The atmosphere in the arena had shifted from a public spectacle to a cold, clinical business transaction. The roar of the thousands was gone, replaced by the low, electrical hum of the stadium's floodlights and the rhythmic clicking of cameras from the few authorized media drones hovering overhead. The results would be uploaded to the Global Network in an hour, turning these teenagers into celebrities or footnotes.
Xavier stood near the back of the remaining group, his head throbbling with a persistent, rhythmic ache. Every time he took a breath, his nose—still tender and swollen from Kiko's final elbow—flashed a sharp signal of pain to his brain. He felt drained, but beneath the fatigue, the Kid Dynamite skill was simmering. Even as he stood still, his mind was subconsciously recalibrating his weight distribution, analyzing the "in-fighting" distance of the people standing around him. It was a strange, intoxicating sensation; he was a 4.0% output cadet with the instincts of a world-class brawler.
Commander Simon Ross stepped onto the central podium. His presence was like a gravitational pull, drawing every eye in the room.
"The public show is over," Ross announced, his voice echoing off the empty tiers of seats. "Now comes the reality. The five Garrisons have reviewed your performances, your psychological profiles, and your potential. When your name is called, step forward. You will be told who has placed an offer on your life. If you have multiple, the choice is yours. If you have one, you have a home. If you have none... you return from once you came."
The air in the room grew thin. This was the moment that would dictate the next decade of their lives.
"First up," the announcer's voice boomed. "The number one prospect of the 2052 class: JakeBirmingham."
Jake stepped forward, his long black hair tied back, his expression as unreadable as stone.
"Offers: Five."
A collective gasp went through the cadets. It was a "Full Sweep." All five Great Garrisons—Storm Chasers, Kingdom Come, Shadow Clan, Red Dragon, and Blood Hound—wanted the 34% monster.
"Your choice, Cadet?"
Jake didn't hesitate. His voice was flat. "Storm Chaser Garrison."
The process moved with ruthless efficiency
"KikoAndersson. Offers: Five. Choice: KingdomCome."
She wanted the 2nd Garrison, the one known for its heavy-hitting "Paladin" class Titans. It suited her aggressive close-quarters style.
"MayaSmith. Offers: Three. Storm Chaser, Kingdom Come, Shadow Clan. Choice: StormChaser."
Maya glanced at Xavier as she walked toward the 1st Garrison's assembly point. There was a flicker of something in her eyes—pity? Or perhaps curiosity.
"NoelleBirmingham. Offers: One. Storm Chaser. Do you accept?"
"Yes," she whispered, her face pale. It was clear she was only there because of Jake, a package deal to keep the Birmingham bloodline under one roof.
The list continued. FinnMcGregor went to KingdomCome. AsherWilliams, despite his arrogance, pulled four offers and chose RedDragon, the 4th Garrison known for its brutal, frontline shock troops. He walked past Xavier, intentionally clipping his shoulder. "Enjoy the scrap heap, Zero," he hissed.
"KenjiMcGregor. Offers: One. ShadowClan. I accept."
Then, a heavy silence fell over the arena.
"XavierReyes."
Xavier stepped forward. His boots felt like they were made of lead. He looked up at the high balcony where the Commanders sat. Simon Ross was looking at a digital tablet. Luke Grimwalt of Kingdom Come was looking at his watch.
"Offers: One."
The whispers started immediately. "Only one? After that fight?"
"The output is too low. No one wants to risk a Titan on a 4%."
"The offer comes from... TheBloodHoundGarrison."
Xavier felt a cold splash of reality. The Blood Hounds. The 5th Garrison. They were the scavengers of the ESDF. Based in the harsh, radiated zones of the Eurasian wasteland, they were the ones sent into the "dead zones" where the mana density was too low for the high-tier Titans but too dangerous for standard infantry. They were the grinders, the ones who did the dirty work for the least amount of glory.
"Do you accept, Cadet?" the announcer asked, his tone almost bored.
Xavier looked at the silver badge of the Storm Chasers, then at the dirty bronze emblem of the Blood Hounds. He thought about his mom. He thought about the System. He didn't need glory; he needed a seat at the table.
"I accept," Xavier said, his voice firm.
The remaining ten cadets were quickly sorted. Three more joined the Storm Chasers, four went to Shadow Clan, and the rest were scattered. When the final name was called, the "failed" cadets were escorted toward the back exits, their dreams of being Chasers ending in a quiet walk to the bus station
"All drafted recruits, report to your Garrison commanders," Simon Ross commanded. "The war doesn't wait for your celebrations."
Xavier turned away from the center of the arena. He saw Jake, Maya, and Noelle boarding a sleek, white hovering transport marked with the gold lightning bolt of the Storm Chasers. They looked like gods.
"Reyes. Move it."
Xavier turned. Standing near a side exit was a man who looked less like a hero and more like a tired dockworker. Commander Will Rogers. He was broad-shouldered, with a thick, salt-and-pepper beard and a face lined with deep scars. He wore a faded olive-drab coat over a battered chest plate.
Beside him stood the only other recruit the Blood Hounds had taken today.
"Let's go," Rogers said, his voice a gravelly rumble. He didn't wait for a response, turning on his heel and walking out into the cool night air of the European Sector.
Xavier and the other recruit followed. Outside, there was no high-tech hover-shuttle. No press team. Just a battered, black 2048-model pickup truck with oversized tires and a rusted bed. The engine idled with a rough, gutteral shake that Xavier could feel in his teeth.
Xavier hopped into the cab. The other recruit climbed in next to him, sitting as far away as possible, his knees pulled up to his chest. He was a lanky kid with messy blonde hair and eyes that darted around like a trapped animal.
The truck lurched forward, tires screaming against the asphalt as Rogers tore out of the facility grounds.
The silence inside the truck was suffocating. Xavier looked out the window, watching the shimmering lights of the elite district fade into the distance, replaced by the industrial smoke of the outer rims.
Xavier looked at the other boy. He noticed the kid's hands were shaking.
"Hey," Xavier broke the silence, his voice sounding loud in the cramped space. "I'm Xavier."
The boy jumped slightly, his head snapping toward Xavier. He swallowed hard. "I... I'm Mikhail. Mikhail Petrov."
"Nice to meet you, Mikhail," Xavier said, extending his hand.
Mikhail looked at the hand, then at the taped knuckles and the bruised face of the boy who had just fought a 30% to a standstill. Slowly, he reached out and shook it. His grip was weak, but his palm was sweaty.
"You're the one," Mikhail whispered. "The one they call the Zero. Why did you... why did you fight like that? You knew she'd win."
Xavier looked at his own reflection in the dark glass of the window. "Because I'm tired of being a zero, Mikhail. And I think the Blood Hounds are the only ones who don't care about the numbers."
From the driver's seat, Will Rogers let out a dry, hacking laugh. "You've got that right, kid. In the 5th, we don't care about your output. We care if you can survive the dirt." He glanced at them through the rearview mirror. "Welcome to the Blood Hounds. Try not to die in the first week. It's a lot of paperwork."
Xavier sat back, the Kid Dynamite skill pulsing quietly in his mind. He was at the bottom of the world, in the worst Garrison, with a 4.0% output.
Ping.
[NEW TERRITORY DETECTED: THE SCRAP HEAP]
[DAILY QUEST UPDATED: SURVIVE THE INITIATION]
[REWARD: 20 STAT POINTS]