricks, only raw stats. You, however, may use whatever you want to survive it. Every skill, every trick you've earned. I'm not trying to kill you. You'll either withstand it or you won't, but I know what you can do, and I expect you to stand. In fact…" A rare grin cut across his face. "Let's see right now."

From the side, Josephine's sharp voice cracked like a whip. "Imujin, is this really a good idea?" She glared at him, her hand twitching toward her weapon out of instinct. Isol folded his arms, his expression carved from stone. "He's just a cadet. You could break him in half."

Imujin didn't look away from Warren. "Yes. It's a good idea. Don't worry. You both know what skills he carries. This isn't going to be an issue."

The cadets exchanged uneasy looks, muttering under their breath as Warren rose to his feet. Imujin motioned with a hand. "Further. All of you, clear the space. Warren, step north a little… more… there. Good. That should spare the trees."

The cadets scrambled back, their boots digging furrows into the meadow. Warren adjusted his stance, shoulders squared, eyes sharp with anticipation. Imujin wound up his fist, the motion slow and deliberate, his body radiating raw force. "This is going to be interesting."

Then he swung. A full-force strike, aimed straight at Warren's chest. The sound cracked like thunder, echoing across the open space. The cadets flinched as one, expecting Warren to be hurled away, broken and shattered by the sheer impact. Instead, Warren smiled. The force rippled into him, flooding his body, and then dispersed outward in a roaring shockwave. Trees bent and snapped like twigs, earth tore open in jagged wounds, and the clearing itself convulsed with the power.

And still, Warren stood steady.

Imujin blinked, lowering his hand. His gaze swept the devastation: splintered trunks, scorched soil, and a bench reduced to fragments. "That," he muttered, "was a lot more damage than I was expecting. None of the momentum dissipated on you at all. Should have thought of that." His scowl deepened. "I really liked that bench."

A cadet's voice piped up, thin and nervous. "That was a bench? Where the hells is it?"

"About twenty miles back," Imujin said flatly.

The cadets froze, staring at him. One finally whispered, "How big is this place?"

Imujin's eyes narrowed, his tone clipped. "Big enough that you haven't seen a fraction of it. You could walk for days and never hit the same ground twice."

The silence that followed was heavy, the cadets staring at Warren now with new eyes. They had seen something impossible, something no one would believe if they hadn't witnessed it themselves. And the weight of it settled into them like stone.

The meadow fell into a tense quiet, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves settling after the devastation Imujin's punch had unleashed. Dust hung in the air, catching the light, and the cadets stared at Warren as though seeing him for the first time. Their expressions shifted, some with awe, others with unease, a few with fear that they tried to mask behind clenched jaws and narrowed eyes. None of them dared to speak, and even Josephine and Isol remained silent now, watching Warren stand unshaken.

Imujin folded his arms, his gaze heavy. "Remember this moment. You just saw what separates survivors from those who crumble. You thought I'd break him. I didn't. He took it and stood steady. That is the banner you follow."

The cadets shifted on their feet, their minds trying to reconcile what they had witnessed. To take a blow like that without collapsing, without even stumbling, was not something any of them had believed possible until it played out before their eyes.

Warren drew in a slow breath, letting the silence settle before speaking. "If you think this is something you can measure yourselves against, you're wrong. Don't try to be me. I'm already me. What you need is to be the best version of yourselves. That is what will carry you forward, not my shadow."" His tone was calm, but his words landed like hammers.

Isol stepped forward, his voice even but edged. "He's right. What you saw just now isn't a trick you can copy. It's the result of everything that has broken and reforged him. Don't waste your time comparing. Use this as proof that survival is possible even against impossible odds. That's all you need to take from it."

A ripple went through the cadets at his words. Shoulders straightened. A few chins lifted. Others still looked uncertain, but there was fire stirring now where only fear had been a moment ago.

Josephine clapped her hands once, sharp as a whip crack. "Enough gawking. You've got work to do. You've been told of what's expected of you. Take it seriously, because none of you are going to reach the end of this road by accident. Every step will be paid for. Every mistake will cost you. And there are no do-overs. One year, that is all you get."

The instructors let that hang in the air. Warren said nothing more. He could feel their eyes on him, feel the shift in how they saw him. Dread pressed in on all of them at Josephine's words, the enormity of one year weighing like iron chains. Yet within that dread flickered a dangerous hope. They had all heard the stories of the greatest class in the history of the Red Citadel, a class that took four long years to reach the heights of High Imperator together.

Now they looked at Warren and realized he had already surpassed the shape of those legends. He was not leading them to become the next great class. He was shaping them into the epitome of what strength itself meant, into something the Citadel had never seen before. And so, even as fear held them, they could not look away from him. Hope and terror walked hand in hand, bound by the certainty that following Warren meant stepping beyond anything history had ever recorded.