One by one, the remaining students emerged from their awakening chambers.
They came in a steady stream—some stumbling, others walking with newfound confidence—each bearing the physical and mental scars of genetic fusion. Above each tent, holographic displays flickered to life, broadcasting names and classifications to the assembled masses:
[ARIA CHEN - WIND BLADE - D-RANK]
[MARCUS VRELL - IRON SKIN - C-RANK]
[YUNA PARK - THERMAL SIGHT - E-RANK]
The rankings painted a brutal hierarchy across the field. Most glowed with the amber light of D and E classifications—serviceable, but unremarkable. A handful blazed with the blue of C-rank, earning appreciative murmurs from the formation.
And somewhere, though Logan couldn't see from his position, there would be the precious few who'd achieved B-rank or higher—the genetic lottery winners who'd become the Academy's pride and the military's future commanders.
As the last stragglers found their positions, Head Instructor Klein stepped forward on the platform.
His movement was economical, precise—the kind of motion that spoke of decades spent in combat. When he raised one hand, the casual chatter died instantly, thousands of voices cutting off as if someone had thrown a switch.
Klein's voice carried across the field without amplification, clear and resonant, a product of whatever Gene-Spark enhancement allowed him to project his words with perfect clarity:
"I see disappointment on some of your faces. Shame." His gaze swept across the formation like a searchlight. "You awakened E-rank, D-rank—you think you're weak. That the universe has dealt you a losing hand."
He paused, letting the words hang in the air.
"You're right to feel that way. Statistically, you are weaker than your C-rank and B-rank peers. Your Gene-Sparks provide less raw power, slower enhancement curves, lower potential ceilings."
A bitter silence settled over the field. Logan could practically feel the collective shame radiating from thousands of students who'd spent their lives dreaming of heroic awakenings, only to face the mediocrity of reality.
Then Klein's expression shifted—not quite a smile, but something harder. Fiercer.
"But talent isn't everything." His voice cut through the despair like a blade. "Talent is the spark. Work is the fire. Consistency is what tempers raw potential into actual strength. I've seen E-rank soldiers outlive A-rank prodigies because they understood one fundamental truth: the warrior who survives is the warrior who learns."
He began pacing across the platform, his movements drawing every eye.
"Three hundred years ago, the Terranoids descended from the void. They came with overwhelming force, with technology and biology fused into something we couldn't comprehend. They thought we were weak. Thought we'd break beneath their assault."
Klein's hand clenched into a fist.
"They were wrong. Not because we were strong—we weren't. We were fragile, separated, barely capable of defending our own planet. But we had something they didn't anticipate: adaptability. The Terranoids brought the tools of our evolution with them. Their Quantinium energy awakened our dormant potential. Their invasion forged us into something greater."
His voice rose, carrying the weight of centuries:
"For three hundred years, we've fought them. Bled against them. Learned from them. We've turned their greatest weapon—their own life essence—into our fuel. We've expanded from a single dying world to a civilization that spans the asteroid belt from Mars to Jupiter. We've built academies, fleets, colonies. We've become the nightmare that they fear in the dark."
A fierce pride rippled through the formation. Logan felt it—felt the inherited memories of his predecessor responding to words that had been drilled into every orphan, every recruit, every citizen of this transformed humanity:
We are the survivors. We are the evolved. We are humanity ascendant.
"Now," Klein continued, his tone shifting to something more practical, "you've awakened your Gene-Sparks. That means your nanites are active—integrated with your biology, waiting for your commands. They give you enhanced strength, accelerated healing, and most critically: the ability to harvest Quantinium energy directly from Terranoid corpses."
He gestured, and a holographic display materialized beside him—rotating images of crystalline structures embedded in metallic-organic flesh.
"Your nanites will extract, refine, and integrate Quantinium into your system. Every Terranoid you kill makes you stronger. Every battle feeds your evolution. This is the engine of our civilization—combat as currency, survival as advancement."
Klein's expression hardened.
"But the Academy doesn't accept students based on potential alone. We need to see what you can do. Therefore—" He paused for dramatic effect. "—the Combat Assessment begins tomorrow at dawn."
A ripple of tension moved through the formation.
"You have tonight to rest. To let your bodies adjust to the nanite integration. To familiarize yourselves with your new capabilities. Use this time wisely." His gaze swept across them one final time. "Dismissed."
The formation dissolved into controlled chaos—thousands of students breaking ranks, conversations erupting as friends found each other, comparing Gene-Sparks and speculating about the assessment.
Logan stood frozen, his mind still trapped in the countdown burning behind his eyes:
[22:14:37]
Twenty-two hours until the system's deadline.
Twenty-two hours to find a way to save James—or kill him.
How am I supposed to—
"Logan! LOGAN!"
The voice cut through his spiral. Logan turned, and there he was:
James Stark.
Sandy blonde hair slightly disheveled from his own awakening. Blue eyes bright with excitement despite the obvious exhaustion in his frame. He was grinning—that same disarming smile that Logan's predecessor's memories catalogued as home, as safety, as brother.
The smile of someone who had no idea his best friend was contemplating his murder.
"You made it!" James clasped Logan's shoulder, the contact solid and real and wrong because Logan wasn't the person James thought he was. "I saw your tent marker from across the field—E-rank Shadow Fizz, right? That's actually pretty interesting! Shadow manipulation has tons of tactical applications."
Logan managed a weak smile. "Thanks. What about you?"
James's grin widened. "D-rank Flame Eruption!" He held up his hand, and for a moment, Logan saw it—a flicker of orange-red energy dancing across his palm before dissipating. "Not the strongest fire-type Gene-Spark, but it's got solid offensive potential. Plus, fire! How cool is that?"
Very cool, Logan thought, and was disturbed by how genuine the emotion felt. How am I happy for him? I'm not even the real Logan. This isn't my friend. These aren't my memories.
But the warmth in his chest didn't care about logic.
"That's amazing," Logan said, and meant it.
James launched into an enthusiastic explanation of his awakening process—apparently he'd nearly set his containment tank on fire when his Gene-Spark first manifested—and Logan let himself be pulled along by the momentum of his friend's excitement.
They walked together toward the Academy's main complex, a massive structure of steel and smart-glass that dominated the horizon. James talked about fusion side effects, about how his body felt simultaneously stronger and strange, about his theory that their nanites were still calibrating.
"I swear I accidentally melted my boot sole when I was getting dressed," James laughed. "Just thinking about heat made my foot temperature spike. It's going to take some getting used to."
Logan nodded, half-listening, the other half of his mind screaming at him about the impossible choice hanging over his head.
They reached the cafeteria—a cavernous hall that could seat thousands, filled with long tables and the mixed scents of printed proteins and synthesized carbohydrates.
"God, I'm starving," James groaned, pressing a hand to his stomach. "The awakening burns through so many calories. I feel like I could eat a whole Terranoid."
"Pretty sure those are toxic," Logan replied automatically, earning a laugh.
The food line moved quickly. Students tapped their Academy ID bracelets against scanners, and molecular printers assembled meals in seconds—rice, protein cubes that approximated various meats, sauce that tasted almost exactly like the real thing.
Logan grabbed his tray, the weight familiar in a way that felt borrowed from his predecessor's muscle memory. He and James found seats at a table near the back, away from the main crowd.
The first bite was surreal—flavor and texture that Logan's old-world mind couldn't quite classify. Not bad, just… printed. Food as data made manifest.
"So," James said between bites, his voice dropping slightly, "you okay? You seemed kind of out of it on the field."
Logan's throat tightened. "Just… processing. A lot happened today."
"Yeah." James nodded, his expression softening into something more serious. "I get it. We both made it through, though. Together, like we planned."
Together, Logan thought bitterly. Right.
[21:47:09]
They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes, and Logan almost let himself relax.
That's when he arrived.
David Krenth.