The cold wind howled across the black stone field, carrying with it the scent of blood and scorched metal. The light above Gaia's capital was dim, filtered through the towering citadels that stretched into the heavens like the pillars of some long-forgotten pantheon. The sky was vast, filled with the hum of distant warships moving in synchronized formations, their silent passage a reminder of the Imperium's omnipresent gaze. The survivors of the first trials stood in formation, their bodies worn but unyielding, eyes locked on the group of officers who had been watching them from the beginning. Thousands had entered. Many had already fallen. And now, only a fraction remained. But the real tests were about to begin.
The lead instructor, a towering man clad in a crimson warcoat lined with ceremonial gold, stepped forward. His presence was suffocating, the weight of his gaze enough to make lesser men crumble. He surveyed the examinees, his expression impassive, his voice smooth and sharp, a blade hidden beneath velvet. "You stand on the threshold of the Imperial War Academy," he said. "But entry is not yet earned. Strength alone does not make a warrior. Speed alone does not make a soldier. Endurance alone does not make an Imperator." He let the silence stretch. "War is more than battle. It is pain. It is terror. It is suffering. And only those who embrace it will survive."
A gesture. The air shifted. The black stone beneath their feet trembled as the ground parted, revealing a massive subterranean complex hidden beneath the training fields. A descent into darkness. "Three trials remain," the instructor continued. "You will pass them. Or you will be left behind." Without another word, he stepped back. The ground fully opened. And then, the candidates were falling.
e vanished, swallowed by the abyss, and the only thing that remained was the endless darkness below. He twisted midair, controlling his descent, scanning for a landing point. Others were screaming, some flailing, others maintaining control. The pit was vast, stretching for kilometers, an endless chasm lined with jagged metal protrusions and half-formed structures suspended in nothingness.
It was a battlefield.
The moment they entered the pit, the walls came alive. Blades shot from the metal, slicing through those who had failed to react. Bodies were torn apart mid-fall, their cries lost to the void. Gaius shifted, narrowly avoiding a row of rotating spears that emerged from the walls. He spotted a landing point—a thin outcropping of metal barely wide enough to stand on. He adjusted his trajectory, angling his body, using the momentum to land with minimal impact.
The moment his feet touched the platform, the ground beneath him crumbled.
No rest. No safety.
He leaped again, moving from one unstable surface to another as the pit continued to collapse around them. The weak, the slow, those who hesitated for even a second—they were consumed. Some were impaled on the shifting spires of metal. Others fell into the abyss, their bodies disappearing into the endless void. The survivors adapted, moving like wraiths through the shifting environment, their instincts sharpening with every second.
Gaius moved with precision. He did not waste motion. He did not fear the fall. He embraced it, letting his body become part of the descent, using every collapse, every shift, every movement as a tool. He reached the lower platforms faster than most, landing on a massive steel construct that had risen from the abyss like the ruins of a long-dead world. He turned, scanning the battlefield.
Only a few hundred remained.
Thousands had entered.
Most were gone.
The survivors barely had time to breathe before the next test began. The cavernous space around them shifted, massive gates opening on all sides. From the darkness, figures emerged—war-machines of ancient design, humanoid constructs infused with Imperial combat protocols. Their movements were not mechanical.
The moment they appeared, the air was filled with death.
The first machine lunged, its blade-arm cutting through three examinees in a single movement. Their bodies were shredded before they could even react. Another machine leapt onto a group of survivors, its claws tearing into their armor, crushing them with sheer brute force. Screams echoed through the pit as the war-machines descended upon the living.
There was no hesitation.
The examinees fought or died.
Gaius moved before the machines could fully engage. He sidestepped a crushing blow, his blade flashing in retaliation. The edge met metal—and barely left a scratch. He adjusted. Speed alone wouldn't be enough. He analyzed the machines, their movements, their structure. The way their joints flexed. The brief openings in their attacks.
He moved in again.
A feint. A step forward. A shift in weight.
He ducked beneath a strike, driving his blade into the exposed gap between the machine's plating. A twist. A fracture. The machine staggered.
He did not let it recover.
His hand shot out, gripping an exposed wire near the machine's core. He ripped it free.
The machine spasmed—then collapsed.
A single kill.
But there were dozens more.
The battlefield was chaos. The weak died first, their bodies crushed, burned, torn apart by the merciless constructs.The nobles fought with precision, their techniques refined, their strikes lethal. Odysseus was untouched, his blade severing machines in clean, effortless strokes. Lucius fought with pure power, shattering metal with his bare hands.
Gaius did not look at them.
He fought his own war.
Each strike was measured, controlled. Each kill was deliberate. He adapted to the machines, learning their patterns, exploiting their weaknesses. He was not the strongest. He was not the fastest.
But he was the most efficient.
And that was why he survived.
When the last machine fell, the pit was silent.
Hundreds had entered.
Less than a hundred remained.
The survivors stood in silence, their bodies worn, their breath steady. The final test had yet to come. But they knew.
This would be the worst.
The ground beneath them shifted once more. The pit reformed, becoming a massive circular arena. At its center, a single pillar of black stone emerged, its surface smooth, featureless. The lead instructor's voice echoed from above.
"This is your final trial. No explanations. No rules."
Silence.
Then—
The platform began to shrink.
The meaning was clear.
There was not enough space for all of them.
Gaius exhaled.
And then, the killing began.
The first death was instant. One examinee, realizing the truth too late, was slammed from the platform by a savage strike. His body plummeted into the abyss. Another followed. And another.
A purge.
Gaius did not hesitate. He moved without mercy, dodging a strike aimed at his skull, countering with a brutal kick that sent his attacker flying into the shrinking void.
The nobles fought amongst themselves, their clashes violent, efficient, ruthless.
Odysseus did not even seem to try. He stood at the center, unmoving, untouched. Those who approached him fell within seconds.
Lucius shattered two opponents in a single motion, their bodies crumpling under his sheer power.
And Gaius—
He simply killed.
The platform shrank. The unworthy fell.
Until finally—
Only fifty remained.
The air was still.
And above them, the instructors watched.
Gaia became worthy of his place, of their acknowledgement.