Jaxon had been here for about ten months now. While he couldn’t say he had completely gotten used to the environment—or being an orphan—he had at least grown accustomed to the sounds of the klaxons. He had learned to rise immediately when they blared. His body had adapted to the rigid schedule, even if his mind hadn’t.

  Ten months of grueling drills, followed by equally exhausting lectures. These weren’t the kinds of lessons normal children learned. There was no numeracy, no history, no astronomy—unless it related to the Imperium or the Xerath.

  Today was one of those days. They had finished their drills; now, they had their lectures.

  The lecture hall was dimly lit, like every other room in the facility. The only illumination came from the massive holographic display at the center of the room. Rows of children sat in silence, their faces a mixture of boredom, curiosity, and quiet dread. A few whispered among themselves, already familiar with the material.

  Jaxon, however, sat completely still, his fists clenched beneath the desk.

  A figure stepped forward—Instructor Fischer. He was a tall, older man. Much smaller than Makon, but tall nonetheless. His face was weathered with scars, his piercing gaze sweeping over the room. Unlike the other instructors, Fischer wasn’t cruel. He wasn’t soft either. And on rare occasions, he even joked with them. He was no Genome Soldier, though. His uniform bore the insignia of the Mortal Legions—a rifle encircled in silver—but his experience came from wars fought in his youth.

  With a tap on his wrist, the display flickered, revealing a monstrous, insectoid figure. It loomed over them, its exoskeleton fused with jagged mechanical plating, its elongated skull housing rows of razor-sharp teeth. Two digitigrade legs supported its towering form, each step designed for speed and agility.

  An average Xerath drone.

  Fischer’s voice was sharp and precise. “The enemy is unlike anything humanity has ever faced. They do not negotiate. They do not surrender. The Xerath exist for one purpose: consumption. If they are not stopped, they will consume us all.”

  The holographic figure shifted into a combat stance. Fischer continued.

  “The Xerath are divided into five known classes. We have talked about two—the Drones and the Titans. Now, we will focus on one of the deadliest: the Reapers.” His voice grew graver. “Unlike Drones, they are not disposable. Unlike Titans, they are not mindless brutes. Reapers think. They strategize. And they kill with precision.”

  The image changed, revealing a new horror.

  Jaxon’s stomach twisted.

  The Reaper was taller than the Drone, its elongated body wrapped in obsidian-colored armor, its eyeless head crowned with a jagged exoskeletal crest. Each of its four biomechanical arms ended in curved, serrated blades—razor-sharp, honed for slaughter.

  The very thing that had slaughtered his mother.

  His hands trembled beneath the desk, but he forced them to stay still.

  Then, the display zoomed in on the blades.

  At the base of each weapon were holes—small, circular openings along the edges. Almost ornamental at first glance.

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  Fischer’s expression darkened.

  “You may have heard stories about the Reapers. Some of you may have encountered them. You may think you understand what they are capable of. But there is one thing you must know above all else…”

  He tapped his wrist again, and the image changed.

  This time, it was a simulation.

  A human soldier locked in combat with a Reaper.

  The soldier fired his rifle. The rounds bounced off the Reaper’s thick carapace. The creature moved with unnatural speed, dodging the shots with terrifying efficiency. Then, in a single fluid motion, the Reaper plunged its blade into the man’s chest.

  There was blood. A lot of blood. The soldier remained alive for a few seconds, struggling—trying in vain to fight back. Then—convulsions.

  His body spasmed violently, veins turning black as the infection spread. Within seconds, his mouth foamed, his eyes rolled back, and blood poured from his orifices—nose, ears, mouth.

  Jaxon’s jaw tightened.

  Would this have happened to his mother?

  Fischer’s voice was grim. “Reapers do not just kill. Their blades inject a biological agent—spores, engineered by the Xerath. These spores travel through the bloodstream, attacking the nervous system and vital organs. If a target does not die from the initial strike, they will succumb within minutes. There is no cure.”

  The display shifted again, showing a battlefield littered with contorted corpses. Their bodies twisted. Their faces frozen in screams.

  “This,” Fischer said, “is what awaits those who underestimate the Reaper.”

  Silence.

  Even the orphans who had been whispering earlier had nothing to say.

  Jaxon swallowed hard.

  They aren’t unstoppable.

  He had seen one die before.

  But not before it had killed his mother.

  Fischer’s voice pulled him back. “If you ever find yourself alone against a Reaper, do not engage. Unless you are a Genome Soldier, you will not win.”

  A hand shot up—Rainer. One of the more confident orphans. Sharp-eyed. Always asking questions.

  “Sir,” he said, “if Reapers are that dangerous, how do Genome Soldiers fight them?”

  A murmur rippled through the class.

  Fischer exhaled through his nose, nodding slightly. “A good question. One that I would love to know the answer to. When you find out, let me know—because Genome Soldiers would sooner die than reveal the secrets of their regiments or their brotherhood.” He smirked slightly. “Sadly, that includes Makon.”

  There were a few groans of disappointment, but Fischer continued. “Tomorrow’s lesson will cover ranks—the hierarchy of the Imperium’s military forces and its Mortal Legions.”

  Jaxon barely heard the rest.

  He had seen a Genome Soldier kill a Reaper before.

  His fists clenched beneath the desk.

  Then, the klaxons blared, signaling the end of the lesson.

  As Jaxon left the hall, he spotted Holt walking out of another lecture room.

  “Jax,” Holt greeted, running a hand through his blond hair. His voice was shaky, as if something had just happened.

  Jaxon said nothing. Just nodded in return.

  They made their way down the corridor toward the showers.

  The facility was always dimly lit. Always silent. Everything was scheduled. Everything was controlled. Even bathing had a time limit.

  The water only ran once a day. If you missed it, you missed it. Jaxon had missed it five times including the period he arrived.

  He walked into the showers alongside the other children. The room was stark—gray walls lined with exposed pipes and metal grates.

  The moment the pipes rattled to life, children moved with urgency—stripping down and stepping beneath the lukewarm spray before it was too late.

  Jaxon took his place under one of the nozzles, turning his back slightly. The lack of privacy still felt unnatural, even after months.

  Nearby, Holt ran a hand through his damp blond hair, his face unreadable.

  Then—Lucian entered.

  Lucian always acted like he was above the other children. Like he was better. He strode toward a nozzle—but another kid was already using it.

  Lucian’s eyes darkened. He loomed over the smaller boy, tilting his head.

  “That’s my spot,” he said flatly.

  The other boy hesitated. The showers were first-come, first-served—there were no assigned spots. But Lucian didn’t care about rules.

  After a few moments, the boy stepped aside.

  Lucian smirked, stepping under the nozzle. “Smart choice.”

  Holt gave Jaxon a look. “One day, someone’s gonna put Lucian in his place.”

  Jaxon smirked slightly. “I’ll make sure I have a front-row seat when it happens.”

  For the first time that day, Holt chuckled.