The lie sat in Rickon's gut like a stone, a cold, weighty secret that drained the warmth from the alien sunlight.
All around him, silver grass swayed in a soundless, captivating rhythm, while the two suns cast the land in an uncanny twilight of gold and crimson.
The initial shock of the Awakenings was fading, replaced by a tense, electric buzz.
He saw aspirants gathering in uneasy clusters, their faces a turbulent mix of eager excitement, bitter disappointment, and unguarded greed.
Rickon kept his eyes down, his hand resting near the Nexus Interface on his arm as if to physically shield the world from the SSS-Grade truth it held.
He watched Ragnar clap Bran on the back, the big man's loud laugh the clear opposite of the quiet dread that still swam in the younger boy's eyes.
This was his team. A walking fortress of desperate muscle, a pair of sharp, calculating eyes, and a trembling but determined heart.
And him. The anomaly. The lie!
Just as the scattered groups were beginning to argue about what to do next, a sharp, metallic chime rang out from everyone's armband at once.
The sound sliced through the anxious chatter, and a heavy silence fell over the field of glowing grass.
A voice, sharp and clear, spoke directly from their wrists. It was cold, precise, and held no trace of human warmth. It was the voice of Chief Instructor Elara Rostova.
"Congratulations, aspirants. You have survived the transition. For most of you, this will be the last easy thing you ever do."
Her words hung in the strange, sweet-smelling air, each one a drop of ice on their skin.
"Your assessment officially begins now. You are at Level 0. You have exactly two weeks of this world's time to reach Level 2.
The minimum requirement to be considered a graduate of Vanguard Academy is to emerge from this initial trial with an Awakened Talent of at least D-Grade.
Those of you who have already met this standard are not safe. Your talents can be upgraded.
Those of you with F-Grades have a chance to climb. Failure to meet the D-Grade minimum by the end of the two weeks will result in your permanent elimination.
We do not carry dead weight back through the Verge."
A nervous ripple went through the crowd. Elimination. The word was so clean, so clinical, but its meaning was a cold dread that everyone understood perfectly.
Rostova's voice sliced through the murmurs again, somehow even colder than before.
"However, simple survival is not our primary objective. We are not here to create farmers or refugees.
We are here to forge weapons for Earth. Therefore, your performance is being monitored. Your kill counts are being tracked."
The atmosphere shifted instantly. The shared fear that had united them just a moment ago began to splinter, replaced by the sharp edges of individual ambition.
"Those who demonstrate exceptional combat prowess will earn special recognition upon your return," Rostova continued, a hint of cruel incentive lacing her tone.
"Higher kill counts mean access to better resources, advanced training, and a higher standing within the academy's hierarchy.
Power is not given, it is taken from the weak and the dead. Your final assessment starts now. Good hunting."
The transmission clicked off, leaving a ringing silence in its wake. For a heartbeat, the two thousand aspirants stood frozen. Then, the dam of discipline broke.
A savage roar erupted from a large, muscle-bound crew who called themselves the Iron Vultures, back in the academy.
Their leader, a brute with a fresh C-Grade talent for making his knuckles pointy, grinned, showing a row of yellow teeth.
"You heard her! Time to go hunting!"
With boots pounding, his group rushed into a nearby forest of pulsing alien trees, their war cries ripping through the still air.
They were the first wave of a complete breakdown of order.
The most aggressive aspirants, the ones who had thrived in the brutal logic of the Blood Bath, were right behind them.
They let out whoops and hollers, desperate to be the first to draw blood, their minds filled with visions of the rewards Rostova had dangled before them.
Other, smaller groups scattered like frightened birds, running into the wilderness without a plan, just a frantic need to kill something to secure their D-grade pass.
Amidst the mad scramble, Rickon's voice was a low, steadying command. "Hold."
Ragnar, who had been flexing his massive hands and shifting his weight, practically vibrating with the urge to fight, turned to him with a scowl.
"Hold? Rickon, what are we waiting for, a written invitation? The Vultures are getting a head start on all the easy kills!"
"Let them," Sophie said, her voice flat and cool. She hadn't taken her eyes off the treeline where the Vultures had vanished.
"Let them be the ones to stumble into the first nest of whatever lives in there. A high kill count doesn't mean a thing if you're dead."
Ragnar grunted, the logic hitting him but not quite extinguishing his impatience. He looked at Rickon, his expression a mix of frustration and grudging respect.
"Fine. But we need a plan. What is it, tactician?"
They drew in close, a small island of sanity in the chaotic wake of the rush.
The distant, fading war cries of the other aspirants only highlighted their stillness.
"First, we figure out how we fight together," Rickon said, his voice quiet but firm, projecting a confidence he desperately hoped was convincing. "We do this properly."
He looked directly at Ragnar. "You're our shield. Your Stoneskin is what keeps us alive. When we find something, you go first.
You draw its attention, you take the first hit. Your job is to be the rock that can't be broken."
Ragnar cracked his knuckles, and a wide, savage grin finally spread across his face. "A rock that can't be broken. Yeah, I can do that."
Rickon then turned to Sophie. "You're our eyes. Your Tactical Eyes talent is our biggest weapon. You move ahead, you find our targets, and you find their weak spots.
You tell us where to hit. You don't get into the thick of it unless you have a guaranteed shot. Your job is to win the fight before it even starts."
Sophie gave a short, sharp nod, her expression all business. The role was a perfect fit for her sharp, analytical mind.
His gaze softened slightly as he looked at Bran, who was listening with a wide-eyed intensity, a desperate need to contribute warring with his fear.
"Bran, you're our safety net," Rickon said. "Your Minor Fortification is what saves us when the plan goes wrong.
You don't stand on the front line. You stay behind Ragnar and you watch.
If Sophie moves in for a strike and something unexpected happens, or if I get cornered, you give us that extra second of durability.
That one second could be the difference between a scratch and a killing blow."
A wave of relief washed over Bran, and he stood a little taller. He wasn't the weak link, he was the protector. "I can do that," he said, his voice steadier than before.
Finally, all three of them looked at him. "And you?" Sophie asked, her analytical gaze pinning him. "Your 'Attribute Enhancement' is just a quick burst. What's your play?"
Rickon met her stare, the lie feeling like sandpaper in his throat.
"I'm the spear. I'm the one who moves. Ragnar makes the opening, Sophie finds the target, and I hit it. Hard.
My enhancement gives me that one burst of speed or power to end things fast. But most importantly, I'll be watching the whole fight, making the calls. I'm the tactician."
It was a role they gave him based on the cold, brutal efficiency he'd shown in the academy's trials, not on the weak D-Grade power he claimed to have.
They didn't know his true strength, but they trusted his mind. For now, it had to be enough.
"A rock, eyes, a safety net, and a spear," Ragnar rumbled, nodding his big head in satisfaction. "Sounds like a real team."
"Good," Rickon said, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding. "Now, we move.
Not towards the chaos. Away from it. We find a place we can defend, we find water, and we pick our first target like a sniper, not a brawler. We hunt on our terms."
With their purpose clear, the four of them moved out. They didn't run. They walked with a quiet, deliberate pace into the alien wilderness, their path taking them away from the frantic sounds of a slaughter already in progress.
They were a small, tightly-knit unit, a fragile alliance held together by fear and a flicker of trust, stepping cautiously into a world where every beautiful view hid a thousand ways to die.