The terrain stretched endlessly, a barren wasteland of red sand and fractured rock. It looked like Mars.
It felt like Mars.
And for all they knew, it could've been. Bootcamp simulations didn't come with welcome signs.
The moment the G.O.D. squad stepped through the tunnel, the world shifted.
A split-second flash of white engulfed them—then silence. When the light faded, they were no longer standing in the steel corridors of the tower. The environment had morphed completely.
Endless stretches of scorched terrain spread before them, a sunburnt island swathed in red-orange sand. Jagged cliffs shimmered in the distance beneath twin suns, their oppressive heat pressing down like a physical force.
Before anyone could make sense of it, their mission interface pinged. Bright glyphs bloomed across their visors, transmitting data directly to their HUDs.
Then, a voice followed—clean, mechanical, female. It reverberated inside their systems with unsettling calm.
"Welcome, participants, to the Tower Bootcamp. You are now on Solar Storm Island. Your objective: survive and cleanse the island of all threats. Time limit: forty-eight hours. Failure conditions: squad elimination or mission timeout."
At the same moment, a folder labeled [Bootcamp] blinked onto each of their mission consoles. As if on cue, every squad member tapped into it.
########
Current Location: Solar Storm Island
Mission Type: Survival and Threat Neutralization
Deadline: 48 Hours
Primary Objective:
– Survive ten waves of threat-level cleanses
– Each completed wave reveals a new portion of the island map
– Total squad survival is mandatory. If any member is eliminated, mission fails
Reward: Floor Entry Pass
Bonus: Mission Points (used for Floor 49 access priority)
Survival Rate: 51%
Mission Completion Rate: 23.1%
########
Cason frowned not at the survival rate nor the mission completion rate but more at the vague wording. "A 'cleanup'? That's the vaguest mission briefing I've ever seen."
He swept his gaze across the lifeless horizon—nothing but crimson sand dunes and atmospheric haze. "Clean what? There's nothing here but heatstroke."
Without wasting time, he signaled with two fingers, motioning toward the forward path.
"Trevor, you're lead scout. Perimeter scans every two hundred meters—continuous loop. I want a full diagnostic sweep of this terrain. No blind spots," Cason ordered, eyes sharp beneath the visor.
He turned to his second. "Conrad, time to put that Visionary Architect class to work. Assist Mika. I want a recon drone—model it after Noah's if possible. Something fast, silent, and efficient."
"Understood, Captain." Conrad nodded, retrieving a gleaming Data Crystal from his side pack. He crushed it between his gauntlets, triggering a projection of schematics midair. Light stitched together as code solidified, and a drone began to materialize—its frame angular, design sleek and clearly inspired by Noah's tech signature.
Trevor was already ahead, sweeping his scanner across the horizon. Blue diagnostic light pulsed rhythmically over his armor as he recalibrated the frequency, switching to high-gain wave detection. A soft chime confirmed the sync between the newly formed drone and his scanner.
"We're linked. Scanning now," Trevor muttered, voice low but focused.
Cason turned to the others. "Minimal shields only. Don't burn unnecessary core power. Stay alert, but don't engage unless provoked. This smells like a setup."
The squad nodded in sync, quickly adjusting their configurations.
Then, with a lopsided grin, Cason added, "Alright team, let's take a walk and enjoy the island breeze—what's left of it anyway. I haven't had a decent vacation in years. Let's call this our mandatory team-building retreat."
A few chuckles rippled through the comms, lightening the tension. Even under the threat of unknown enemies and oppressive heat, Cason's dry humor cut through the dread like a cool wind.
"Plasma tanning and sand exfoliation, anyone?" Conrad murmured.
"Only if it comes with a cocktail," Trevor replied, already sending a conjured recon drone ahead to scout for anomalies.
But beneath the banter, the squad moved with precise discipline, their boots crunching across the red terrain. Their plasma weapons dormant but ready, armor humming with standby energy.
They were professionals.
And if Solar Storm Island wanted a fight, it would get one.
Cason felt a bead of sweat crawl down the side of his face as he tread through the desert, cutting through the dust that had settled on his visor.
His armor—top-tier GE-issued, resistant to extreme temperatures—should've handled this.
But the heat here was different.
This wasn't just environmental; it was oppressive, like the desert itself was trying to cook them alive from the inside out.
Around him, the rest of the G.O.D. squad was silent but visibly strained. Their sleek, jet-black plasma suits were now tinged with a fine layer of crimson dust, the once-pristine armor dulled by the relentless sweep of the red terrain.
Seven elite S-rank awakeners, and even they looked like they were baking inside their gear.
They'd been walking for hours. The mission timer burned steadily on their HUD, a cruel reminder pulsing in the corner of their visors—this wasn't really a vacation. It was a countdown to survival.
Cason's voice broke the tense silence. "Goddammit! What the hell is this place? Why is the cooling system acting like it's on vacation too?"
He glanced to his right. Conrad stood like a sentinel, unfazed. But even he couldn't hide the heat shimmer rising from his armor.
"Captain," Conrad said, his voice clipped through the comms, "The Lord sent a message."
Cason's eyes narrowed. "My father? What now?"
"He wants information on Noah Adler."
Cason's jaw twitched. "Noah? Why?"
Conrad didn't answer right away. He simply opened his arm console, typing into the holographic interface as lines of secured data scrolled across the screen.
Cason exhaled through his nose, frustration simmering. Why would his father—who barely gave a damn about field ops—be interested in a rookie? Unless...
"He probably wants to scout him," Cason grinned. "Figures. The old man's always had a thing for useful anomalies. Send the data. He'll want full family records."
"Already on it," Conrad replied.
As they pressed deeper into the red expanse, the silence became heavier. The environment didn't shift. No terrain changes. No monsters. No objectives. It was like walking through a looped simulation. Time stretched.
Cason clenched his fists. He needed conflict. Needed momentum. Anything but this slow rot. Even a full-on beast raid would be better than—
"Captain," one of the scouts he assigned called out, pointing to the horizon. "We've got movement. Fast."
Cason's face lit up with the kind of grin that usually meant violence was imminent. "Finally. I was starting to feel like we were sightseeing."
The squad adjusted formation. Armors clicked into defense mode. Shields primed to the bare minimum. Plasma weapons ready.
Then they saw it.
Not a monster.
Not a creature.
A sandstorm—but not just any sandstorm.