Max braced himself for the worst. He expected the Commander to shout, to interrogate him, or maybe to blast him with some terrifying eye-laser.
Instead, the Supreme Commander threw his head back and let out a roar of laughter that shook the dust off the shelves.
"BWA-HA-HA! Look at his face, Harry! He looks like he swallowed a lemon whole!"
The terrifying aura vanished instantly. The Commander slapped Max on the back with enough force to nearly knock the wind out of him. "Relax, kid! I'm not going to eat you. I leave the eating to the Guuts, eh? Get it?"
He elbowed Max playfully. Max stood there, blinking, completely bewildered. The shift in personality was so sudden it gave him whiplash.
"Uh... sir?" Max squeaked.
"Call me Commander Zog," the man grinned, revealing a surprisingly friendly set of teeth. "Now, come on! Do the thing! The shadow beam! Pew pew! Let's see it!"
Max looked at his hands, then back at Zog. "I... I can't, sir. I don't know how. It just... happened when I was about to die. I can't control it."
Zog nodded, his expression turning thoughtful, though he kept the friendly grin. "Figured as much. Raw power is like a wild horse. If you don't break it, it breaks you."
He clapped his hands together. "Which is exactly why you can't stay here! You and your little squad are shipping out. Pack your bags, kiddos. You're going to the Southern HPF Training Centre."
Max frowned. "The Southern Centre? Who's going to train us there? Harry?"
He looked at Harry, hoping for a nod. But Harry was just polishing his glasses, looking resigned.
"Harry?" Zog laughed again. "No, no. Harry is a recruiter! His job is to find stray Sparks like you, dust them off, and get them into the system. He's basically a talent scout with a bad back."
"But... he trained me for a month," Max argued. "He knows about the Void."
"We were curious!" Zog admitted shamelessly. "We've never seen a Void vessel before. We wanted to see if you'd explode or turn into a black hole. Harry was just baby-sitting the experiment."
Max felt a little offended. "So I was a lab rat?"
"A very important lab rat," Zog winked. "But now you need real combat instructors. The Southern Centre is where we forge iron into steel."
Max sighed, accepting his fate. But something had been bothering him since he first stepped into Shop No. 5. He looked around the cavern—at the ancient runes glowing on the walls, and then at the high-tech holographic map table. At the glass vials of ancient fluids, and the sleek, futuristic Severance Serum case.
"Sir," Max asked, "can I ask something? The HPF... it's weird. Sometimes it feels like I'm in a fantasy novel with magic potions and old scrolls. And other times, like with the memory-wiping serum and the satellites, it feels like a sci-fi movie. Why is it such a mix?"
Zog smiled, and this time, it was a genuine, wise smile.
"An excellent observation, Max. The HPF is five thousand years old. We started with swords, alchemy, and mysticism because that was the technology of the time. The fluids, the mental barriers—that is our heritage."
Zog tapped the metal casing of the holographic table.
"But a sword cannot stop a satellite-guided missile, and a spell cannot hack a computer network. The world changes, Max. If we stayed stuck in the past, we would have been wiped out centuries ago. We adapt. We evolve. We keep the ancient roots because they work, but we graft new branches of technology onto them to survive."
He looked at the teenagers. "Just like we are doing with you. You are the new branches."
A loud, rhythmic thumping sound began to echo from the tunnel above, getting louder by the second.
WHUP-WHUP-WHUP-WHUP.
"Ah!" Zog checked a futuristic watch on his wrist. "That's your ride. The Transport VTOL is here."
He turned to Harry. "Good work, old friend. Send me the paperwork."
"Safe travels, Commander," Harry nodded respectfully.
Zog turned back to the stunned teenagers. "Well? What are you waiting for? An invitation? Get to the roof! The South awaits! And trust me—you're going to hate the heat!"
With a swirl of his trench coat, the Commander marched toward the elevator. Max, Malina, Eren, and Edy grabbed their bags and scrambled to follow, leaving Harry and the quiet safety of Shop No. 5 behind.
The engines of the VTOL were whining, ready for takeoff, when the cockpit turned into a disco of red flashing lights.
WWOOOOOP. WWOOOOOP.
"Oh, for crying out loud!" Commander Zog shouted, unbuckling his seatbelt. "Can't a man leave the building without the world ending?"
They scrambled back down the ramp into the hangar where Harry was glued to a portable monitor. His face was ash-gray.
"Status!" Zog barked.
"Code Black, Commander," Harry said, his voice trembling. "Northern District Training Facility. The perimeter is gone. We have confirmed signatures of a swarm—Class 2s, 3s, and 4s in the hundreds. And leading them... a Class 7."
"A Class 7?" Max gasped. "The Siege-Breaker class?"
"Raj and Sarah..." Max grabbed Harry's arm. "They're there! They just got transferred!"
"I know," Harry said grimly.
Commander Zog's single eye narrowed. The playfulness vanished for a second, replaced by cold calculation. He pointed a gloved finger at Harry.
"Change of plans. Harry, take the rookies—Malina, Edy, Eren—and get them to the Southern Centre immediately. Do not stop for gas. Do not pass Go."
"But—" Malina started to argue.
"No arguments!" Zog roared. "A Class 7 eats rookies for breakfast. You aren't ready."
He turned to Max. "You. Shadow-Boy. You're with me."
"Me?" Max stammered. "But you just said rookies get eaten."
"You're a special kind of rookie," Zog grinned, though it didn't reach his eye. "You're the designated sponge. If that Class 7 throws energy at us, I need you to eat it. Let's move!"
Max barely had time to look at his friends. Malina looked terrified for him; Eren was vibrating with panic. Zog grabbed Max by the vest and hauled him back into the VTOL.
"Strap in, kid! We're going hunting!"
The VTOL blasted into the sky, the G-force pinning Max to his seat.
The flight should have been terrifying. They were flying into a war zone. But Commander Zog seemed to treat it like a commute to the grocery store.
"So," Zog yelled over the roar of the engines, adjusting his eyepatch. "I hope the Guuts didn't wreck the Northern cafeteria. They make these killer spicy tacos on Thursdays. If the taco stand is gone, I'm going to be really mad at this Class 7."
Max gripped the safety handles, his knuckles white. "Sir, how can you joke? Raj and Sarah are down there!"
"Stress management, kid!" Zog laughed, checking a weapon readout. "If you panic, you die. If you laugh, you confuse the enemy. Plus, a Class 7? Please. I once wrestled a Class 7 in a mud pit with one hand tied behind my back. It was embarrassing for the monster."
Max stared out the window, watching the landscape blur. He tried to borrow some of Zog's confidence. It's fine, he told himself. Zog is the strongest. We'll get there, save Raj and Sarah, and Zog will buy us tacos.
"Approaching drop zone," the pilot's voice crackled. "Visual is... negative."
"Negative?" Max asked.
He looked out the window. It was 2:00 PM. The sun should be blazing.
But ahead of them, a massive dome of unnatural, inky darkness covered the entire training facility. It looked like a black hole had descended onto the earth.
"Standard Class 7 tactic," Zog yawned, checking his gun. "Atmospheric dampening. Keeps the UV rays out. They hate sunburns."
The VTOL didn't land; it hovered just above the black dome.
"We drop here!" Zog shouted. He hit a button, and the floor hatch opened.
They fell into the darkness.
Max hit the ground with a roll, his uniform absorbing the impact. He stood up, activating the night-vision on his visor, but it was useless. The darkness wasn't just lack of light; it was a physical fog.
"Stay close!" Zog's voice boomed from somewhere to his left.
The silence was the worst part. There was no fighting. No shouting. Just the wet sound of their boots on the mud.
"Raj?" Max whispered. "Sarah?"
He took a step forward. His boot kicked something round and heavy. It rolled away with a hollow, wet thud.
Max froze. A beam of light from the facility's emergency floodlights flickered on for a split second, cutting through the gloom.
Max looked down.
Staring up at him from the mud were two wide, glassy eyes. The face was frozen in a scream of absolute terror. Patches of gray, rocky skin still clung to the cheeks, cracked and broken like shattered pottery.
It was Raj. Or rather, it was Raj's head.
The body was nowhere to be seen.
Max's breath hitched. His mind couldn't process it. Raj was the strong one. Raj was made of stone.
"No..." Max wheezed, stepping back.
The light flickered again, illuminating the courtyard.
It wasn't a training ground anymore. It was a butcher shop.
Bodies in HPF uniforms were scattered everywhere—torn apart, crushed, or drained into husks. The ground was slick with a mixture of mud and bright red blood. The metallic smell of copper and ozone was so thick it made Max gag.
"Raj..." Max fell to his knees, his hands shaking as he reached out toward his friend, but he couldn't bring himself to touch the cold flesh.
"On your feet, soldier!" Zog's voice cut through the horror, sharp and devoid of humor now.
Max looked up, tears blurring his vision. "He's dead. They're all dead."
"Not all of them," Zog growled, pointing his weapon into the darkness ahead. "Because that thing is still hungry."
From the shadows of the ruined main building, a pair of eyes the size of dinner plates—burning with a hateful, violet fire—opened and looked directly at them.