CMSC Academy – Orientation Hall, Corven
The air inside the academy was clinical, crisp, and humming with quiet energy. Everything gleamed. Metal and stone blended with soft-blue lighting and flickering holographic projections that danced across the walls. The faint hum of distant machinery thrummed beneath the floor—steady, unyielding. It smelled faintly sterile, like recycled air and fresh polish.
Mason Satrev walked in with a mix of curiosity and tension buzzing beneath his skin. This wasn't a school—it was a machine. A place built to refine people into something sharper.
He wasn't alone. Dozens of other cadets filtered into the massive orientation hall, some walking with confident strides, others—like Mason—observing everything. He caught glimpses of wide eyes and nervous glances, whispered chatter about who came from where, who might be good at what. It wasn't long before the hall filled with hundreds of hopefuls from across the systems, all here with dreams of proving themselves.
Simon Petrogev appeared beside him again, grinning and stretching like he'd just stepped off a vacation cruise rather than a high-stress interstellar flight. "Told you this place was gonna feel intense," he said, elbowing Mason lightly. "Like walking onto the bridge of a battleship."
Before Mason could respond, a new voice cut across the low buzz of conversation.
"Attention, cadets."
The lights dimmed slightly, and a large hologram flared to life at the front of the hall. A woman in a sharply pressed CMSC uniform stood at a podium—tall, silver-haired, with a stare that could silence engines. She didn't need to raise her voice to command the room.
"I am Commander Arlenn Jeros, head of orientation for new cadets. You are not here to be comfortable. You are not here to be coddled. You are here to prove yourselves worthy of wearing the insignia of the Corvenian Military Space Corps. Many of you won't make it past the first month."
Her gaze swept the room like a targeting scanner—precise, merciless, as if measuring every weakness with military precision.
"For the next two weeks, you will undergo evaluation trials. These are not simulations. These are not games. You will be tested physically, mentally, emotionally, and tactically. Your performance will determine your placement. Leaders are forged. Followers are assigned. Deadweight is discharged."
Mason swallowed hard. So that's what they meant by "grading." You weren't just judged—you were categorized. Branded by your capabilities.
"The academy operates on a meritocratic structure. That means no favoritism, no exceptions. If you think where you came from matters here—it doesn't. Only results do. Dismissed cadets will be returned home. Those who endure will be sorted into one of five core divisions based on their skills. You will be trained accordingly."
The hologram shifted, showing stylized icons: Command. Tactical. Engineering. Recon. Support. Each stood for a path—leadership, combat, systems, intelligence, and logistics. Each had its own color, its own symbol.
Mason barely registered the rest of the orientation speech. He sat there, eyes locked, heart pounding. Not just from nerves—but from determination. He wasn't going to be deadweight. He couldn't be.
Simon's grin faltered for half a second before he covered it with a shrug. "Welp. Nothing like a good ol' 'survive or get shipped home' speech to light a fire under you."
Mason didn't answer. His gaze remained forward, fists clenched on his knees. Survive. Endure. Earn your place.
This was the beginning.
CMSC Academy – Cadet Dormitory Wing, Corven
The uniforms felt stiff.
The moment Mason and Simon were handed their standard-issue cadet kits—sealed in vacuum-tight packs—they knew comfort was no longer a priority. The material was a muted slate-gray with thin silver piping along the shoulders and chest. The CMSC insignia—two wings flaring around a singular, vertical star—was etched just above the left breast.
"Feels like I'm wearing a glorified trash bag," Simon muttered, adjusting the collar as they stepped out of the changing area and into the corridor.
Mason gave a dry chuckle, glancing down at his own reflection in the polished black floor panels. "Better get used to it. Pretty sure this is our second skin for the foreseeable future."
The hallway leading toward the dormitories was wide, flanked by seamless glass windows that looked out onto the sprawling academy grounds—immaculate training fields, landing pads with sleek aircraft, and the looming shadow of the academy's upper towers stretching toward the red-hued sky of Corven. The architecture was brutal and elegant all at once. Efficient. Like everything had a function and anything unnecessary had been cut away.
As they walked, groups of cadets passed them by—some in quiet pairs, others in loud clusters. It didn't take long to spot a particular group that moved differently.
They were dressed like everyone else but carried themselves like they owned the place. Laughing too loud, walking like they weren't walking—they were making an entrance. One of them, a tall guy with a jawline like a cliffside and blonde hair so perfectly slicked back it looked artificial, tossed his uniform jacket over his shoulder like a scarf. The CMSC patch hung loosely, as if it was beneath him.
"—Father said I'd be wasted in Support. He's already arranged a Command assessment," the guy said, not bothering to keep his voice down. "Corven High Council likes to fast-track talent when they see it."
Another cadet nodded with exaggerated agreement. "Mine's already talking with Rear Admiral Caskel. Says placements are mostly a formality."
Simon glanced at Mason. "You catching this?"
Mason didn't reply immediately. He kept his eyes ahead, expression neutral, but there was something sharp behind his silence. His jaw tensed—just slightly. He'd heard voices like theirs before. Back when things fell apart.
"They actually think bloodlines and bank accounts are gonna matter here," Simon said, shaking his head. "I almost feel bad for them."
"Almost," Mason echoed, finally cracking a faint smile. "They're in for a hard crash when reality catches up."
The group passed them by without a glance, too busy basking in their own imagined importance. Mason and Simon shared a look—equal parts amusement and disdain.
Eventually, they reached their assigned dorms—Unit C6, Level 3. Each cadet had a personal module: compact, self-contained, and efficient. The room was just big enough for a bed recessed into the wall, a retractable desk, a storage drawer for belongings, and a smart-glass screen for messages and scheduling.
Simon leaned inside his pod and gave a long whistle. "Spartan chic. Love what they've done with the place."
Mason stepped into his own. The lighting was soft, but the corners were all too sharp. The bed adjusted under him, but comfort felt mechanical—like the whole room was pretending to care. He sat slowly, fingers pressing against the cool surface. It automatically adjusted to his weight, humming faintly as it configured for comfort. He leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
For the first time since he stepped off the ship, it truly hit him: This was real.
He was here.
No turning back now.
Simon tapped his knuckles against the doorframe. "Hey. You good?"
Mason blinked and looked up. "Yeah… just thinking."
Simon nodded once, serious now. "We're gonna have to earn every inch. They made that clear."
"Good," Mason said quietly. "I'd rather earn it than be handed something I didn't deserve."
Simon's grin returned, though this time it had an edge to it. "Let's show 'em what bottom-rung nobodies are capable of."
Mason gave a short nod. "Let's."
Outside, the academy lights dimmed slightly. A voice over the dorm intercom announced lights-out in thirty minutes. The grading trials began tomorrow.
And with them began the battle—not just for placement, but for purpose. For who would be refined into something sharper… and who would be cut away.