The report was read before the sun reached its peak.
Not in the barracks.
But in a stone hall built specifically to make voices echo.
Officers stood in rows along the walls, their uniforms neat, clean, and uniform in a way the expendables never were. At the center of the chamber, a recording crystal floated motionless, emitting a soft glow that swallowed every word.
"Eastern Line Rotation Operation successful."
The voice was calm.
Official.
"Minimal casualties. Strategic positions secured."
The crystal pulsed briefly, marking the statement as worth preserving.
There were no numbers.
No names.
Only success.
Beneath the hall, far from the echoing voice, the lower barracks remained cold.
Gunther sat with his back against the wall, his blade resting on the floor, crudely cleaned. Blood never truly left metal—it only faded.
The iron door opened.
A guard called several names.
Not real names.
Numbers.
Gunther was called last.
He stood without asking questions.
The corridor they passed through was different from the usual ones.
Brighter.
Cleaner.
No bloodstains marked the floor.
At the end of the corridor, the old officer waited.
The same one.
He did not smile this time.
"You'll be reassigned temporarily," he said.
No further explanation followed.
"A special unit requires bodies that can keep pace."
That word again.
Pace.
Gunther felt a small pulse in his chest, as if the word had called something not yet ready to answer.
"This is not a promotion," the old officer continued. "It's a test."
He stepped closer.
"If you fail, you return to expendable."
He stopped directly in front of Gunther.
"If you succeed," he said quietly, "you will be seen."
Silence fell.
Seen.
The word returned.
A guard gestured.
Another door opened.
Beyond it came the sounds of training—metal striking metal, short shouts, rapid commands.
Not the front lines.
Not yet.
Gunther stepped inside.
The pulse in his chest tightened.
Not from fear.
But because for the first time since he had been chained,
someone wanted to see what he could do.
The training chamber lay deeper than the lower barracks.
The air was dry, unnaturally clean. The stench of blood had been replaced by heated metal and crystals forced to operate beyond safe limits.
Gunther stood with six others.
There were no chains.
That did not make him feel freer.
They were all wounded in similar ways—emergency bandages, rough stitches, eyes too alert to be called rested. No one spoke. They had learned that words did not make anything faster.
An instructor entered.
He carried no weapon.
Only a short rod of black metal, its tip faintly glowing.
"Time," he said.
One word.
He tapped the rod against the floor.
The wall crystals flared to life in unison.
"Not strength," he continued. "Not courage."
Second tap.
"Tempo."
Third tap.
The right wall opened.
Mechanical targets slid out—metal plates moving erratically, some fast, some slow, some stopping abruptly before moving again.
"Pass through," the instructor said.
"Without being late."
"Without being early."
They moved.
The first was too slow.
A metal plate slammed into his shoulder, throwing him to the floor. He did not rise again.
The second was too fast.
He ran before the pattern formed. The target stopped suddenly; the edge of the plate struck his face. Blood sprayed across the pristine floor.
There was no pause.
Gunther stepped forward.
The pulse in his chest began to move—slow, regular—counting alongside his heartbeat.
He did not run.
He did not wait.
He stepped.
One.
Two.
When the first plate surged forward, he was already halfway left. When the second halted, he did not continue—he let the momentum die.
The third plate nearly struck him.
Nearly.
Pain snapped from his chest, sharp and commanding.
Gunther adjusted with a small step.
Enough.
He crossed the line.
The instructor watched him for a long moment.
"Again," he said.
The next round was faster.
The wall crystals glowed brighter.
The targets no longer moved erratically—patterns overlapped, pauses were cut short, speeds were exchanged.
Someone screamed.
Someone fell.
Gunther did not look.
The pulse burned, but remained steady.
His steps were not graceful.
Not clean.
But correct.
When he reached the end again, his breathing was heavy, cold sweat running down his temples.
The instructor tapped the rod once more.
"Defective," he said.
Several heads lifted.
"But useful."
He turned to Gunther.
"Your body learns through pain," he continued. "That's inefficient."
A pause.
"And precisely because of that, difficult to replace."
Gunther stood still.
The pulse in his chest slowly eased.
He didn't know if it was praise.
He knew only one thing.
Galmasca had decided his pain was worth maintaining.
They were not given time to recover.
As soon as the mechanical targets slid back into the wall, the instructor gave another signal. The crystal in the corner shifted color—from white to dull blue.
"Sit," he said.
No one moved.
The metal rod struck the floor.
Once.
All six sat at once.
The stone floor was cold even through their uniforms. Gunther felt the pulse in his chest respond again—not burning, but tightening, like muscles forced to bear weight too long.
The wall before them changed.
Stone plates shifted, revealing narrow recesses. Inside, small crystals floated, each emitting dim light in a different hue.
"Focus," the instructor said.
He walked slowly behind them.
"Don't chase the light."
"Don't reject it."
"Let it pass."
The first light touched Gunther's eyes.
Not images.
Sensations.
The smell of wet earth.
Warm blood.
The weight of a blade in his hand.
He held his breath.
The light changed.
Screams.
Hands clutching cloth.
A trench.
The pulse in his chest spiked sharply, nearly folding him forward. He clenched his fists, nails biting into his palms, forcing himself to remain seated.
Beside him, someone collapsed.
The body convulsed once, then went still.
The instructor did not turn.
The next light came faster.
A face without eyes.
A strangled breath.
Metal piercing flesh.
Gunther let it all pass.
He did not welcome it.
He did not push it away.
He endured.
Cold sweat ran down his back. His jaw locked until it ached. The pulse in his chest moved erratically now, no longer matching his heartbeat.
Minutes passed.
Or seconds.
Time lost its shape.
When the crystals dimmed and the recesses closed again, only four remained seated.
The instructor finally stopped in front of them.
"Tempo isn't just movement," he said.
He tapped the rod again, softly this time.
"A mind that moves too fast will break the body."
His gaze lingered on Gunther longer than on the others.
"And a mind that moves too slowly," he continued, "will die before it understands why."
Gunther swallowed.
The pulse in his chest gradually aligned with his breathing again.
The instructor turned away.
"Prepare," he said.
"Tomorrow, we test both at once."
The training room doors opened.
The corridor light was blinding after the dull blue inside.
Gunther stood, his legs slightly unsteady.
He didn't feel victorious.
He felt spared.
And in Galmasca,
that rarely meant safety.
The combined trial began without announcement.
There was no countdown.
No signal.
Gunther realized it when the floor beneath his feet shifted.
Stone rolled, forming uneven steps. Walls moved, narrowing, then widening again, forcing the body to adjust direction before the mind could assess. Crystal light changed rapidly—white, blue, then dull red—creating a rhythm wrong for the eyes.
"Move," the instructor's voice came from somewhere.
Not a shout.
The command was calm.
Gunther stepped.
The pulse in his chest reacted instantly—no longer chaotic, but bound to the changes around him. Every shift in the floor drew a small response from his body, a thin pain that told him when to stop, when to advance.
Targets appeared.
Not mechanical.
Mannequins layered with synthetic flesh emerged from the sides of the chamber—some slow, some too fast, some standing perfectly still, traps waiting for error.
Gunther struck the still one.
One slash.
The mannequin collapsed.
A fast-moving one nearly hit him.
Nearly.
He let it pass.
His step paused half a second longer than instinct demanded.
Enough.
The floor tilted.
Someone fell in the distance.
The sound of bone striking stone was unmistakable.
Gunther did not look.
The wall crystals flared again.
Light touched his face.
A trench.
Screams.
Blood on his hands.
The pulse in his chest surged sharply, nearly breaking his balance. Gunther stopped completely—not forward, not back.
That second saved him.
Another mannequin struck where he should have been standing.
Gunther moved again.
Not fast.
Not slow.
Correct.
He reached the edge of the chamber as the light dimmed.
Footsteps approached.
The instructor stood before him.
For the first time, he carried a metal slate.
He glanced at its contents.
Then looked at Gunther.
"Your body refuses to stop," he said. "Your mind refuses to accelerate."
He tapped the slate once against his arm.
"You're unbalanced," he continued.
A pause.
"And that is exactly what we're looking for."
A door at the side of the chamber opened.
A corridor Gunther had never seen before stretched beyond it.
Narrower.
Darker.
"This concludes the trial," the instructor said.
He stepped aside.
"From now on," he continued, "every mistake will be recorded."
Gunther stepped into the corridor.
The pulse in his chest was calm.
For the first time since he had been chained,
he did not feel hunted.
He felt guided.
And that was far more dangerous.