The early morning fog clung to the academy grounds like a ghostly veil. It was still dark when the shrill alarm pierced the silence of the dormitory, a sound that offered no mercy, no respect for sleep. Mason jolted upright in his bunk, groggy but alert, his heart racing with the remnants of half-remembered dreams—images of fire, crumbling cities, and a shadowed figure in the distance. The fog from his nightmares seemed to creep into the waking world, twisting in the corners of his mind.
Across the room, Simon was already up, his movements quick and precise as he cursed under his breath while pulling on his cadet uniform. Mason blinked a few times, trying to shake off the remnants of sleep, but it clung to him, just like the fog outside.
"You good?" Simon muttered, clearly aware of Mason's disoriented state.
Mason gave a half-nod, pulling himself out of bed. "Yeah. Just... didn't sleep well." He didn't elaborate further—he didn't need to.
They had been told to report to the outer training grounds—Field Theta—by 0500. No further details had been given. The academy didn't do hand-holding.
The cold air of the morning bit at Mason's skin as they made their way to the field, the distant sound of footsteps echoing in the silence. When they arrived, dozens of cadets were already there, some stretching, some pacing, others standing still and wide-eyed, taking in the battlefield before them. And that's exactly what it looked like: a battlefield.
Tall, jagged walls formed a complex maze at the far end of the field, disappearing into a thick wall of mist. Metal barricades, broken structures, simulated debris, and large crates dotted the terrain. Watchtowers loomed ominously at the edges of the field, their positions like silent sentinels, academy officers watching from above. The air was heavy, thick with the fog, and Mason could feel the pressure in his chest as he tried to shake the feeling that the world had already started closing in on him.
A voice boomed from the mounted speakers, snapping him out of his thoughts:
"Welcome to Trial One. This is your Situational Awareness and Tactical Response Exam. Your objective is simple: survive, adapt, and complete your mission parameters. You will be separated into randomized teams of four. Each team will be assigned a unique set of objectives within the simulation zone."
Mason exchanged a look with Simon. Randomized teams meant they wouldn't necessarily be together. The academy wasn't going to make things easy.
"You have sixty seconds to scan your badges at your assigned kiosks. Failure to do so will result in automatic failure. Move."
Cadets scattered like ants, and Mason's pulse quickened as he followed Simon to the nearest kiosk. The cold metal of the badge scanner felt foreign in his hand, the faint hum of electricity vibrating beneath his fingers. A soft beep confirmed Mason's identity. A small screen flickered to life and displayed:
Team 47: Mason Satrev, Halric Duros, Vinae Sel, Korlen Trass.
Objective: Locate and secure the intel crate hidden within the ruins. Timer: 60 minutes.
Simon wasn't on his team. The realization settled in Mason's gut like a stone.
Nearby, a tall girl with sharp amber eyes approached him—Vinae Sel. She didn't speak, only gave him a quick, firm nod as she adjusted her gear, a sleek rifle slung across her back. Her silence spoke volumes.
Halric and Korlen arrived next. Halric was tall and stocky, his easy smirk a stark contrast to Korlen's brooding silence. The latter barely looked at Mason, his eyes narrowing as if sizing him up.
Mason didn't have time for pleasantries. The gates to the field hissed open with an ominous sound.
The simulation had begun.
Inside the Maze
The second the team stepped into the ruins, the dense fog swallowed them whole. The sharp sounds of distant simulated gunfire and mechanical growls filled the air, the dissonant chorus doing nothing but heightening the unease that gnawed at Mason's gut. It wasn't just a test of tactics; it was psychological warfare. Pressure. Noise. Confusion. Disorientation.
Mason moved instinctively, dropping to a crouch, his boots barely making a sound against the wet ground. Every corner, every shadow, was a potential threat. His pulse quickened as the fog pressed in on him, almost suffocating in its density. There was no clear direction here. His mind raced to keep up with the ever-shifting environment, the constant flickering of shadows, the feeling of being watched.
And that's when they encountered another team.
The sudden crack of foam rounds echoed in the fog, and red flashes lit up the mist. The first volley hit Korlen in the leg—no real harm, but it tagged him out as "wounded." He stumbled, swearing under his breath as he tried to keep his balance.
"Split and flank. Korlen, cover our rear!" Mason barked, his voice cutting through the chaos.
Halric hesitated for a fraction of a second, clearly not used to being the one taking orders, but there was no time to argue.
Mason and Vinae darted through the crumbling hallway, their bodies low, moving like shadows, while Korlen limped to the rear, clutching his injured leg but still holding his weapon close. The tension in the air was thick. It felt like a game of cat and mouse, every step laden with the weight of the decision.
They circled behind the opposing cadets, catching them off guard and tagging two out. The last one surrendered almost immediately. Mason exhaled sharply, his muscles coiled and tense.
Vinae looked at him, her amber eyes narrow in respect. "Didn't take you for a field thinker."
Mason couldn't hide the brief, exhausted smirk that tugged at his lips. "Didn't know I was either," he said, chest heaving as they paused to regroup.
The Crate
They reached the intel crate with twelve minutes remaining. The crate sat in the open, almost inviting them in. But Mason wasn't fooled. It was a trap.
He paused, scanning the area with careful, calculated eyes. His instincts screamed at him that this wasn't just about completing the mission—it was about seeing who would crack under pressure first.
The crate was surrounded by motion sensors, pressure plates, and automated sentries. The kind of AI-powered defenses the academy was known for. It was as if the whole field was designed to make them fail.
"We don't rush," Mason said, his voice low and firm. He looked to Halric, who was already crouched by a terminal, working quickly to disarm the sensors. "Take your time."
Vinae remained still, her rifle trained on the shadows, eyes darting back and forth as if expecting an ambush at any moment. Korlen, limping but determined, kept an eye on their rear.
Mason couldn't help but feel the pressure of the ticking clock, but he forced it out of his mind. Focus. Precision.
Halric's fingers flew over the control panel, the soft clicks of his movements synchronized with Mason's heartbeat. There was a moment—a heartbeat—where Mason thought they were going to fail, but Halric gave him the signal.
"Clear."
Mason stepped forward, retrieved the intel crate, and activated the communicator. A soft green light blinked on.
Objective complete. Return to the extraction zone.
Back at Base
The sun was beginning to rise as they made their way back to Field Theta, their clothes soaked with sweat, limbs aching, but victorious. The mist had begun to lift, revealing the bruised pink hue of the morning sky. Mason's heart still pounded—not from fear—but from something else. Something... alive inside him. Pride? Confidence?
A voice crackled through the speakers once again.
"Trial complete. Scores will be posted at 1200 hours. Debriefing will follow."
Mason looked up at the sky, exhausted but wired, the adrenaline still surging through his veins. He didn't know how he had performed, but one thing was clear—this was only the first trial.
And something told him that it was going to get a lot harder from here.