The lab stank of antiseptic and iron. The glow of the med-vats dimmed as seals clicked shut, their work finished, leaving the cadets to stagger free into the cold, clinical air. Lambert's medics moved with quiet efficiency, cleaning instruments, resetting restraints, preparing for whatever came next, but none of it mattered to the squad anymore. Their bodies had been remade, blistered skin smoothed over, organs repaired, bones set, but the hollowness in their eyes could not be healed.

Sixteen cadets shuffled together like shadows, silent, each step heavy with exhaustion that no vat could erase. Their uniforms were unmarked, their skin technically whole, yet every face wore the same drained mask. Chime's hands trembled as she straightened her belt. Lessa pressed her lips tight to keep her composure. Even Jurpat, who never lost his grin, stared blankly ahead, his shoulders slumped. There was nothing left in them to give voice to what they had endured.

It was not their limbs that failed them. It was the silence inside. They had been broken and rebuilt too many times in too few hours. Something vital had been stripped away, and the Legion could not return it.

Vaeliyan walked with them, steady, silent, indistinguishable at first glance from the rest. His uniform was straight, his expression unreadable, his stride firm. But through the bond, what radiated from him was not emptiness. Where the others were hollow, Vaeliyan burned. His fury hummed like a wire pulled taut, a steady heat in every chest around him. He didn't clench his fists or bare his teeth, but every cadet felt it. A vow without words.

No one questioned it. They accepted it like breath in their lungs. His rage became theirs. They understood without needing to name it. No one spoke Michael's name. His absence told them everything.

Michael had not been there when they awoke the final time. The med-vats had released them, the medics had guided them out, but his place was empty. Sub-Instructor Michael had slipped away before the seals even opened. He was gone, and the silence he left behind was louder than any gloating smile he might have worn.

The cadets stepped off the pad and onto Vaeliyan's estate. House tried to greet them, but they did not respond. They only dragged their boots across the floor in silence. No one collapsed immediately. Ramis sank onto the couch, hands dangling between his knees, eyes locked on nothing. Sylen leaned against the wall, lips moving soundlessly.

Only Vaeliyan remained standing. His gaze moved across them, but he spoke no words. His stillness cut sharper than speech. The fury through the tether only grew as their exhaustion deepened. They lowered themselves into bunks like bodies sinking into graves, broken but alive.

Vaeliyan did not stop, the burn inside him feeding into every one of them. It was not comfort, but it was something. A promise carried across the bond: Michael would not leave this place alive not after what he did.

Michael's manor was a cathedral of perfection. Every surface gleamed, every corridor aligned with symmetry so precise it felt sculpted by mathematics rather than hands. The filtered air carried no scent, no trace of life, only the clean sterility of power and wealth. He had built it to be untouchable, and in nights like this, when the world outside reeked of sweat and blood, it reminded him that he was above it all.

He sat in the dining hall with a glass of pale liquor, savoring the silence. The 90th would still be reeling, broken in body, gutted in spirit, barely able to stand. He pictured their hollow eyes as they stumbled out of Lambert's lab, clinging to routine like drowning men to driftwood. The thought made him chuckle. They had no idea how close they had come to worse. No one had seen him nudge the dials just a little higher, hold the pain a little longer. Not the medics. Not the instructors. And certainly not those cadets.

That was the art of it: doing harm so cleanly that others mistook it for duty. He told himself that was what made him better. Smarter. The others screamed; he smiled. They flinched from agony; he leaned into it. It was almost funny to him that they thought they had endured something great. He knew the truth: they had endured only what he allowed.

His gaze swept the vaulted room, every painting in place, every line flawless. Here, he was surrounded by proof of his superiority. He imagined Vaeliyan's ragged stare, Jurpat's forced grin, Sylen's trembling hands. They were scum playing at nobility, gutter-born children pretending at blood. He was the one with refinement, with control, with the rank of Sub-Instructor and a manor that dwarfed their little dorms. Nobility was not earned through suffering. Nobility was bred, cultivated, proven in how one carried pain and passed it on to lesser men.

A pulse flickered in the corner of his vision. His AI pinged. A summons: Report to Imujin's sanctum.

For a heartbeat his hand froze on the glass. Then the smile crept back. Of course. He had been recognized. The Headmaster himself wanted him to come to his private sanctum. They had seen his discipline, his precision, and now he would be rewarded for it.

Michael set the glass aside and rose, his reflection perfect in the polished floor. His stride carried him across the hall with the ease of a man stepping into destiny. He didn't wonder why the summons came at night. He didn't ask what it might cost. In his mind, this was it, Headmaster Imujin was going to offer him his rightful position, perhaps even a Platinum Ring. Michael's thoughts leapt ahead, already choosing what class he would teach. He smiled as he imagined replacing that bastard Isol. History should be his domain, not cluttered with failures of the Legion but elevated with the only history that mattered: the rise of the Nine and their glory. He only thought of what he was owed, and how sweet it would be to take it.

Moonlight greeted Michael when the shimmer of the pad faded. For a moment he thought something had gone wrong, the world around him was not metal, not glass, not the sterile perfection of the Green. He stood at the edge of a pitiful stream, its trickle winding crookedly through the grass without reason or order. The water was shallow, muddied, and unimpressive. When he shifted his boots, the mud clung thick to the polished leather, staining the gleam he had worked into them. His lips curled faintly, though he straightened and forced composure onto his face.

Around him, bushes grew in tangled knots, branches jutting out without symmetry. Trees leaned at odd angles, their crowns uneven and rough. Crickets sang without rhythm, their noise constant and unshaped. There was no order here, no design, no cultivated artistry. To Michael, it was chaos masquerading as nature. A Headmaster's sanctum should have gleamed with perfection: hedges cut to uniform height, lawns manicured, blossoms engineered to bloom in matched precision. This was not perfection. This was squalor.

But he ignored the eccentricities of the old coot. Imujin was strange, everyone knew that. If this was what the Headmaster chose to keep as his private retreat, then so be it. As long as Michael received his Platinum Ring, as long as he was elevated to his rightful place, he could overlook the filth and chaos of Imujin's so‑called sanctum.

He stepped carefully away from the muck and moved up through the uneven grass. The meadow opened wider before him, silver under the moonlight. Wildflowers nodded on crooked stems, patches of grass rose higher than others, and the breeze carried the raw scent of soil and pollen. None of it was cultivated, none of it restrained. It was alive, and Michael hated it.

A figure stood among the grass, framed by the moonlight. Imujin did not look out of place here. His massive frame was relaxed, his arms folded loosely, the night breeze tugging at the edges of his coat. There was no tension in him, no awkwardness. He belonged here. He was at ease in the wild imperfection. That, more than anything, unsettled Michael.

He smoothed his expression again, letting a smile touch his lips, and strode forward with all the confidence of a man arriving at his inheritance. "Headmaster," he said, voice smooth, practiced, pitched low with respect. "You summoned me."

Imujin inclined his head slightly, smiling, his voice carrying warmth. "I did. And I am glad you came." His eyes gleamed crimson in the moonlight, unreadable but steady. "You did well today. I hear from Wirk and Lambert that with your help the cadets managed more than they ever thought possible. There is yet more you can do for me, Michael."

Michael's chest swelled at the words. He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture regal, and waited for the reward he believed was inevitable.

The words washed over Michael like consecration, each syllable settling into him like scripture. Wirk. Lambert. Even Imujin himself. They had all spoken of his role, of what he had done. They had all recognized his strength, his cunning, his willingness to go further than the rest. At last, the truth was being acknowledged in this place, and he alone carried it.

He inclined his head modestly, though his chest swelled and his heart pounded with triumph. The modest dip of his chin was practiced humility, the kind a nobleman displayed when praised for something he believed to be beneath his true measure. "I only did what was necessary, Headmaster," he said, letting the words roll out smooth and deliberate. "The cadets have potential, but without direction they would be nothing. We gave them that."

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Imujin's smile deepened at that, though his eyes gleamed in a way Michael could not quite decipher. There was warmth in the expression, yes, but also something weighty and opaque that Michael mistook for approval. "Direction is a rare gift," the Headmaster replied, voice smooth and indulgent, almost paternal. "Few can shape raw talent into achievement. It is not lost on me that, within your care, they exceeded every expectation. Lambert and Wirk have both remarked on your… steadying influence."

Michael's lips curled into a careful smile, pride sparking in his eyes. Yes. This was the moment. Recognition. Validation. The reward that was long overdue. The old coot might cloak his praise in riddles, but Michael could hear what others could not. He had proven himself beyond the scum of Class One, those gutter-born cadets pretending at nobility. They were nothing. He was not merely a Sub-Instructor. He was above them, always had been, and now the Headmaster would lift him to his rightful station.

His gaze swept the meadow as if it already belonged to him. The crooked flowers, the uneven grass, the pitiful stream, he looked at them and imagined them corrected, cultivated under his order, the natural imperfections stripped away by discipline. In his mind's eye, this wild squalor was tamed, reshaped into something worthy of him, the way history itself would be tamed once he was the one to teach it. He imagined himself standing where Isol stood now, rewriting the curriculum, discarding the Legion's tired failures, elevating only the glory of the Nine. That was the history that mattered. That was the truth.

He clasped his hands behind his back, his posture regal, his chin lifted at the perfect angle to suggest both humility and command. "I will not fail you, Headmaster," he said smoothly, letting his voice drop into a tone that implied oath and loyalty. "I am ready to take on more. To take on what truly matters."

Imujin's head tilted slightly, the moonlight throwing his features into strange relief, the silver in his hair catching pale fire. His voice was steady, unhurried. "Good. That is what I wanted to hear. There is more you can do for us, Michael. More than even you yet realize."

Michael straightened his shoulders until they were square as stone, the imagined weight of a Platinum Ring already pressing against his hand. He could almost hear the announcement echoing in the halls of the Citadel, could picture the cadets' faces turned upward in shock and awe as he ascended beyond them. He saw himself robed in honor, his authority beyond question. He believed utterly, without hesitation, that this was the night he became what he had always claimed to be. He was not dreaming. He was certain. Tonight, Imujin would place him where he belonged.

The silence stretched after Imujin's last words, a pause that seemed deliberate, heavy with meaning. Michael mistook it for ceremony. He held himself taller, rehearsing in his head what he would say when the Platinum Ring was offered, already picturing the look on Vaeliyan's face when the announcement came.

A sound broke the night, grass bending under a measured step. From the far side of the meadow, a figure emerged. The moonlight clung to him, outlining his height, his steadiness, the deliberate weight of his stride. Vaeliyan.

Michael's smile faltered, just for an instant, before he forced it back onto his face. "Ah," he said, trying for easy charm. "So, this is why you brought me here, Headmaster. To show him what real discipline looks like?"

Vaeliyan did not answer. He walked until he was close enough that the moonlight caught his eyes. Cold. Unmoving. When he finally spoke, flat and merciless:

"I keep my promises."

The words cut through Michael's practiced composure like a blade. His laugh came too fast, too high, a note of desperation disguised as jest. "Hello, Vaeliyan… why would you say something like that?" He looked between the Headmaster and the cadet, searching for the expected rebuke, the reassurance that this was all part of some twisted test.

None came. Imujin stood in silence, unreadable, the night breeze stirring his coat. Vaeliyan's eyes never left Michael. The weight of that one word lingered in the air, and for the first time that night, Michael felt something cold sink into his gut: the realization that he had misread everything.

He forced another laugh, thinner this time. "You can't be serious. I'm here because I'm being recognized. Because I'm being elevated. Isn't that right, Headmaster?" His voice cracked on the last word. The meadow's silence pressed in around him, broken only by the pitiful gurgle of the stream. The mud at his boots suddenly felt heavier, sucking him down.

Vaeliyan took another step forward. He didn't raise his voice, didn't change his expression. He had already said all that needed to be said.

Michael snapped. He finally saw this for the trap that it was, Imujin would break him and feed him to this gutter trash. But he would not go down without striking at least once, without trying to erase the stain that Vaeliyan's presence left on the pride of those who were actually deserving of honor. Pride gave way to panic, and panic to fury. He lunged forward, boots tearing through the mud, his arm cocked back to strike. If this was a trap, he would not die meek. If he was to fall, he would drag Vaeliyan down with him.

He never made it a full step.

A hand settled on his shoulder. Not heavy, not even forceful. It felt at first like reassurance, a father's hand steadying a son. For half a heartbeat Michael thought it meant salvation, that Imujin would stop this madness, would call Vaeliyan off, would restore order.

Then he tried to push past.

Agony tore through him. His scream ripped the night wide open. He stumbled, looking down in disbelief. His arm was no longer attached. Imujin hadn't moved quickly, hadn't even looked strained. The Headmaster's fingers had simply closed, and the limb was gone, severed as cleanly as if reality itself had been pinched shut.

Michael staggered back, blood spraying in hot arcs against the silver-lit grass. His mind refused to accept it. He tried to raise his other arm in defense, and Imujin's hand was there again, calm, precise, pitiless. The second arm fell, torn away like parchment from a book. Smoke blazed across Imujin's hands as he released him, the heat sealing the flesh instantly. The wounds cauterized under that impossible touch, leaving no chance for blood to drain away. Michael would not bleed out. He would live through every moment of what came next.

He collapsed into the mud, thrashing, screaming, rolling onto his side as pain swallowed him. The once-immaculate Sub-Instructor was a ruin now, his boots caked with mud, his sleeves hanging empty and slick with blood. He gasped for air, pleading, the words spilling out broken. "Headmaster, please, I've served, you know I've served,"

Imujin crouched beside him, expression unreadable. "You misread service for cruelty," he said quietly. "And cruelty for strength."

Michael's eyes went wide. He twisted, tried to scramble away, but his legs betrayed him. Imujin's hands moved once more, faster than thought. There was a wet crack, a scream cut short, and Michael's legs joined his arms in the grass.

He was nothing but a torso now, dragged down in the mud, helpless and broken. He coughed on his own sobs, eyes wild, staring up at Vaeliyan in desperate hatred. If he had to die, he wanted at least to curse the boy who stood untouched.

Vaeliyan didn't flinch. He only watched, the moonlight reflecting in his cold eyes, waiting for the moment to step in.

The air stank of scorched blood and smoke where Imujin's hands had sealed Michael's wounds. He writhed in the mud, limbless, reduced to a torso that refused to die. The Headmaster had made sure of that. He would not bleed out, he would not faint from shock. He would remain aware until the end.

Vaeliyan took one step forward, the moonlight glinting in his eyes, when a shift stirred through the bond. The others were coming. The cadets, hollowed by the vats, broken and rebuilt until nothing inside them resembled innocence, drifted into the meadow. They moved silently, silver-lit shapes, their uniforms immaculate but their faces wrong. Their mouths twisted into smiles too wide, teeth gleaming as if sharpened by anticipation. Every one of them was grinning, waiting for the chance to unmake the man who had tormented them.

Michael's eyes widened at the sight. "No," he rasped, his voice raw and thin. "Not them. They're mine to command. They're… cadets…"

But the cadets no longer looked like cadets. They looked like predators. Each had taken the shard of light that once had been Flash and warped it into a new cruelty, an echo of the vats reborn through their will.

Sylen's grin gleamed feral as violet lashes tore from her hands, cutting in angled arcs that left bruised, glowing lines across Michael's flesh. Chime's bursts sputtered in erratic bursts of searing white, strobing hard enough to rattle his skull and leave his eyes streaming blood. Jurpat's radiance pulsed in heavy bands of deep red, each strike thudding into bone with the force of a hammer, cracking him apart from the inside.

The twins moved in eerie synchrony, one weaving coils of green light that constricted his chest until his lungs begged for air, the other unleashing blue flares that froze his nerves stiff, trapping him in place. Lessa's hands spilled orange needles that punctured shallowly into skin, burning in patterns like hot brands. Ramis's glare bent into yellow arcs so sharp they peeled away his sight, afterimages stacking into a mad kaleidoscope. Roan's silver threads shimmered like marionette strings, latching into Michael's body and jerking him upright to dance in their control.

Every cadet had carried the vats within them, reshaping the trial's torment into colors and spectrums of new suffering. Each shard of the rainbow was a knife, each shade a scream.

Vaeliyan watched it all unfold, then turned his gaze inward. The nanites answered, pulling light not outward but inward, sharpening it until it carved inside his own veins. The System's words etched themselves across his mind:

Luminoscalpel (Evolved from Flash): Light forced inward, sharpened through radiation and guided by nanites. Instead of dazzling the eyes, it poured into the bloodstream, twisting red cells into hardened, serrated growths that ripped through flesh with every beat of the heart. The body became its own blade, veins shredding, organs punctured, nerves carved apart in a tide of microscopic knives. It was slow, excruciatingly so, and offers no true purpose but that of torment, a weapon of pure suffering, carving pain from the inside until nothing remained.

Vaeliyan smiled at the sight of it, a calm curve of his lips. Then he raised his hand and joined the others. Michael convulsed as invisible blades ripped through him, his own body betraying him with every heartbeat.

The cadets closed in as one, their spectrum of twisted light breaking him apart. Michael's screams tore into the night, but they were swallowed by the grins of his executioners. They were hollowed, broken, remade into Legion. And now, together, they proved it on the body of the man who had believed himself untouchable.

Vaeliyan leaned close, his breath calm against Michael's ear, even as the cadets unleashed their torment. "This is what you made of us. Every scar, every scream. You built this. And now we give it back."

The execution had begun, and it would not end until nothing remained of Michael but ash and silence.

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