Captain Voss flipped through the regulation ledger, each page turning like a guillotine blade.
"Failure to comply with direct orders from the Academy Generals. Violation of defense protocols. Breach of engagement procedures…" He looked up, gaze cutting like a vibroblade. "The list is extensive, Specialist."
"Sir, if I could just—" Drayke started, standing at attention.
"You don't get to explain," Voss cut in, voice flat and cold. "I've read the reports—Sergeant Kaldros, Sergeant Hawkins. Your insubordination led to a favorable outcome. But success doesn't erase disobedience."
Silence fell—taut as wire.
"You're assigned to latrine duty. Every afternoon. Keep it cleaner than a Drill Inspector's boots. No-patrol status until further notice. Understood?"
"…Yes, Sir," Drayke muttered.
Voss's eyes narrowed like a drawn blade.
"Yes, Sir!" Drayke barked, straightening.
"Good. Now get out of my office."
Outside, the desert sun beat down like judgment.
Drayke stepped from the steel and glass of the command post into the canvas-cloaked sprawl of Fort Carson—palisade walls, patchwork fortifications, and the ever-present scent of oil and ozone.
A thousand soldiers here, all gearing up to push into Old Reno. Somewhere in the ruins, a goblin-blooded monstrosity was waiting. No visuals. No name. Just rumors and the occasional scream over the long-range comms.
Drayke, former defensive hero, now walked with a sloshing bucket in one hand, a long-handled brush in the other. Gloves thick and yellow. The stench from the row of outhouses hit him like a punch to the lungs.
He got to work.
A week later…
Two soldiers strolled by, lost in conversation, not even noticing him.
"You hear about Halvyr?" one said.
"The Mojave kid? Took down an A-Class boss solo. Unreal."
"Yeah—Halvyr's getting fast-tracked for officer training. Real glory run."
Drayke kept scrubbing, back turned, listening.
"I heard he's the youngest to clear a solo A-Class this year," the other replied. "Command's already talking about putting him in charge of a vanguard squad."
A third voice joined in, scoffing, "Meanwhile, that other guy—what's-his-name? The one who cleared out the goblin nest last week?"
"Drayke?" said the first.
"Yeah. Where is he now?"
"I think he's on shit-scrubbing duty."
They laughed, voices fading as they walked on.
Drayke didn't move. Just gripped the brush tighter and scrubbed harder, knuckles whitening under the gloves.
Halvyr.
Of course it was Halvyr.
Halvyr the hero. Golden boy. Media darling. Rising star.
And Drayke? Scrubbing the rusted base of a piss-soaked latrine in the blistering sun. No recognition. No thanks. Just punishment.
"Golden Boy Halvyr Leads Charge into the Great Expanse."
He could already hear the broadcast, picturing the polished armor, the proud smile, the fucking spotlight...
Drayke muttered the fake headline under his breath like it was poison.
Let them cheer for Halvyr.
Drayke didn't need applause. He needed the war.
Next time, he wouldn't be cleaning up after the fight.
A familiar voice rang out.
"Hey, Newbie!"
Sergeant Kaldros leaned against the entrance, arms folded, looking like he'd been watching the whole scene.
"How's the royal cleaning tour going?" he smirked.
He sniffed the air with exaggerated flair. "Gotta admit—it almost smells human again. You've got real talent."
Kaldros laughed, a rough, honest bark of amusement.
Drayke didn't answer.
He just dipped the brush, braced himself, and kept scrubbing.
In his mind, the comebacks burned like stove top. Didn't realize I was cleaning up after your career, Sergeant. Guess that explains the stink. But they stayed where they belonged—in his head. He'd been on latrine duty for a week, and mouthing off wouldn't earn him a damn thing except another seven days in the stink pit.
Kaldros crouched beside him, elbows on his knees like he was watching art in progress. "You know, I've been talking to the Captain," he said, voice too casual to be innocent. "And we're thinking about sending an assault squad out next week."
Drayke paused mid-scrub.
Kaldros noticed.
"Do you think you've learned your lesson?" the Sergeant added, tilting his head, lips twitching with that devious little grin he wore whenever he was about to ruin someone's week—or make their year. "I could arrange a few things. Get you on that roster."
Drayke met his gaze, eyes narrow but steady. The stink of waste and soap clung to him, sweat soaking through his uniform. But behind the grime, something burned in his expression—a hunger that hadn't dulled, not even under punishment.
"I'm ready," he said. Quiet. Certain. Dead serious.
Kaldros grinned wider, clapped a heavy hand on Drayke's shoulder, and stood.
"Good. Let's see if you still remember how to kill something that fights back."
Drayke's morale had soared. In just a week, he was scrubbing latrines like they were warfronts—cleaned an hour faster each day, driven by a fire that wouldn't quit. And now, here he was, standing in formation beneath the harsh sun, heart hammering in his chest as names were called.
Captain Voss stood before them, his expression carved from stone, hands clasped behind his back like he was holding onto the last shred of hesitation.
"This is the official team assignment for the assault on Reno," he announced, his voice carrying over the field like thunder. "First team: Obsidian Spear. Sergeant Kaldros. Specialist Mirelle. Specialist Drayke. Specialist Kaelwyn. Private Kaelwyn."
Drayke felt his name land like a strike to the chest—solid, undeniable.
"Second team, long-range support: Team Skyfall. Master Sergeant Jerome. Sergeant Hawkin. Specialist Garcia. Private Phillips."
Voss paced slowly in front of them now, his gaze sharp and unrelenting.
"There is no room for failure," he continued. "Your mission is to carve a path to Reno—secure, clear, and decisive. Just like our southern counterparts, we begin the bombardment within the week. You are the spearhead and the storm."
He paused, as if measuring the weight of his next words.
"We take back Reno. Or we don't come back at all."
The entire formation answered in unison, their voices echoing like war drums through the camp:
"Hua!" [Hua= Heard ,Understood, Acknowledged]
What followed was a week of nonstop preparation—gear checks, tactical drills, and field exercises that blurred one day into the next. Drayke found himself back in a place he thought he'd left behind for good: the sandpit. The same kind of hellhole from the Academy days, where pain was the teacher and survival the curriculum.
"C'mon! Is that all you got?" Kaldros barked, circling him like a predator. "You're supposed to be some kind of prodigy, right? Don't tell me that little party trick is all you've got."
Kaldros was relentless. If Ashcroft had been a stern instructor, hardened by years, Kaldros was a living sculpture of discipline and violence—a blade honed by purpose.
Drayke rose, spitting grit from his teeth, sand clinging to every inch of his uniform. His muscles screamed, but he forced himself upright. Most soldiers knew their full set of abilities by the time they graduated the Academy. Drayke? He only had his Sword of Light—a brilliant weapon ability, sure, but it was just one piece of a puzzle he hadn't solved yet.
Knowing his elemental attribute was Light hadn't done him any favors lately.
Kaldros, on the other hand, was blood-aligned—an attribute as versatile as it was terrifying. He had options. Drayke had a glowing sword and just speed.
Gritting his teeth, Drayke lunged, hurling the blade in a feint meant to throw Kaldros off-balance.
Which didn't work before and still didn't now.
The seasoned fighter batted the sword from the air with ease and caught Drayke mid-charge, redirecting his momentum and slamming him back into the pit with the grace of someone who'd done this a thousand times.
Sand exploded around him.
"You'd think you'd learn after the first dozen tries…" Kaldros muttered, lighting a cigarette like he had all the time in the world. "The old man must've had a real fun time rubbing dirt into that pride of yours."
Smoke curled lazily through the air as Drayke lay in the sand, chest heaving, sweat mixing with grit on his brow.
He didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Kaldros already knew—he'd be back on his feet in ten seconds.
"Say," Kaldros went on, exhaling smoke through his nose. "I know you love throwin' that sword. Why not try tossing it at the sky for once? You follow it like a damn torpedo anyway. Flip that brain upside down, think outside the box. Out here, you use whatever leverage you can get."
Drayke didn't speak. He just stood, tightened his gloves, and gave a short nod.
He hurled the glowing sword high into the air. It arced upward, burning like a star against the afternoon sun. Then, without hesitation, he lunged after it—feet leaving the ground.
For a second, it felt like stepping on air.
And then another.
And another.
With each throw, each follow-through, his momentum built. Speed surged through his limbs. He wasn't just chasing the sword now—he was flying.
Kaldros narrowed his eyes.
On the final pass, Drayke twisted mid-air and launched toward the Sergeant's blind spot, the sword flickering with radiant energy as he targeted the back of Kaldros' neck.
A heartbeat before impact, the Sergeant's greatsword moved—too fast to follow, yet somehow still deliberate. It intercepted the blow with a resounding clang, sending out a shockwave that rattled the pit and knocked Drayke backward, tumbling him into the sand.
A cloud of dust exploded around him.
"Hah!" Kaldros barked out a laugh, part impressed, part mocking. "That's it. Look at you! You can fly with that annoying ability!"
He took another drag from the cigarette, smirking through the haze.
"You might actually be useful one day."
From across the sparring grounds, a low rumble drew attention. A small tank rolled its way past the palisade wall, kicking up dust as it trundled forward like it had a purpose.
The hatch popped open with a metallic clunk, and Private Kaelwyn emerged, grinning like a kid showing off a science fair project that could actually burn down the gym. Grease stained his uniform, and a half-welded wrench was still tucked behind his ear.
"She's beautiful, isn't she?" he called out proudly. "Meet Obi!"
He slapped the side of the tank like it was a trusted dog.
"Heard the old-world tankers used to name their vehicles—figured ours deserved the same. Rebuilt her myself. Barrel's cut short—didn't see the point in shells with a support squad trailing us. But don't worry…"
He grinned wider, tapping the flamethrower attachment welded where the cannon used to be.
"She spits fire. And if things get really bad—she'll blow herself to kingdom come. Got a self-destruct sequence wired in. Just in case."
The tank let out a satisfied hiss as it idled, steam rising from its vents like a sleeping beast. Kaelwyn gave it a fond look—like an artist who'd painted his masterpiece in soot and engine oil.
Specialist Kaelwyn yanked at her brother's sleeve like he was forgetting the most important part.
"Don't you dare forget about the radio, grease-brain," she snapped, climbing halfway up the hatch beside him. "This beast is packing a full-range comms array—fine-tuned by yours truly."
She gave the antenna a proud tap.
"We should be able to reach the 2nd Brigade in Vegas if things go sideways. Crystal-clear transmissions, minimal delay. This baby's not just fire and noise—it's our link to the rest of the operation."
She flashed a quick, confident grin—equal parts proud engineer and war-time DJ—and ducked back into the tank, already adjusting dials.
Kaldros stomped in his shadow, sneaking about in the shadows was Grayson. "I almost didn't notice you. You'll have to try harder."
Ironheart appeared out of the sky landing on Kaldros who was now face first in the sand with the giant sitting on top of him. Mirelle stood in the distance using her wind magic to throw the giant like a missile, she giggled at the current predicament. "Sergeant, you should watch where you're standing. I didn't notice you there." The entire squad started laughing, even Sergeant Kaldros.
Sergeant Kaldros pushed the giant off of him, knowing the time was near. Tomorrow they'd start their travel, seventy miles towards Reno.