Screams echoed through the lower halls like a lullaby for the damned. The walls were thick, the doors reinforced with steel, but no amount of engineering could completely muffle the sound of breaking bones or strangled cries. The facility had long grown used to the sounds. The children were expected to do the same.
Some didn't survive the week.
Others lived long enough to regret it.
New batches of children arrived every few months—silent, crying, or unconscious. Some were barely old enough to open their eyes. Some were already scarred. Most didn't understand where they were, not yet. By the time they did, it was too late to be anything else but property.
Once they turned six, the regime shifted.
That's when the martial training began. Every child, regardless of their condition, was expected to strengthen their body. Kicks, punches, posture, breathing. Blood was a daily occurrence. If one cried, they were mocked. If one collapsed, they were dragged out and replaced. The researchers preached: What use is engineered blood if the body is too soft to carry it?
The guards often took sick pleasure in ordering some of the children to fight—especially those with low compatibility scores. A twisted game. They watched as terrified children faced off, knowing that failure meant punishment or erasure. Kill or be discarded. That was the game.
The older ones learned not to hesitate. The younger ones learned to shut their eyes when blood sprayed their faces.
In one of the learning halls, the lights buzzed overhead. A line of children sat on the cold floor, backs straight, lips sealed. They wore identical gray clothing, each with their code embroidered at the collar. From the doorway entered a tall woman in a black uniform. Sharp lines, dark gloves, gray eyes that never seemed to focus on anyone.
Marla.
She wasn't called a teacher. She was the "nurturer." But there was no care in her tone. No warmth. She never smiled. Never asked if anyone understood. She was just there—another part of the system.
She opened her worn notebook and began to speak, not looking up once.
"The Stella Empire is 650 years old," she said dryly. "Founded in the ashes of fractured tribes and civil war. The first emperor was Varen Stellare. A man who claimed divine right after uniting the warlords with fire and iron. He didn't win through kindness. He crushed resistance and rebuilt the kingdom in his image."
She flipped the page. The children didn't move.
"Stellare is the imperial family name. It has remained for 36 generations."
A child in the third row blinked, his lips parting slightly before he stopped himself.
Marla looked up. "Speak."
He hesitated. "Who is the emperor now?"
Her eyes narrowed, not with judgment—just impatience. "Emperor Arkanos Stellar III. Born from the third consort, he seized the throne 27 years ago after the death of his elder brother. Officially, it was illness."
A murmur passed among the children. No one dared ask more. Except one.
"Why are we here?" a girl from chamber 8 asked. "Why make children into soldiers?"
Marla closed her book.
"Because children don't question orders for long," she said. "You're easier to break. Easier to shape. Some of you will die. Some will be turned into tools. Weapons. Some may even become… puppets."
Her voice dipped, colder than the metal walls.
"And that's not uncommon."
She stepped forward, her boots echoing with sharp taps.
"You exist because the Empire has enemies. The Majin Empire in the west with their cursed blood. The Uran Republic in the north, ruled by a man who pretends he's not a tyrant. And in the south, we—the great Stella Empire—hold the border."
She didn't name the other empires this time. Not because she forgot. But because she didn't care to.
"Our empire is the strongest. Not because of peace. Because of conquest. Because of research. Because you exist."
She walked toward the door.
"No more questions. Breathe. Sleep. Survive."
As she left, the children returned to silence. They knew better than to hope for kindness from the world beyond those metal walls.