The cab slows to a stop in front of the Advanced Tactical University. Thirty minutes have passed, but the city feels both unfamiliar and welcoming. I step out, feet crunching against the asphalt, and the driver waits quietly as I sling my pack over my shoulder.
A man is waiting. Tall. Too tall. Easily six and a half feet. His face is wrinkled, rigid, a map of every command ever given. Windsor glasses sit low on his nose. Short black hair, cleanly swept to the right. And his glare pins me in place.
I stand there, pack heavy on my shoulder, and meet his eyes. I thought I was straight-faced. Confident. Calm. But his stare… it's different. He isn't just looking. He's measuring, weighing. Judging. Challenging.
Finally, he speaks.
"Cadet Ryn Weber. You're far shorter than I thought. How old are you again?"
I snap to attention, posture rigid. "Thirteen years old, Sir."
He squints, brow furrowing as though my words offend him.
A mere child. Here. What kind of joke is this?
He extends a hand, finally giving a name. "I am Major Griever. Follow me, cadet."
We move through the towering halls of the university. The floor hums beneath my boots. Machinery. Students. Staff, moving sharp and fast. I keep pace, silent, aware of the weight in my pack and the eyes still lingering on me.
"Your letter of recommendation," he says, voice rough but controlled.
I nod, reaching into my bag. One by one, I pull them out. Twelve letters sent to my orphanage over the past months. One hand-sent, official recommendation for Advanced Tactical Training. I line them neatly on his desk.
Major Griever takes them, one by one, inspecting the handwriting, the seals, the crisp paper. His brow furrows more with each, confusion mixing with something. Respect, maybe, or disbelief.
"A letter of recommendation from each of your instructors," he mutters, almost to himself. His fingers tap the desk, slow, deliberate.
'This child. This girl... So far beyond the odds. At such an age... It's...
It's just'
"Superb," he finally says, eyes scanning over the last letter, the hand-sent one. There's a pause, heavy and loaded. "Very well, Cadet Weber. Let's see what you're capable of."
I slide through the remaining sheets, each one a layer of bureaucracy, protocol, and procedure. Eventually, I reach the course selection page. My eyes catch the mandatory line immediately.
Advanced Tactical Training-mandatory. Of course. No thought needed. I tick the box.
Then, my mind drifts back to Rivas. The woman's words echo in my head: "Beyond this fortress…"
I scan the page.
Exo Extraction. I tick it.
Wilderness Survival Training. Tick.
Something else jumps out at me, audacious and almost taunting in its name:
Assault Disruptor Training. Intriguing. I tick it, heart quickening at the thought of what it could entail.
Finished, I pass the sheet back to Major Griever. His eyes flick over the selections.
For the first time, I see the smallest trace of something behind his glare. Confusion. Maybe even… amusement? Or concern. It's unreadable. But the way his brow tightens, the faint crease at the corner of his mouth, it's something.
He doesn't speak immediately. I know he's thinking. I just don't know what.
'This child, thirteen years old, meticulously signing up for advanced tactical warfare, survival operations, and something that sounds like pure chaos, l what kind of soldier wants to be trained like this? A war monger in training. Or maybe… a prodigy.
He finally nods, more to himself than me, and punches the entries into the system. The screen hums, lights flicker, files load. Then he prints out a schedule and a map of the university. The papers slide across the desk toward me.
"Cadet Weber," he says, voice steady, controlled, the sternness still intact, "here's your schedule and a map of the campus. Familiarize yourself. Orientation begins shortly. Do you have any questions?"
I glance down at the sheets, the map sprawling before me like the blueprint of a battlefield waiting to be conquered. My fingers tap against the paper almost unconsciously.
"No, Sir," I reply, voice flat, but inside… my mind races. The possibilities, the challenges, the unknowns. I feel ready, and alive, and just a little… hungry.
Major Griever studies me for a long moment, then nods once. "Very well. Follow the schedule. Do not waste time. Welcome to Advanced Tactical University, Cadet Weber."
I tuck the papers carefully into my pack, shoulders straight, boots planted firmly. Every step from here on will be a test. And I'm ready.
Griever's adjutant meets me with a stack of camo, it's small size, still long in the sleeves.
"They'll tailor a proper set of uniform," he says. "Until then, wear these." He drops a brass key into my palm. 108. East wing. Move.
Room 108 is two beds on the ground and two bunks bolted into the wall above. Three beds taken. One top bunk empty. I throw my pack up, shove my things into the locker, fold what needs folding. Everything neat. Everything in place.
The uniform is stiff and pressed. Forest camo. Collar high. Sleeves bunch at my wrists and the pants too long. The boots bite. It fits like armor. I cinch the belt, tuck a pen into the sleeve pocket, slide a small notebook into the vest. Book. Pen. ID. I leave the dorm.
The halls are clean, illuminated well. The lights buzz. Room 7A is two turns down. Shouting bleeds through the door, a voice like a freight train. I push it open. Sound stops. All eyes turn to me.
The class is outside, a courtyard turned training space. Full of adults. At least eighteen. Some older. Towering over me. The man up front fills the doorframe, large, dark-skinned, bald, his camo like second skin. He looks at me.
"AT EASE!" he bellows. The room relaxes with military speed. Then he comes straight for me.
I snap to attention and salute. "CADET RYN WEBER. HERE TO TAKE ADVANCE TACTICAL TRAINING, SIR."
"How old are you cadet?"
"THIRTEEN YEARS OLD, SIR."
He stares. Concerned. Confused. Likely at my age. But who questions his superiors? Not him. He studies me like his pocket got caught on a door knob. Then he shouts.
"FALL IN, SOLDIER! YOU CAME HERE TO DO THE SAME THING AS EVERYONE ELSE, YOU WILL GET THE SAME TREATMENT AS EVERYONE ELSE. NOW MOVE, MOVE, MOVE!"
I move. I slide into a spot in the front rank between two men who smell like oil and old blood.
He paces the front and screams until the courtyard vibrates:
"LISTEN UP! ADVANCE TACTICAL TRAINING IS NOT A LECTURE. IT IS WAR SCHOOL. YOU WILL LEARN SMALL-UNIT TACTICS. MOVEMENT, COVER, FIRE AND MANEUVER. YOU WILL LEARN URBAN CLEARANCE, ROOM-BY-ROOM, FLOOR-BY-FLOOR. YOU WILL LEARN RECONNAISSANCE, TARGET ACQUISITION, AND EXTRACTION. YOU WILL LEARN HOW TO COORDINATE MULTIPLE SQUADS, HOW TO MAINTAIN SUPPLY LINES, HOW TO REPAIR AND RECOVER UNDER FIRE. YOU WILL LEARN TO OPERATE AND COUNTER EXO UNITS. YOU WILL LEARN COMMUNICATION UNDER JAMMING, MEDICAL EVAC UNDER HOSTILE CONDITIONS, DEMOLITIONS, ELECTRONIC WARFARE, AND DECISION MAKING WITH BROKEN INTEL. NIGHT EXERCISES. LIVE-TARGET DRILLS. COMMAND DRILLS. YOU WILL BE TESTED PHYSICALLY, MENTALLY, STRATEGICALLY. YOU WILL FAIL. YOU WILL ADAPT. YOU WILL REPEAT UNTIL YOU DO NOT FAIL. UNDERSTOOD?!"
A wall of voices answers: "YES, SIR!" I answer too, flat and loud.
He points at me, close enough to feel the heat of his hand. "CADET WEBER, YOU ASKED FOR THIS. YOU'LL TAKE IT. NO PRIVILEGES. NO EXCUSES. PROVE IT."
"Yes, Sir," I say.
"FIRST EXERCISE. DECISION DRILL ON THE YARD. GEAR UP. MOVE OUT."
We fall into motion. The courtyard smells like oil and sweat and the promise of tests that don't stop