The academy did not greet us.
There was no ceremony, no welcoming speech, no reassurance that we had made the right choice. We were processed like freight—lined up, scanned, stripped of personal items, assigned numbers that replaced our names before we learned where we would sleep.
The entrance exams began immediately.
They did not test intelligence alone. They tested endurance, obedience, and something harder to define—how much pressure a person could take before they either broke or disappeared.
The written portion came first.
I stared at the screen longer than I should have. The questions weren't impossible, but they assumed years of foundational education I didn't have. Advanced mathematics. Tactical theory. Political doctrine. The words blurred together, unfamiliar in ways that felt personal.
I answered what I could. I guessed when I had to. I left sections blank rather than waste time pretending.
Others finished early.
Some smiled.
The physical trials came next.
That was where I caught up.
We ran until lungs burned and vision narrowed. We carried weight until shoulders screamed. We were timed, ranked, recorded. I moved efficiently. I conserved energy. I didn't show off.
When the results posted, my number sat low on the academic list and high on the physical one.
Not impressive.
Not safe.
The final test was tactical.
We were placed into provisional squads and given a simulated objective with incomplete information. The environment shifted. Variables changed without warning. It wasn't about winning—it was about adaptation.
My squad argued.
They wanted to follow the instructions exactly, even when the instructions stopped making sense. I watched the clock. I watched the terrain. I rerouted us without asking permission.
We completed the objective seconds before failure.
I was reprimanded.
"Unauthorized decision-making," the evaluator said, tone flat.
I stood at attention and said nothing.
By the end of the entrance phase, nearly a third of the candidates were gone.
Those of us who remained were cadets.