Faction Choice
The air inside the Grand Assembly Hall buzzed with a tension that could not be seen. Dozens of cadets sat rigid as boards in the giant tiered auditorium, their faces masks of control, but beneath it all, seething.
Faction choice continued.
The lofty banners of the five corps danced high above the stage, each a different ideology, a different vision for the future of humanity.
Command Corps: The fast, cutting intellect. Strategists, tacticians, future admirals.
Vanguard Corps: The sword and shield. Shock troopers, boarding parties, those who would first and most often spill blood.
Cipher Corps: The invisible hand. Spies, saboteurs, men of brains.
Ironborn Corps: The hammer and the wall. Engineers, ground troops, masters of logistics.
Dynast Corps: The nobility. Scions of old money and blood, schooled in political warfare and intrigue.
Each of the corps had its recruiters stationed about the hall, standing like wolves choosing prey.
---
Kale Drayen sat frozen in his seat, eyes cold and distant. Cadets around him were already whispering, making bargains, forming secret alliances. Some tried to conceal their ambitions; others waved them like banners.
Cassian Dorne stepped forward first, walking confidently up to the Dynast recruiters, the emblem of his house embroidered loudly on his uniform cuff. Dynast officers smiled graciously, as if his choice had already been made.
A few rows to her left, Lie Cadence hesitated for a split second, her eyes flashing toward Vanguard and then Cipher before finally landing on Cipher with a hard, calculating stare.
The mob grumbled.
Kale remained still.
He observed.
He analyzed.
Watching who clung to what. He watched groups forming already. Militia-born cadets gravitated toward Vanguard or Ironborn. Upper-class Earthborns moved toward Command or Dynast. Cipher attracted the introverts, the misfits, the ones whose smiles did not reach their eyes.
Kora slipped in silently, locating the Cypher line, a step or two behind Ox, who cracked his knuckles and grinned as he chose Vanguard. Loyal, both of them. Kale documented it expressionlessly.
---
"The corps you join today," an old, grizzled Command officer bellowed from the stage, "will not only decide your career—but whether you live or die."
Nobody laughed. Everybody had heard the rumors: border wars, attrition rates, the increasing ferocity of alien attacks. Nobody needed reminding.
---
Cutaway Scene - Border Wars
In the bitter orbit of a shattered moon, the UNS Resolute fought for its life.
Drekkari alien ships, harsh and cruel, shredded into human formations. They radiated bizarre purple energy as they crashed and stormed aboard, pursuing close combat massacres. Marines fought frantically down the corridors, rifles and blades against Drekkari bone-blades.
At the bridge of the Resolute, an ensign yelped into a comm console. "Where is our backup? They're breaching Deck 5!"
No reply.
The humans alone engaged.
---
There was additional selection in the Assembly Hall.
Kale stood last.
The hall grew quiet, briefly. Eyes trailed him, open and hidden. Enemies, potential allies, secret enemies.
He did not delay.
Command Corps.
He walked across the floor softly, neither fast, nor slow, his presence a verbal challenge. The Command officers watched him coming, their faces unreadable.
Some Dynast cadets scowled.
Cassian Dorne smiled to another Dynast, saying something that caused them to laugh.
Kale filed the slight away for later.
The Command officer at the table—a grizzled veteran with a face lined by decades of war—nodded approvingly as Kale signed his name.
"You'll be watched closely, Cadet Drayen," the officer murmured, too low for others to hear. "Success has enemies."
Kale didn't reply. He simply nodded, the corner of his mouth curving into the barest hint of a smile.
He was counting on it.
---
Instructor Observation Deck
Behind the reflective glass, senior trainers and Fleet officers observed the decision in silence.
"Drayen's move was to be expected," growled Rear Admiral Voss, arms crossed over his chest.
"Command Corps," another added. "And already he has enemies. Dorne won't forget the humiliation Drayen put on this soldier during the last training maneuvers."
"Good," said a stern-faced Colonel of the Vanguard Corps. "Pressure is what makes true leaders."
There followed a moment of pregnant silence.
Then Voss went on, "The border fronts will not wait for politics. We require wolves, not coddled heirs."
There was a silent consensus that spread through the room.
---
By the end of the day, the cadets were grouped together under their banners of choice, a living landscape of ambition, fear, and desperation.
Factions had been defined.
But the real war between them was only just starting.
The lecture hall hummed with a heavy undertone of tension.
Dozens of cadets had finally made up their minds, standing now under the colors of their chosen Corps: Command, Vanguard, Cipher, Ironborn, or Dynast.
There were five giant banners hanging under the vaulted ceiling, and they rippled gently as if stirred by gentle breezes. Each was symbolic, a badge of intent — and a threat of war upon their foes.
Kale Drayen was one of the recently commissioned Command Corps cadets. His uniform was black, but his stance was lax, alert. His silver eyes scanned the room, everything in, nothing out.
"Now the games begin," he mused.
Ahead of them, Captain Rygar — the massive man with his thick scarring and iron-gray hair — took a step forward to address them.
This," he announced, voice ringing off the old stone walls, "is the true start of your lives as officers."
The room went quiet. Even the most conceited Dynast-born cadets straightened under that gaze.
Rygar pointed to the banners in turn.
"Command Corps," he began, his tone as unyielding as a hammer striking steel, "You are commanders. Strategists. You will command ships, fleets, divisions. Efficiency and victory are your mantra at any cost. You will make decisions that will kill thousands. and you will have to bear it alone."
Kale's chest was slightly constricted — not with fear, but with expectation.
He knew the cost of command. He had purchased it the moment he decided to leave the streets of Earth behind.
"Vanguard Corps," Rygar continued, his tone growing cold. "You are the hammer. Assault troops, shock troops, boarding actions. Where others might fail, you act. You will die first and break enemy lines first. Your watchword is courage, sacrifice, and unbroken will."
Down the corridor, the Vanguard cadets — bulkier, already battle-scarred from previous drills — stood at attention.
Ox, Kale's buddy, was among them, his massive frame visible from across the room.
"Cipher Corps," Rygar recited, his voice now a different edge, nearly guarded. "Information. Infiltration. Sabotage. You are the silent blade. You will slice into the minds of alien peoples, shatter their command structures, and have their own people turn against them. You will do it unnoticed. Or you will not return at all."
A shiver ran through some of the cadets.
The Cipher unit was small but lethal.
Kora stood among them, her hair red and bound back, her face a mask of calm determination.
"Ironborn Corps," Rygar declared, moving over to the far right where the engineering-minded cadets were gathered. "Your hands will shape the future of war. Siege engines. Ship design. Defense fortresses. You will not fight with rifles, but with brilliance. Without you, fleets are nothing more than scrap metal waiting to plummet."
An angry murmur of pride arose from the Ironborn cadets — Luna, Titan, and the Belt colonies students mostly.
"Finally. the Dynasts," Rygar said, his voice dropping, almost contemptuous.
"You're born of privilege. Privileged to a place of power by blood, not merit. We'll see how your pride will survive exposure to reality. Remember this: in the void, family means nothing. Victory is all that matters."
The Dynast cadets bridled at the subtle, but nobody objected.
They wore their uniforms with quiet affluence — carefully tailored coats, flashing jewels beneath cover. Kale's perennial antagonist, Cassian Dorne, stood among them, arms folded, countenance a mask of contempt.
Rygar let the pause linger before giving his final nod.
"Your training now diverges. Each Corps will have its own challenges, its own culling. Only the fittest will graduate. The unfit will not be noticed."
He turned on his heel and left the stage.
A fresh instructor appeared — Lieutenant Voss, a younger man with cold blue eyes and a clipboard.
"We begin now," said Voss. "Each Corps to your own annexes. Varied curriculums. Varied dormitories."
The room erupted into controlled chaos as the cadets scattered, goaded by shouting aides.
Kale kept his measured stride as he walked toward the Command Corps annex.
Cassian proceeded in the same fashion toward the Dynast annex, but their eyes clashed for a moment — a silent statement.
This isn't over.
Not by a long shot.
---
Cut-in: Border Conflict Clip
> — Intercepted Fleet Report: 7th Frontier Defense Force — Sector Delta-7
"Enemy Jaru'Ka forces continue hit-and-fade operations against mining outposts. Estimated losses: 340 civilians, 75 security personnel.
Local commander seeks reinforcement — recommends Orbital Strike approval if outposts are indefensible."
Priority level: Increasing Threat.
UNS Response: Denied.
Reason: Resources redirected to Dynast Core Systems defense.
---
---
---
Back at the Academy:
As Kale and the others entered the Command Corps wing, a massive steel arch bearing the inscription "Victory Before All Else" loomed above them.
Inside, training was about to become hellish.
Sophisticated tactics. Fleet simulations. Live fire. Ethical paradox exercises.
Everything a commander would need — and none of it forgiving.
Already, instructors began bellowing orders.
"Drayen, Kale!" a voice barked. "Fleet simulation. Thirty minutes to devise a battle plan against superior enemy forces. No excuses."
Kale didn't flinch. He walked forward, his mind already racing.
There were no second chances at Blackthorn Academy.
You rose, or you were annihilated.
And Kale Drayen had no desire to go back down into the mud.
Not now.
Not ever.
---
"In war, the moral is to the physical as three is to one."
— Napoleon Bonaparte
---
[End of Chapter Quote]
> "The seed of victory is sown long before the battle is fought. It grows in quiet decisions, in silent resolve." —Unknown Fleet Officer
---
Short War Clip (Cutaway Scene)
(Location: Varnok Border War, Outpost Delta-Seven)
The cutaway scene ended with a desolate human outpost, charred to ash by alien flames.
A worn Marine captain shouted into a worn radio:
> "Varnok raiders! Say again: Varnok raiders within the wire! Request immediate evac—"
The signal was lost.
In the sky above the fire-wracked battlefield, deformed Varnok monsters stalked among the dead, their damp, insect-like bodies radiating a faint mechanical hum.
Outside the ruins, the emergency beacon on the UNS fleet flickered to life—pulsating in the infinite blackness.
The war moved closer. Faster.
---