The Spark Before the Fire

The corridors of Gallantry Academy stretched long and sterile, illuminated by the artificial glow of overhead light panels that pulsed softly with an almost organic hum. The walls, sleek and argent, bore a plethora of marks of time and history—and the endless march of those who sought to carve their own within these halls. Three figures moved through this space, bound together by fate and the iron chains of impending doom.

Kalvis walked in stride with Gan, the latter silent, his gaze ever cast downward like a poet mourning a stanza lost to the void. Beside them, Sarsona strode, exuding a confidence that crackled in the air like static before a storm. If Gan carried the weight of the grave, Sarsona wielded life with reckless abandon, her every step declaring dominion over the moment. Together, they cut through the sea of initiates, heading toward the cafeteria where dreams and delusions met over PlasmaPlatters.

Then, impact.

Gan's shoulder collided with another—a mass of muscle, arrogance, and bad intentions. A Krothian.

The figure turned sharply, his dark, deep-set eyes narrowing. His face, sculpted in cruelty, twisted into an all-too-familiar sneer.

"Hey!"

Gan halted. The shadows around his expression deepened. Kalvis and Sarsona exchanged a glance.

"Oh, look who it is," the Krothian mused, his voice like gravel scraping against steel. "Didn't I teach you a lesson earlier?"

Sarsona's expression darkened, all trace of her usual levity evaporating. Her head tilted slightly as she measured the interloper, gaze sharpened to a blade's edge. "Gan," she said, slow and deliberate. "Who is this?"

The Krothian's smirk widened, cutting across his face like a wound refusing to heal. "Oh? You've got a girl fighting your battles now?"

Gan remained still, his form quiet, but his silence was not surrender—it was the pause before the storm, the deep breath before the plunge.

The Krothian took a step closer, crowding Gan's space. "So you aren't just a weakling," he continued, voice dripping with poisoned amusement, "but you're also a cullbait."

Time stilled.

A Lesson in Strength

A thread snapped within Kalvis. His blood ran molten, his breath a distant thing. The insult did not merely land; it detonated, a shrapnel explosion in his chest. Across from him, Sarsona's expression twitched—then settled into something unreadable. And in the space of a heartbeat, the both of them moved.

To the untrained eye, they vanished.

The Krothian's sneer barely had time to slip before Sarsona's fist met his face—a streak of raw, unbridled motion. A burst of light prana ignited around her knuckles as impact struck, sending the Krothian hurtling sideways, his body twisting mid-air, limbs flailing like a marionette severed from its strings.

The world had not even settled from the force when Kalvis materialized in the spot the Krothian now careened toward. His metallic prana-clad fist met flesh with an earth-shaking crack, redirecting the trajectory violently in the opposite direction. The dual forces sent the Krothian ricocheting like a comet hurled between colliding planets.

His body slammed into the wall, metal and nanites yielding in a burst of dust and debris. A jagged hole was left in his wake, cracks spiderwebbing outward like the desperate fingers of a dying god. His head, embedded within the shattered structure, left his legs and torso slumped, his backside exposed in humiliating display.

For a moment, silence. Then a soft fluttering sound.

Small, sleek, avian machines—hovering, mechanized constructs shaped like birds yet bearing cybernetic enhancements—circled the Krothian's concussed form. Their eyes, deep opalescent lenses, flickered as they emitted a series of bemused chirps, as if even the academy's artificial lifeforms found humor in his downfall.

The War Yet to Come

Kalvis exhaled slowly, flexing his hand as the energy around his knuckles dissipated. "Tch," he muttered, looking down at the Krothian's barely conscious form. "And here I was expecting a real fight."

Sarsona, arms now crossed, regarded the scene with an arched brow. "Guess they're letting just about anyone in these days."

Gan stood to the side, his usual solemnity unshaken, but there was something else now—a flicker of something deeper, something tangled in past and present, in weakness and strength. He met Sarsona's gaze, and for the first time in a long while, he saw not just his sister, but the warrior she had always been beneath the teasing and the warmth.

The Krothian groaned, his body twitching as he tried to pull himself free. Dust cascaded from his shoulders as his head peeled from the broken wall. His face, bruised and swelling, was a mess of fury and disbelief.

"This…isn't over," he spat, voice trembling with rage and lingering pain.

Sarsona tilted her head, eyes glinting with something dangerously close to amusement. "Oh?" she mused. "I'd say it is. But hey, keep dreaming."

Kalvis chuckled, rolling his shoulders. "Next time, maybe throw the first punch yourself. Might save you some wall-remodeling costs."

The Krothian's glare burned, but there was nothing more he could say—nothing more he could do. The battle had been fought, and he had lost. Spectacularly.

As the trio turned and walked away, the murmurs of onlookers swelled behind them, whispers of the exchange already mutating into legend. Yet, even as Kalvis and Sarsona exchanged victorious glances, Gan walked silently, his thoughts a churning sea.

Because deep down, he knew.

This was only the beginning.

Too soon had battle's teeth bared themselves. Too soon had lines been drawn, names carved into the annals of rivalry and blood. And far, far too soon had they become entangled in a war that had yet to reveal its true shape.

Glossary

Cullbait - the most dehumanising term, used against group that were historically targeted for mass extermination. Calling someone this is like telling them their ancestors were meant to be wiped out