Outside, the outskirts of New Elysion slid by—low, open stretches of green and weathered service roads, quiet under a soft gray sky. The van crossed the invisible boundary between regulated city land and the edge of the Draconic Disturbance Zone. There were no signs. Just the occasional warning pylon blinking politely by the roadside, like streetlamps no one remembered installing.
The road was a patchwork of cracks and tire ruts. The vehicle itself—an old military blast-resistant transport—smelled like rusted bolts and stale paint. Inside, near-identical uniforms. A few students flipped manuals or clutched weapon request forms like life preservers. Not much talking. Just breath and fear and stale vehicle air.
“Hey,” Solan murmured, eyes still on the window, “what do you think the penalty is if I summon my Black Blade and accidentally slice off my own foot?”
“What?” Matt looked up, an energy bar hanging from his mouth.
“Nothing. Just rehearsing lines for my eulogy.”
Matt, of course, wasn’t on the mission roster. He was a non-combatant observer who tagged along “for the vibes.” He was currently flipping through the Field Identification Manual for Drakespawn Variants and giving each illustration running commentary, like a cracked-out podcast host with a biology degree he definitely didn’t have.
No one really knew where Drakespawn came from. Just like no one really knew how the Draconic Disturbance Zones were formed—or why they produced way more strange and volatile strains than anywhere else on the continent. It wasn’t like New Elysion could pack up and relocate. So the city built defenses to keep these things from wandering into residential zones like confused wildlife made of nightmares.
There were all kinds of Drakespawn. Some were even proven to be docile, even trainable. One kid in the Southern District apparently kept a jelly-lunged floater as a pet for two weeks before it dissolved into his floorboards. But Solan didn’t think they’d be running into that kind of strain today.
“Tier-II,” Matt announced, tapping the page. “Oh good—naked mole rat plus centipede, with a mouth like a blender. This one burrowed into a recon tent last year and chewed a comms officer’s boot clean off. They never found the rest of him.”
Tier classifications were simple enough: Tier I bit. Tier II killed. Tier III exploded, and Tier IV sent cities into lockdown. Non-threats didn’t get a number. Today’s mission? Low-threat zone. But "low" didn’t mean safe. Tier-II was still on the table.
With those monsters waiting, practice exams suddenly didn’t seem so bad. Maybe being the awkward one in a group project suddenly didn’t seem like the end of the world. Deep down, Solan wasn’t sure which was worse — getting shredded by Drakespawn, or talking for five minutes in a group only for no one to pick up on what he’d said. Okay. Definitely shredded by Drakespawn.
Matt flipped the page. “Huskplate. Big boy. Turtle-sized with termite energy. Sits still for days, then rolls over and crushes you. You know, like a slow earthquake with a grudge.” He held the manual up to Solan. “Friendly reminder: these aren’t theoretical. Every single one has shown up at least once out here. So if something starts screaming like a fax machine and leaking black fluid? Don’t try to identify it. Just run.”
Solan didn’t respond. His mouth was dry, and the back of his neck had its own heartbeat. Beginner-level, apparently. Officially: DFT 101F (Field Practicum)—a one-credit corequisite to Introduction to Draconic Factor Theory. Unofficially, everyone just called it Applied Suffering. Or, more bluntly: the class from hell.
Every student had to do one live deployment into a “low-threat” zone, assisting in the cleanup of post-mortem emergents. In other words: get thrown into a field of unpredictable deadly things and hope you didn’t get eaten by one of them.
Solan lowered his voice. “I shouldn’t be here. I’ve never fought anything. I used to be on corpse duty. Cleanup crew. End of line. And now I’m supposed to lead with my face?”
“The exits are welded shut,” Matt said cheerfully. “It’s a military vehicle, not an Uber.”
“I need someone to explain why the weapons module comes after the live deployment,” Solan muttered, wiping his palms on his pants. “Who designed a class where we meet the teeth first and the safety switch later?”
Matt glanced up. “It’s called curriculum scaffolding.”
Solan didn’t respond. His fingers were cold. His breath had a tremble he couldn’t quite hide. Kamuy reaction had started an hour ago. The Black Blade was pacing beneath his skin, impatient. Eager. Hungry for release.
Other students in the truck had already started checking their gear and comms units. A few looked like veterans—upperclassmen with confident posture and scars to match. But most looked like him. Wide-eyed. Sweaty. Holding it together with duct tape and adrenaline.
The overhead speaker crackled. “Five minutes to drop zone,” came the instructor’s voice. Calm. Flat. Unimpressed.
“I don’t even have a weapon,” Solan kept muttering. “Just a sword that makes a dramatic entrance and then leaves me for dead. If I miss the first swing, do you think I could fake my death and be spared by Drakespawn crowd?”
“Your mouth’s going faster than your heartbeat,” Matt said, shaking his head. “Other people are doing stretches. You’re arguing with your own anxiety.”
“Did you even sign a waiver to be here?”
“Negative. I’m QA for your bad decisions.”
Solan leaned back against the seat, eyes shut tight, trying to disappear into the fabric. He could feel the Kamuy surging under his skin again. The Black Blade wanted out. It wanted to carve something. Anything.
But he knew the truth: The stronger the sword surged, the weaker his knees got.
“Upon arrival, confirm stability of northeast line. Check fire control nodes Three and Five. Report when complete.”
The announcement buzzed through the cabin as the truck shuddered to a stop. The rear doors opened, and wind rushed in—dust-laced and metallic, smelling of rust and distance. Ahead was a field of tilted fencing and half-buried red warning pylons, blinking faintly like a line of sickly nerves.
Solan jumped down and squinted toward the tree line. Rows of mounted M61 Vulcan cannons lined the ridge, barrels angled toward the woods, each one linked by buried rails feeding chains of smart-loaded ammo.
It looked less like a defense system and more like a metal creature sleeping with its eyes open. “You lot. With me.”
The squad leader was an older soldier, gray at the temples, skin like hewn stone—his shoulder patch stitched with the black-and-silver insignia of the New Elysion Border Defense Corps.
Technically, New Elysion wasn’t allowed to have a standing army. Not under the treaty with the United States. But the Border Defense Corps? That was the loophole. Uniforms without ranks. Guns without flags. Just enough firepower to keep the city from relying on American “support”—but not enough to make Washington nervous.
Everyone pretended it wasn’t an army. Which meant it probably was.
“Today’s task is simple: check the fire-control network, Nodes Three and Five. Don’t overthink it. If a Drakespawn actually breaks through, don’t try to be a hero. Just run behind the grid and let the turrets do their job.”
Solan nodded. His heart, however, had begun to ignore all orders.
Their assigned task: the “Northeast Section Two” node cluster. In theory, basic work: check ammo levels, verify power links, run diagnostics on the targeting modules. In practice: still too close to things that could kill you.
Which is, of course, when Solan managed to screw it all up. All he had to do was detach the protective junction, plug in the test kit, check the readings, and re-seal the cables. There were three identical cables in the housing. Two were supposed to be redundant. One was the live link.
He remembered the diagram from training: live was on the left. But this wasn’t the training board. The left slot had newer insulation. Cleaner fit. “They must’ve rewired it,” he muttered.
He unplugged the center one. Nothing happened.
Then—
A blink. A hum. And every cannon on the northeastern line powered down in unison.
Solan froze.
He’d pulled the emergency reroute line. The system had been operating off backup without telling anyone. But the grid is still collapsed like a paper tent. Somewhere in the distance, motion sensors caught a signal.
A Tier-II Drakespawn—previously inert in the brush—lurched upright like a switch had been flipped. Its body moved wrong: too fast for something with no eyes, too loud for something made of bone. The tail snapped like a whip behind it as it launched forward—burned-up scales peeling at the edges, limbs hammering the dirt in short, brutal bursts.
It looked like a pangolin dragged out of hell and set on fire halfway through evolution.
“Drakespawn!”
The alarm went up from the sentry line. Solan stood frozen. The test kit still stuck under his arm. A tech slammed into him, knocking him to the dirt. “That was the main supply line, you idiot!”
The Vulcan cannons came online half a second later—roaring, vomiting lead like a sky-borne storm. Tracer rounds stitched the air like surgical lightning. The Drakespawn didn’t fall so much as detonate—its torso unzipped in a spray of bone shards and liquefied scale. Segments of spine were ripped clean through, flung sideways like thrown javelins. Twitching limbs skittered across the dirt, still trying to run. What was left collapsed into a pulpy crater of slagged sinew and burned cartilage, steaming like overcooked meat under a heat lamp.
It was over in seconds. But everything else was ruined. The whole squad was pushed to full combat alert. Their inspection detail canceled. The operation plan scrapped.
It was the first time Solan had watched a Drakespawn die. And something about it was wrong. Not frightening—just… off. Like the thing hadn’t had a body to begin with, only the outline of one. Like the world had raised its voice for a second, then gone quiet the moment he noticed.
Solan sat on the ground; the test kit was still under his arm, rattling softly with every breath. Only when someone shoved him aside did the world snap back into motion. Red lights were flashing across the turret grid. Somewhere behind him, burnt wiring spat sparks like angry fireflies. And, of course, someone was already shouting. “Who pulled the reroute line?!”
A tech pointed—way too fast. “Him! That one!”
Solan raised a hand without standing. “Sorry—sorry. That was me. I thought I had the right line. The labeling was a mess, everything looked the same. I wasn’t… guessing. I just got it wrong.”
A pause. Static popped from the comms. “Shut up,” someone said.
“Shutting up,” Solan muttered.
The old soldier marched over, face like scorched iron. “Solan Elric, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Solan snapped to attention. Tried to summon dignity. Managed only volume.
They completed the inspection three hours behind schedule.
Back at the Academy, the rest of the squad went off to debrief. Solan was told to submit the mission report. Alone. Because if something went wrong, someone had to explain why it wasn't anyone else.
“Your exam results have been posted.”
The blue glow from Solan Elric’s phone felt like a dagger to the eyes in the dorm’s early-morning dimness. He stared at the screen, paralyzed, as if his soul was slowly levitating out of his skull.
DFT 101F (Field Practicum): D-
Fail Warning: Active
Reason: Operational error resulting in power grid collapse; team safety compromised.
“Just for pulling the wrong wire?!” He howled, phone nearly flinging itself at the wall in protest. Then collapsed face-first into the bed. There was a solid thud. Then a muffled slap as the phone rebounded directly into his face.
From the top bunk, Matt's voice drifted down—far too gleeful. “You’re officially the first person I know to fail that course.”
“My pleasure. Happy to set new records,” Solan groaned into his pillow.
And it wasn’t just any course. DFT 101F was a core requirement. Which meant he couldn’t drop it. He couldn’t ignore it. He could, however, try for a miracle. Like most catastrophic cases, he’d been offered a chance at redemption through the school’s “Combat Reassessment Program”—which, in normal language, meant: Fight the TA. In public. Survive. Look semi-competent. Maybe get a passing grade.
The email was written in the kindest possible tone—like someone gently scheduling your execution. “Your designated opponent: Herman Winton. Second-year, top ranking. Guest TA for this course.”
Solan could almost see the footnote Kline hadn’t typed: the small, satisfied smirk. Everyone knew he had no Kamuy and still lived in the South Gym six days a week. Mercy wasn’t his curriculum. He stared into the bathroom mirror and practiced his “heroic martyr” face. What stared back was less “brave sacrifice” and more “man about to cry in a supply closet.”
“Herman Winton…” Matt mumbled around a toothbrush. “Isn’t he the guy who can kill dragons with his face?”
That was the rumor. Herman Winton looked like a bioweapon got lost on its way to the war front and enrolled in college instead.
The fight was scheduled for next week. Location: one of the Academy’s training domes. The Academy didn’t officially promote duels. But they didn’t stop them either. They offered “designated sparring zones,” rebranded old bunkers into “combat domes,” and handed out waiver forms that read more like insurance loopholes than safety protocols. Students were encouraged to “test their Kamuy in controlled environments.” What counted as controlled was never quite defined.
But no one seriously believed even top-ranking students on Scratchlist could compete with the real gifted ones.
The ones who didn’t just have a Kamuy—but a gift. The kind that let them channel their Draconic factor so naturally, so powerfully, any government would’ve handed them a lifetime supply of Stabilin, full social elevation, and basically anything else they wanted. People spent their whole lives without meeting one. Even in a society that sometimes called Kamuy a curse—everyone was still jealous of them. They weren’t trained. They were born like that.
But that was too far, too mythic, too untouchable. Right now, Solan just had to survive a guy named Herman.
“Scratchlis ranked 46,” Solan muttered. “I should write myself a farewell letter.”
“Just remember to leave me your stuff,” Matt said between mouthwash gargles. “Though, I’m not sure you actually own anything.”
“I have dignity.”
Matt blinked. “Sorry, I thought I heard a hallucination.”
Solan stared at the notice for the thirty-seventh time. Only this time, he noticed a line he’d skimmed before—buried in the official phrasing: Performance must meet minimum operational threshold. “Minimum,” he muttered. “Threshold.” That didn’t sound like victory. That sounded like barely surviving while still technically conscious.
“You can get your ass beat like a training dummy,” Matt supplied helpfully, “just not too embarrassingly.”
He flipped open a copy of Emergency Medical Protocols for Kamuy Practitioners.
“I already booked you a bed at the infirmary. Preemptively.”