One year passed.
In Neon Eden, a year was not marked by seasons or weather. It was measured by cycles—economic recalibrations, system updates, population growth curves, and military readiness indices. When the final cycle of the year completed, the city did not celebrate.
It shifted.
The higher strata noticed it first.
Recruitment halls that once focused on training schedules and compatibility assessments began issuing sealed directives. Transport platforms that had ferried civilians and trainees now moved in tighter formations, their routes classified. Data streams once accessible to mid-level authorities were locked behind rank-gated firewalls.
And deep within Neon Eden's Core Spire, the higher ups convened.
The war was no longer theoretical.
It was approaching.
Eight years still remained before the predicted full-scale collision between cyber worlds—but the preliminary fractures had already begun appearing across peripheral realms. Lost worlds destabilized. Drone incursions escalated. Unknown forces tested borders that had remained untouched for centuries.
Preparation had ended.
Selection had begun.
Aira felt it the day her mission slate changed color.
She stood in her assigned living sector, a high-altitude residential block reserved for Rank Two and above operatives. The window behind her revealed Neon Eden's night, the artificial moon hanging low and brilliant, its light reflecting off her silver moon hair as it flowed freely down to her waist.
Her appearance had not changed much over the year.
She still looked eighteen.
Still carried herself with quiet composure.
But the aura around her was sharper now—refined through hundreds of battles, thousands of calculated movements, and steady progression from Level Zero upward. She had not rushed. She had not sought attention.
She had simply grown.
"…Status," she said softly.
The system responded instantly, projecting the familiar interface.
---
Level: 312 / 1000
Rank: Two
Condition: Peak
Primary Path: Swordsmanship – Refined Lineage
Skills:
• Astral Severance
• Cosmic Step
• Void-Tide Dance
• Stellar Pulse
• Dominion Waltz of the Silent Void
---
She dismissed it.
Three hundred and twelve levels in a year.
For most, that would have been impossible.
For Aira, it was measured.
She turned as her door chimed.
The signal was encrypted.
Military-grade.
She accepted it.
The air shimmered, and a holographic projection formed—an emblem first, then a figure.
An older man, broad-shouldered, his form bearing the unmistakable signs of multiple evolutions. His eyes glowed faintly with system authority, and scars—real ones, not cosmetic—marked his face and neck.
An old war battle-monger.
Someone who had survived the last major inter-world conflict.
"Aira," he said, voice rough but controlled. "You're being deployed."
She inclined her head slightly. "Where?"
"Risk-tier missions," he replied without hesitation. "Outer realms. Fractured zones. Places the system doesn't fully map anymore."
Her gaze sharpened.
"They're sending veterans," she said. "And recruits."
"Yes."
"Which means casualties are expected."
"Which means casualties are accepted," he corrected.
Aira was silent for a moment.
Then she nodded. "When?"
"Immediately."
---
The deployment platform was vast.
Hundreds gathered across the circular staging area—newly recruited warriors still wearing the sharp edges of inexperience, gunners calibrating weapons with nervous precision, archers testing string tension on energy bows, ship fighters reviewing three-dimensional combat maps projected around them.
And among them—
The old ones.
Veterans whose presence alone altered the air around them. Their systems were quiet, efficient, honed by wars long past. They did not speak much. They did not posture.
They waited.
Aira stood among them, her presence drawing glances she ignored. Some recruits stared openly, whispers spreading as eyes followed the way moonlight traced her hair and refined features.
"No one looks like that," someone muttered.
"She doesn't even feel real."
Aira did not react.
The higher ups appeared above the platform in layered projections—figures obscured by authority filters, their true forms hidden. Their voices carried simultaneously, layered and resonant.
"Today marks the transition to active risk engagement," one announced.
"You have been selected not because you are safe to deploy," another continued, "but because you are expendable enough to risk—and valuable enough to matter."
No applause followed.
This was not a ceremony.
"Your missions will involve unstable realms, drone hives, corrupted guardians, and unknown entities," the voice said. "Success is preferred. Survival is optional."
Aira's system pulsed faintly.
> Mission Assignment Incoming.
The interface appeared.
---
Mission Type: High-Risk Recon and Extermination
Location: Shattered Realm – Khepri's Wake
Threat Rating: Escalating
Participants: Mixed Unit (Veterans + Recruits)
Objective: Eliminate Drone Presence, Identify Realm Instability Source
---
She read it once.
Then accepted.
The platform activated.
Space bent.
The sensation of displacement wrapped around her, familiar now—not disorienting, but expectant. When reality reasserted itself, the air changed instantly.
They stood in a ruined world.
The sky was fractured, layers of broken light hanging like shattered glass. Gravity fluctuated subtly, pulling at movement in unpredictable ways. The ground beneath them was a mosaic of collapsed structures and exposed system veins, glowing faintly with corrupted data.
Drones were everywhere.
Not attacking yet.
Watching.
A veteran stepped forward, his voice low. "Formation Alpha. Recruits center. Veterans perimeter."
Aira moved without being told, positioning herself where the gravity distortions were strongest. Her senses mapped the terrain instinctively.
The drones began to move.
Hundreds of them.
Thousands.
The ground trembled as they advanced, their collective presence causing the realm's instability to spike. Warning glyphs flickered across multiple systems.
"This isn't recon," someone shouted. "This is a purge!"
Aira's grip tightened on her sword.
She stepped forward.
"Cosmic Step."
Space folded, placing her ahead of the formation.
She did not look back.
"Dominion Waltz of the Silent Void."
To allies, it looked like a dance.
Her movements flowed, elegant and fluid, her form tracing arcs of impossible grace. To the drones, it was annihilation—authority crashing down in precise waves, severing cores, collapsing logic, erasing existence.
Veterans reacted instantly, following her opening with disciplined strikes. Recruits hesitated only a moment before being dragged forward by momentum and survival instinct.
The realm shook.
Not from the drones.
From her.
Aira moved deeper into the battlefield, every skill she used refining itself further, adapting to the environment, evolving with her intent. Experience flooded in, the system tracking it in silence as her level climbed steadily.
She did not chase numbers.
She chased resolution.
By the time the first wave fell, the recruits were breathing hard, eyes wide, their understanding of war rewritten in real time.
The veterans watched Aira with new expressions.
Not awe.
Assessment.
"This one," a scarred swordsman murmured, "isn't a recruit."
No.
She wasn't.
As the second wave emerged—larger, denser, carrying signatures that threatened Rank Five races—Aira raised her sword again.
One year of quiet growth had ended.
The era of risky missions had begun.
And Aira stepped into it without hesitation, silver moon hair glimmering beneath a broken sky, her path forward written not by fear—but by refinement, battle, and the inevitable approach of war.