[Southern Border City in 5 minutes]
[This is the final station, all passengers please alight]
[Thank you for riding with RCUM]
[We wish to see you again]
Markus sat up as the first-class seat smoothly transitioned from its fully reclined position back to a vertical tilt. The announcement echoed through the soundproofed cabin, but his 80-point Perception had already detected the change in the train's magnetic frequency.
He felt grounded for the first time since the Iron-Root Glade, his internal mana wells beginning to brim with a steady, calm energy. He was no longer hunted in a green hell; he was a grandson returning to his family.
**
As Markus stepped onto the platform, the southern air greeted him with a parched, uncompromising heat that tasted of dust and distant pine. The vibrant street markets of the capital were nowhere to be found; here, the arid climate had driven the vendors into the shadows, leaving the wide thoroughfares quiet and scorched.
He signaled a taxicab, the vehicle's plating scarred by the abrasive winds. "The Military Headquarters," he instructed, his voice low. He wasn't headed for a common inn, but to the fortified heart of the borderlands where his grandparents maintained their watch.
The cab pulled up to the gates of a building that was less of a structure and more of a statement. The headquarters loomed over the arid city, its sheer walls reflecting the harsh sun with a metallic, unfriendly glint.
It stood out like a sore thumb, but a dangerous one—studded with Tier 4 sentry towers and heavy-duty shield generators. For Markus, returning here was a return to the source of his survivalist instincts; the fortress was a physical manifestation of the high-stakes world-building he lived every day.
The duty guard stepped forward, his expression hardening as he prepared to halt the intruder. Before he could utter a word, the "ping" of the badge reader cut through the silence. The light on the scanner flickered from a hostile red to a welcoming emerald, and the heavy doors slid open without resistance.
The guard stood paralyzed for a moment, staring at the retreating back of a student who held the keys to the Empire's most secure fortress. He blinked, adjusted his helmet, and retreated to his station, struggling to comprehend what he had just witnessed.
"Seems like anyone can get clearance these days," the guard grumbled to himself, settling back into his post. In his mind, Markus was just another entitled youth looking like he'd barely hit his fifteenth year.
To the guard, it wasn't a sign of respect—it was a sign that the world was changing too fast for an old soldier to follow.
Markus approached the reception desk, where a woman sat framed by monitors and scrolling military manifests. "Could you direct me to the quarters of Sloane and Isolde Blackwell?" he asked, his voice steady despite the day's exhaustion.
The receptionist didn't look up from her screen. "Appointment or official summons? We don't allow walk-ins."
"Consider this a personal surprise," Markus replied. He reached up and unhooked the straps of his mask. As the fabric fell, revealing his sharp features and the calm intensity in his gaze, the woman's professional mask shattered. She gasped, her eyes widening as she recognized the face that had dominated the feeds during the inter-school friendlies. "M-Markus Blackwell? My apologies, sir. Give me a moment to verify their location."
"The eighth floor," she said, pointing toward the restricted elevators. "They're in the command room."
Markus gave her a brief, grateful smile. "Thanks. Have a great day."
He tapped his badge, and the elevator recognized the priority signature, bypassing the general floors to head straight for the top.
He stood alone in the lift, watching his reflection in the polished steel—no longer just a "kid" who looked fifteen, but the prodigal grandson returning to his loving grandparents.
**
Markus gave the heavy door two quick, confident knocks before stepping inside.
"Who's knocking at this hour? I'm busy!" Sloane barked, his eyes never leaving the reports on his desk.
The doors parted, and Markus stepped into the light, his black uniform making him look every bit the professional hunter he had become.
"MARKUS!!" Sloane's shout echoed off the reinforced walls as he surged to his feet. Isolde turned, her face lighting up with a shock that quickly turned to pure radiance. She reached him in seconds, pulling him into a tight, grounding hug.
"Surprise visit," Markus said, leaning into the embrace. "I figured the South could use a little celebrity power."
Isolde closed the terminal with a definitive click. "Let's take the day off," she said, her eyes softening as she looked at Markus. "We're leaving. Now."
She didn't give Sloane a chance to argue about his pending reports; she simply ushered both men out the door, her pace brisk and purposeful. As they walked through the obsidian hallways, the rigid military discipline of the building seemed to soften around them. Markus felt the weight, replaced by the simple, grounding reality of being a grandson again.
They swapped the command room for a comfortable sedan, driving out into the parched southern night.
The destination was a city landmark: Franklin's Barbeque.
[Franklin's Barbeque]
A massive neon sign lit up the block, but the real draw was the row of smoking pits in the back, breathing out clouds of savory, wood-fired perfume.
Franklin's was known as the best joint in the sector, a place where rank didn't matter as much as the quality of the brisket.
The manager, catching the distinctive matte finish of the military sedan in his peripheral vision, didn't wait for his hosts to approach. He hurried across the lot, tablet in hand, his pace urgent and professional.
As the window glided down, Sloane's weathered face appeared. "A private booth for three, if you please," the Commander rumbled.
The manager offered a sharp, respectful nod—he knew better than to keep a Blackwell waiting in the open. He retreated into the building in a blur of activity, clearing a secluded corner booth tucked far away from the boisterous main floor, ensuring the city's defenders could dine in the shadows.
Markus stepped out of the car, the scent of the char hitting him like a physical wave, grounding him immediately.
Markus kept the mask on through the lobby, but the second they were alone in the booth, he stripped it off. He tossed the piece of gear onto the table, the cool air of the room hitting his skin like a benediction.
The manager stood still as a statue, his breath hitching in his throat. He had spent years serving the elite of the Southern Command, but the presence emanating from the young man in the black uniform was on a different scale entirely.
The realization hit him like a physical blow: he was standing before Markus Blackwell. As the mask dropped, the room felt smaller, charged with the same electric tension found in the final battles of Markus's inter-school friendlies.
The man remained frozen, his mind racing to ensure the service was nothing short of perfection for the strongest talent of the new era.
Sloane didn't just order; he demanded. "Three pounds of every meat you've got—brisket, spare ribs, pulled pork, turkey, and both sausages. Make sure there's a beef rib in there, too. We'll need ten sandwiches total: three brisket, two pulled pork, one turkey, and two chopped beef. Get some potato salad on the table, and have three pecan pies ready for the end. Oh, and the tea better be sweet and never-ending." He shut the menu with a definitive thwack.
It was an absurd amount of food for three people, but for a family of high-tier awakeners who spent their lives fighting, it was just Tuesday night.
The manager's fingers blurred across the tablet's screen, his professional training barely containing the tremor in his hands as he finalized the massive logistical order. "We will have the iced tea out immediately, sirs—iced and bottomless," he stammered, offering a bow that was deeper than necessary for a barbecue joint.
He beat a hasty retreat, his heart hammering against his ribs. The moment he cleared the booth's soundproofing, he didn't head for the kitchen; he made a beeline for the back office to call the owner.
The message was simple: The strongest talent in decades had just graced Franklin's with his presence.