My fate was sealed at the Ascendancy’s selection. For this, I praise His August Ascendancy.
It was the day I passed the second selection test. The orphanage director chuckled and patted my shoulder, his fingers bloated and greasy—a testament to how well he’d stuffed his own belly over the years.
“You’re going to be the masterpiece of our orphanage, Cole.”
The director was a greedy pig, but he had an eye for talent. Three years later, when I turned fifteen and became a cadet in the Aegis Phalanx, his words proved true.
The day I left the slums of the lower sector was the day I underwent a baptism of steel. August scientists severed my limbs and replaced them with cybernetic prosthetics—gleaming artificial arms and legs, a luxury most citizens of my station would never even see, let alone possess.
With them, I could shatter boulders, bend steel with my bare hands, and clear a two-story building in a single leap.
“The Irregular of Directive 72.”
That’s what people called me. It was rare for anyone from the double-digit orphanages to ascend to the ranks of the Aegis Phalanx.
The vast majority of Aegis Phalanx cadets hailed from prestigious single-digit orphanages or the highborn houses of the nobility.
Still, there was officially no class-based discrimination in the selection of cadets for the Guard.
It was, they claimed, simply a matter of capability.
Those with better genes, raised in superior environments, naturally possessed superior abilities. That was the simple, unassailable truth of the Ascendancy.
Occasionally, someone like me—an “irregular”—would defy the odds. But in the grand scheme of things, our existence was a statistical anomaly, little more than a rounding error.
“The upper echelons might call you an ‘irregular,’ but do you know what they really call people like you?”
The Legatus of the Aegis Phalanx looked down at me during the interview, not waiting for a response.
“...They call you a genius. Someone who defies natural limitations and adverse conditions to produce an outcome that logic says should not exist.”
I did not smile at the praise.
“I am merely a loyal servant of the Ascendancy and His August Ascendancy,” I replied, placing a hand over my heart.
“A model answer, Cole.” The corners of the Legatus’s eyes glowed with an icy blue light. His name was Cassian Voronov, and he was one of the Ascendancy’s strongest soldiers.
“...Thank you, Legatus.”
A sudden wave of deference washed over me, and I found it difficult to meet his gaze.
“It’s fine to be exceptional, Cole, but don’t be different. Not if you want to live a long life.”
With that cryptic piece of advice, the interview was over.
For four years, the Aegis Phalanx Academy was my home. The first year of cadet life passed in a blur of relentless training, so intense the days bled into one another. I would open my eyes in a barracks cot at dawn to begin training, and I would collapse into it each night, only to find morning had already come again.
An Aegis Phalanx was expected to master every combat discipline of the Ascendancy and demonstrate proficiency with all its military hardware. Swordsmanship, spear work, marksmanship—these were the fundamentals. We were trained to be experts in the operation of every class of heavy weaponry and equipment.
Every quarter, our nervous systems were tested for compatibility and pushed to their limits, my prosthetics replaced with progressively higher-grade versions. It was a gradual process of increasing the energy output, forcing our bodies to adapt to the strain of high-performance cybernetics. Through this cycle of upgrades and adaptations, we would eventually earn the right to pilot the Phalanx—the exclusive combat armor of the Aegis Phalanx.
“Today is an important day for all of you. Think of it as a midterm assessment.”
On the final day of our first year, the Legatus gathered us in an underground coliseum, a sprawling space built to resemble ruins from ancient Terra Prima.
Forty of us, myself included, stood at perfect attention, waiting for the Legatus to continue.
“His August Ascendancy, the Archon...” he began, gesturing toward a wall of opaque glass on the upper level. He informed us that the current Archon, Caius Kallos, and the imperial family were watching from behind it.
A few cadets murmured prayers of praise for Hadrian Kallos, the founder of our Ascendancy—the First Archon, the Architect of the State, the Shield of Mankind. Though he had been dead for centuries, the founder was still venerated as a god.
“...and under their watchful eyes, you will demonstrate your abilities.”
Across the coliseum, a group of condemned prisoners shuffled into view. Our opponents: armed, death-row convicts.
“You may choose any weapon you like,” the Legatus said, gesturing to a rack lining the wall. It held swords, spears, and an assortment of firearms. Only one cadet chose a gun. I spared a curious glance for the outlier before turning my attention away.
I drew a sword. The blade was a featureless sliver of metal, its edge a monomolecular layer capable of shearing through steel plate.
While an Aegis Phalanx had to be proficient with every weapon, melee combat—especially with swords and spears—was held in the highest esteem.
On the modern battlefield, melee weapons were impractical unless wielded by a transcendent talent. For the common soldier, a firearm was infinitely more efficient.
This was precisely why the Aegis Phalanx specialized in them. It was a point of pride that they could defeat a rifleman with nothing more than a blade.
A gate groaned open on the far side of the arena, and five armed convicts stepped onto the coarse sand.
One by one, the cadets took their turns, stepping forward to face the condemned. I watched every duel from the sidelines, waiting for my name to be called.
None of the cadets died, but many who succeeded in killing their opponents suffered severe injuries in the process. A simple lack of skill was often to blame.
Soon, it was nearly my turn. The cadet called before me was the one who had chosen the gun.
“So, a firearm,” the Legatus remarked, his gaze settling on the unusual cadet. “If you’re confident in your choice, then proceed.”
After a year of training alongside him, I knew his abilities. He hadn't chosen a gun out of cowardice; he was exceptionally skilled with one.
The cadet entered the arena.
Bang!
A gunshot echoed instantly. He had chosen the gun for a reason. He moved with a fluid, almost dance-like grace, his shots ringing out in a precise rhythm.
Clang!
He fired without even looking, his bullet intercepting one fired by a convict. It wasn’t luck. It was calculated precision, a technique that allowed him to shoot enemy projectiles out of the air.
“Ah, as expected.”
“That’s House Spero for you.” The other cadets murmured in admiration.
Soon, he had closed the distance. The convicts, thoroughly demoralized, were pulling their triggers on empty magazines.
Impressive. He had demonstrated an overwhelming gap in skill, subduing them with absolute ease.
Bang!
He pressed the muzzle of his pistol to a convict’s forehead and fired. It was an execution, pure and simple, yet done with a firearm at point-blank range, it felt more like a statement.
Clap, clap, clap.
Polite applause echoed from behind the opaque glass. The cadet bowed deeply from the waist, a gesture of respect that would not be lost on the Archon.
If one were to use a gun, that was the level of mastery required. His performance left no room for doubt.
“Unfortunate, Cole. Comparisons are bound to be made,” the Legatus said with a smirk. A surge of defiance roared through me. I hated to admit it, but I had a temper.
“We’ll see who’s the unlucky one,” I retorted, then immediately wondered if I’d overstepped. I glanced at the Legatus, but he only laughed and shrugged.
Click.
The heavy gate swung shut behind me as I stepped into the arena, sealing off any chance of escape.
Either they all died, or I did. There were no other outcomes.
Zing.
I brought the sword up before my face. The low hum of its monomolecular edge was unsettlingly sharp.
Bullets are manageable. I can deflect them or dodge them. That was a basic competency for a full-fledged Aegis Phalanx. For a cadet, however, it was far from guaranteed. The injured I’d seen today were proof enough of that.
What I needed now was superhuman focus. Through chemical injections and repeated surgeries, our nervous systems had been enhanced. The side effects were unpleasant, but the drugs allowed us to enter an artificial state of heightened concentration, to achieve a state of accelerated thought processing usually only experienced in the final moments before death.
In the simulators, I’ve deflected multiple shots in a row. My skills are sufficient.
But nine times out of ten wasn’t good enough. In a real fight, one failure meant death. Only perfection made the skill viable.
The five convicts shuffled onto the sand, their breathing ragged. Terror was plain on their faces as their eyes darted toward the young cadet facing them.
It was the pressure of facing one of the Aegis Phalanx. Even as a mere cadet, the title alone was enough to demoralize them.
Click, click.
Safeties came off their firearms. We were locked in a standoff, a frozen moment where neither side dared to move.
I studied them. Their bodies were a patchwork of cheap, questionable cybernetics. Illegally modified limbs, asymmetrical and mismatched, left them looking lopsided and unbalanced.
They were barely functional. Unarmed, I could have killed all five with my eyes closed.
But they were holding guns. One lucky shot to the head or a vital organ, and I was dead. Complacency would be fatal.
I settled into my stance, blade held ready. As my eyes scanned the arena, my mind slipped into the state of combat-focused thought acceleration that had been drilled into me through countless hours of training.
The potential lines of fire from the five convicts painted a web of possibilities in my mind. Overlaying them revealed the gaps—a safe path I could exploit.
Of course, it was only a prediction. If I moved and was wrong, I would pay for my lack of skill with my life.
I have to trust my instincts and move. The decision took a fraction of a second. I kicked off the ground, and as if on cue, the world erupted in gunfire.
My high-performance prosthetics let me cover short distances faster than a ground vehicle.
Bang!
I ducked. A bullet seared the air inches from my head, close enough to feel the pressure wave against my hair. Death felt chillingly close.
But the thrill of the maneuver outweighed the fear. In that instant, I think I was smiling.
Bang!
More shots rang out. I wrenched my body sideways, changing direction so violently that my left ankle joint shrieked in protest. I heard the faint grind of components shifting out of place.
No time for minor issues. Ten more seconds. That’s all I needed.
I dropped into a slide to bleed off momentum, my fingertips digging into the sand as I launched myself forward again, losing almost no speed.
I closed the distance to the convict on the far right. He was within reach of my blade. My domain.
My arm blurred. The blade followed. Slice! The convict had no time to scream. His head slid cleanly from his shoulders, his mouth opening and closing like a landed fish.
One down. My endocrine system was chemically conditioned for combat; the guilt of killing was a faint flicker that vanished as quickly as it appeared.
I scanned the remaining convicts. Using the corpse at my feet as a shield would be the practical way to dispatch the rest.
But this is a demonstration. Survival wasn’t the only goal. I needed to catch the Archon’s eye. I remembered the cadet with the gun, his impossible trick shots.
Could I do something like that? I’d never tried it, but in that moment, it felt possible.
My senses sharpened to a razor's edge. The world snapped into focus, my awareness expanding into a three-dimensional map of the arena. I could track each enemy's position and predict their movements as if with radar. The potential trajectories of their bullets appeared in my mind’s eye as a thousand intersecting lines of light.
Time seemed to slow to a crawl.
I angled my sword forward, tilting the flat of the blade just so. Ting! A bullet struck the metal and ricocheted harmlessly away.
“Aaagh!” A scream tore through the air. The deflected bullet had pierced another convict’s eye. He collapsed, twitching on the sand.
I did it. But there was no time to celebrate. A fresh barrage of gunfire answered my success.
Ting! Tiiing!
I adjusted the angle of my blade again and again, deflecting bullet after bullet. Each projectile I turned aside became a weapon, twisting on its new trajectory to bury itself in the flesh of another convict.
My arm was a blur, moving so fast it seemed to leave afterimages. Sparks spit from my overloaded elbow joint. My eyes, locked open and unblinking, felt dry and raw.
A faint smile touched my lips. I was surpassing my limits. My value was rising.
But the neural fatigue is severe. My focus was fraying, my field of vision tunneling. I would need at least a full day of sleep to recover from this.
My ragged breathing was the only sound in the silent arena. I was the only one left standing. The convicts lay scattered around me, each with a fresh bullet hole in their head.
I felt like I was on the verge of collapse, but I forced the exhaustion down, locking my knees to stay upright.
Clap, clap, clap.
The same polite applause came from above. I bowed formally toward the unseen Archon.
Creak.
The gate opened. I walked back to where the Legatus and my fellow cadets were waiting.
“Ballistic trajectory control is not part of the standard cadet curriculum, is it?” the Legatus remarked, studying me. I hadn’t even known the technique had a name.
“I just... copied what the previous cadet did,” I replied honestly. There was no reason to lie, and besides, I just wanted to rest. I felt as if I could collapse at any moment, and that was no exaggeration.
“Lysander Spero is from a renowned household. He was taught the advanced curriculum privately. It’s a different matter entirely for a boy from the orphanages to use it.”
I wasn’t sure how to respond. Excessive modesty would seem false, but arrogance would be a mistake. It was a moment that required diplomacy, one of my weakest skills.
“I...” I began, but the Legatus cut me off with a firm pat on the shoulder.
“I’m not interrogating you, cadet. That was praise. Now go and get some rest. And don’t forget to have that leg repaired.”
I could feel the other cadets staring as I limped out into the hallway. My gait had devolved into a hobble; the internal mechanisms of my left leg felt completely wrecked.