[Location: AUN Military Training Grounds – six months Later]

  The training field stretched under the pale morning sun, a vast expanse of dirt and gravel littered with combat dummies, weapon racks, and exhausted cadets. Six months. six months days of relentless drills, combat exercises, and survival training.

  By now, James and his squad were no longer the same raw recruits who had first held their weapons with uncertainty. They had been broken down, reshaped, and reforged into something sharper—something deadlier.

  Commander Rourke stood on the sidelines, his arms crossed as he observed the group’s progress. His expression was unreadable, but his sharp gaze tracked every movement, very reaction.

  James – The Adaptive Fighter

  James tightened his grip around his short blade, exhaling slowly. The weapon no longer felt foreign in his hands. It was his.

  His stance had improved—lower, balanced, ready to move. Every strike was precise, controlled, his body reacting on instinct rather than thought. He had learned to use his speed and adaptability to turn an opponent’s strength against them.

  A training dummy lunged at him—mechanized, fast, designed to mimic real enemies.

  James sidestepped, blade flashing in a sharp arc. The hum of energy-infused metal met synthetic flesh. A clean cut. One strike, one kill.

  His breathing was even, his eyes locked onto the next opponent without hesitation. No wasted movement. No fear.

  Amanda – The Spear Dancer

  A few feet away, Amanda spun her lightweight spear with practiced ease. Her footwork had become fluid—each step measured, each movement part of a seamless dance.

  A sparring partner lunged at her.

  She twisted, the spearhead gliding past the attack like water slipping through fingers. Then, with a sharp pivot, she struck. A swift thrust to the ribs, followed by a spinning sweep to the legs.

  Her opponent hit the ground hard.

  Amanda didn’t stop. She reset her stance immediately, spear held firm, her sharp eyes scanning for the next attack. She had learned to control distance—to keep enemies at bay, never letting them close enough to land a strike.

  Her movements were fast, efficient, untouchable.

  William – The Phantom Daggers

  William was nowhere to be seen—until he moved.

  His daggers were an extension of his body now, the twin blades flashing in and out of sight as he weaved between training dummies with unnatural speed.

  A target turned to attack—too slow. William was already behind him.

  A quick, silent slash across the back of the knee. The target staggered. Before it could recover, a second blade found its mark in the throat.

  Even as his opponents fell, William’s breathing remained steady. His reflexes were sharp, his attacks unpredictable. He had learned to fight in the shadows, striking before the enemy even knew he was there.

  Jonathan – The Unstoppable Force

  Jonathan had transformed into a living war machine.

  His battle-ax was no longer just a weapon—it was an extension of his brute strength. He no longer swung it wildly; each strike was calculated, devastating.

  A training dummy charged at him.

  Jonathan didn’t dodge. He stepped forward.

  With a powerful overhead swing, his ax came down like a guillotine. The sheer force split the dummy in half, sparks flying as the energy-infused metal met resistance—and tore through it like paper.

  Despite his size, Jonathan had learned control. His swings were no longer reckless—they were measured, powerful, unstoppable.

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  Sophia – The Perfect Counter

  Sophia stood calm, composed, patient.

  Her curved saber was light, elegant—made for precision, not brute force. Unlike the others, she didn’t go on the offensive first. Instead, she waited.

  Her opponent lunged.

  She stepped back, just enough to avoid the strike. A fraction of a second later, she countered—one swift slash across the opponent’s exposed flank.

  Another attack came. She didn’t panic.

  She dodged, turning the opponent’s own momentum against them. A feint, a sidestep, a final, precise cut.

  She didn’t just react—she predicted, she controlled the fight before it even began.

  Sam – The Iron Wall

  Sam had become their shield.

  His choice of weapon—a heavy longsword, meant for both attack and defense. Unlike the others, he didn’t dodge.

  He blocked.

  A combat dummy swung at him. He raised his blade, absorbing the impact with his stance. His arms didn’t tremble, his footing remained firm.

  The moment the opponent recoiled, he countered with a brutal downward slash. A single strike—it was over.

  Sam had learned to take hits, to endure. He was their front line, the one who would stand his ground no matter what.

  The Test Begins

  The cadets stood together, sweat glistening on their skin, chests rising and falling with exertion. Their weapons—once foreign objects, now a part of them.

  That’s when the doors to the training hall slammed open.

  Trainer Vincent stepped in, a cold smirk on his face. Behind him, a group of senior officers followed. He tossed a map onto the table.

  "This is your first survival mission," he said.

  James and his squad gathered around, eyes narrowing.

  "Your objective: Survive three days in enemy territory. Retrieve a hidden token deep within the combat zone."

  Murmurs spread through the room.

  "Enemies will be hunting you," Vincent continued, his voice utterly unconcerned. "And if you fail…" His eyes gleamed with amusement.

  "You’re out."

  The air in the room grew heavy.

  "If you die…" He shrugged. "Well, then you were never meant to be here."

  Silence.

  Then—Jonathan cracked his knuckles. Amanda gripped her spear a little tighter. William smirked. Sophia’s eyes sharpened. Sam exhaled, steady as ever.

  And James?

  He simply smiled.

  The test had begun.

  [Location: Warden Gregory’s Office – Late Evening]

  The dim glow of an overhead lamp cast long shadows across the cluttered wooden desk. Warden Gregory, a broad-shouldered man , sat behind it, flipping through a thick file. His uniform was crisp, but his eyes—sharp and calculating—held the weight of years spent molding soldiers from raw recruits.

  Across from him, Trainer Vincent stood with a relaxed yet controlled posture. His uniform bore the faint scent of sweat and dust from the training grounds, and his knuckles were still bruised from the day's drills. He waited in silence as Gregory skimmed through the monthly evaluation report.

  The warden sighed, rubbing his temple.

  “These new cadets…” Gregory muttered, flipping a page. “We’ve lost ten in the past three weeks. Eight dropped out. Two injured beyond recovery.” He looked up, pinning Vincent with a hard stare. “Tell me you have something good to report.”

  Vincent smirked, crossing his arms. “Depends on your definition of ‘good.’”

  Gregory raised a brow. “Go on.”

  Vincent reached into his jacket, pulled out a smaller folder, and set it on the desk. “This batch is rough around the edges, but there are six you should keep an eye on.” He tapped the file. “James Conor and his squad.”

  Gregory frowned, flipping the folder open. “Conor?” His gaze skimmed the names—Amanda, William, Jonathan, Sam, Sophia.

  Vincent leaned against the chair opposite the desk, his expression unreadable. “They’re progressing faster than expected. Faster than they should be.”

  Gregory grunted. “So? Every batch has its outliers.”

  Vincent shook his head. “Not like this.” He hesitated for a moment before exhaling. “There was a sparring match last week. James was pitted against a second-year.”

  Gregory leaned back, folding his hands. “And?”

  Vincent’s jaw tightened. “He should have lost in seconds.” His eyes darkened as he recalled the match. “The second-year had everything—height, reach, experience. But James… he moved like he’d been fighting for years.”

  Gregory’s gaze sharpened. “Explain.”

  Vincent pushed off the chair and took a slow step forward. “It wasn’t skill—it was instinct. His body reacted before his mind could catch up. He dodged, countered, recovered in ways that shouldn’t be possible for someone at his level.”

  Gregory studied Vincent’s expression, noting the unspoken weight behind his words. He didn’t interrupt.

  Vincent continued, voice lower. “For a moment… I swear, you could have confused him for an awakened.”

  Silence stretched between them.

  Gregory’s fingers drummed against the desk. “You sure?”

  Vincent’s gaze didn’t waver. “I know what I saw.”

  Gregory exhaled through his nose, deep in thought. “That’s… concerning.” He leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “What do you think it means?”

  Vincent hesitated. “Could be nothing. Could be everything.” He glanced at the closed door, then lowered his voice. “You and I both know awakeners aren’t supposed to appear in forced-awakening training. And yet… James moves like he already has something.”

  Gregory studied him for a long moment before sighing. He leaned back, rubbing his chin. “So, what do you propose?”

  Vincent straightened. “Push him harder.”

  Gregory raised a brow.

  Vincent crossed his arms again. “I’ve already been upping the intensity. He adapts too fast. Every time I throw something new at him, he picks it up like it’s second nature. If we don’t test his limits now, we’ll never understand what makes him different.”

  Gregory let out a low chuckle. “You always did have a thing for breaking recruits.”

  Vincent smirked. “And you always did have a thing for building weapons out of them.”

  Gregory’s smirk faded as he tapped the file. “Fine. Keep pushing him. But be discreet.” He glanced at Vincent, his tone suddenly serious. “And if he really is something more?”

  Vincent’s smirk disappeared. He met Gregory’s gaze. “Then we report it. But not a second before we know for sure.”

  Gregory exhaled, rubbing his temple. “You’re playing a dangerous game, Vincent.”

  Vincent shrugged, heading for the door. “The best ones always are.”

  As he stepped out, Gregory stared at the file for a long moment before finally closing it.

  James Conor.

  He’d be watching..