Jaxon didn’t know how long he had dozed off—minutes, hours? The absence of time gnawed at him.
Then—a sudden jolt rocked the ship.
A few of them startled awake, blinking groggily. The restraints across Jaxon’s chest automatically unlocked with a soft hiss, retracting into the seat.
The doors slid open.
A wave of cold, sterile air hit Jaxon’s face.
Where was this place?
There were no banners of the Imperium. No familiar insignias. No instructors waiting to bark orders.
Everything about this place felt weird.
The walls were a deep matte black, smooth and seamless, glowing with faint blue lines that pulsed in steady rhythms—not unlike the ship
The recruits were ushered out, guided down a narrow corridor lined with what looked like observation panels—dark glass that gave the impression they were being watched.
Jaxon’s skin prickled.
Then, they entered a massive hall.
The ceiling stretched impossibly high, lined with white lights. The floor was cold steel, polished to a mirror shine. No chairs. No desks. No training equipment. Just empty space.
At the far end, a figure stood waiting.
Not an instructor.
Not a soldier.
Not Makon.
A man in a long black coat lined with silver.
He was tall—towering, probably over seven feet—his posture perfect, his expression unreadable, his buzz cut gave him a domineering look His gray eyes swept over them, calculating, studying.
Jaxon had thought no one could be taller than Makon—but here was someone in the flesh.And unlike makon The man smiled.
But it wasn’t a kind smile.
“Welcome, recruits. I am senior Centurion Dietrich Tyron. You will refer to me as Centurion Dietrich ,” he said simply, his voice even, clinical.
Jaxon’s breath slowed.
The man’s expression hardened.
“Your real training begins now.”
Then the doors behind them sealed shut.
A chill crawled down Jaxon’s spine.
They still hadn’t been told what they were training for.
For a long moment, no one moved.
Fifty recruits, all standing in silent confusion, their gazes flicking from one another to the massive, imposing figure before them. Some, like Lucian, stood with an easy confidence, arms crossed, smirking as if this was all a game. Others, like Holt, shifted uneasily, shoulders tense, eyes darting to the sealed doors behind them.
Jaxon clenched his fists.
He had spent months training. He had survived in New Canaan. And yet, something about this place felt worse.
Dietrich took slow, measured steps toward them, his polished boots clicking softly against the steel floor.
“You were all chosen because you showed promise,” he said, his tone almost bored. “Some of you because of your intelligence. Others because of your strength, resilience, and discipline. A few of you… simply because you survived. And some… because of influence.”
His cold eyes swept over them, stopping at Lucian.
Jaxon narrowed his eyes.
Dietrich continued.
“But promise means nothing without proof.”
A metallic hiss echoed through the hall as a section of the floor slid open behind him. A large steel container rose from the ground, locking into place with a mechanical snap.
Dietrich turned slightly, gesturing toward it.
“Your first test begins now.”
The crate’s locks disengaged with a sharp click. Then, the container’s walls folded open.
A collective breath hitched.
Inside were weapons.
Blades and stun batons. Lined up in perfect rows, polished and gleaming.
Some recruits straightened, suddenly more alert. Others frowned, confusion flickering across their faces.
“Choose,” Dietrich commanded. “Quickly.”
Jaxon didn’t hesitate. He moved, grabbing a combat knife from the rack. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Beside him, Holt took a stun baton, his grip tightening around the handle.
Lucian, of course, reached for a baton . He smirked, rolling his shoulders as if he had already won whatever this test was.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
One by one, the recruits armed themselves. Some hesitated, uncertain, but no one wanted to be caught empty-handed.
A metallic hiss echoed through the hall as sections of the walls slid apart, revealing rows of hardened training dummies—mechanized humanoid forms, their limbs reinforced with dull combat plating. Each one stood perfectly still, but Jaxon knew better than to assume they were harmless.
Some recruits exhaled quietly in relief—this wasn’t a real fight. Not yet.
But the relief was short-lived.
Dietrich clasped his hands behind his back.
“Your objective is simple: incapacitate your target before it incapacitates you.”
Jaxon narrowed his eyes. Incapacitate?
As if on cue, the dummies’ eyes flickered to life with a dull blue glow. A deep mechanical hum vibrated through the room as the constructs shifted into combat stances.
Then, they moved.
Jaxon barely had time to react before the dummy in front of him lunged forward.
The mechanized opponent was fast—faster than Jaxon had expected. It closed the distance with precision, swinging its reinforced arm toward him in a sharp, calculated strike.
Jaxon twisted out of the way, narrowly avoiding the blow. He could feel the air shift as it passed, inches from his ribs.
No hesitation.
Jaxon moved, bringing his combat knife up in a fluid arc, aiming for the dummy’s exposed neck joint.
The blade slammed against reinforced plating with a sharp clang.
It didn’t even scratch it.
His mind raced—this wasn’t like the drills or the fights among children in New Canaan.
This opponent didn’t hesitate.
Didn’t make mistakes.
It was programmed for efficiency.
Another strike—this one aimed at his legs.
Jaxon jumped back just in time, but his footing slipped slightly on the polished floor.
The dummy pressed the attack.
Jaxon barely blocked, gritting his teeth as he absorbed the impact with his forearm. His muscles burned, but he refused to let it throw him off balance.
If he couldn’t outmatch it in strength…
He had to outthink it.
Outthink a robot? Well, that sounded stupid.
He still had time to joke in this sort of situation. Maybe Holt was rubbing off on him.
From the corner of his eye, Jaxon saw Holt struggling.
Holt’s stun baton crackled as it connected with the dummy’s chest—but it barely staggered.
His opponent didn’t even slow down.
The construct swung low, catching Holt off guard. He barely managed to block, but the force of the impact sent him stumbling back.
His breath came in sharp, panicked gasps.
Jaxon’s stomach tightened.
Holt wasn’t winning.
He could see it in the way his friend hesitated, how his movements lacked confidence.
The dummies were relentless, calculating, efficient.
There was no room for uncertainty.
If Holt didn’t adjust fast, he was going to lose.
And Jaxon had no idea what happened to the ones who lost.
Lucian, on the other hand—was thriving.
He was calm. Focused.
Every movement was precise, practiced, deadly.
He didn’t waste energy.
He didn’t panic.
He was controlling the fight, not just reacting to it.
Like he had done this before.
Jaxon felt a knot tighten in his stomach as he watched Lucian move with cold efficiency.
Lucian didn’t just dodge—he predicted.
One well-placed hit to the knee joint.
Another to the shoulder servo.
Then, with surgical precision, he drove the butt of his baton into the dummy’s head, sending it crashing to the floor.
It twitched once—then went still.
Lucian stood over it, completely unscathed.
His smirk deepened.
Why was Lucian’s fight so easy?
—
Jaxon forced himself to focus on his own fight.
The dummy lashed out again, its attack pattern relentless.
Jaxon ducked low, letting the strike sail over his head.
And that’s when he saw it.
A small gap between the armor plating near its side—an open spot just beneath the ribs.
A mistake.
Or was it purposely put there?
Jaxon put the thought at the back of his mind, he didn’t hesitate.
He shifted his weight and drove his knife forward, aiming straight for the exposed section.
The blade sank in.
Not deep—but enough.
The dummy jerked violently, its movements stuttering. Sparks flickered from the damaged section as its systems attempted to compensate.
Jaxon ripped the knife free and slammed the hilt into its head, sending it staggering back.
Then, with one last calculated motion—he swept its legs out from under it.
The dummy collapsed.
A sharp metallic whine filled the air. Then—silence.
Jaxon exhaled sharply, his muscles burning.
He had won.
—
Jaxon turned just in time to see Holt struggling to land a finishing blow.
His dummy was still pressing forward, but its movements were slowing, its servos twitching from repeated strikes.
Jaxon moved.
Before the dummy could counterattack, he rushed forward and slammed his boot against its back, forcing it off balance.
Holt didn’t waste the opportunity.
With a sharp crack, he drove the stun baton into its exposed circuits, sending a burst of electricity through its frame.
The dummy twitched violently—then collapsed.
Holt fell back, panting.
“That… sucked,” he muttered.
Jaxon held out a hand, pulling him to his feet.
“Yeah,” he said. “But you’re still standing.”
Holt let out a breathless chuckle.
“Barely.”
They turned—just in time to see Lucian watching them.
Smirking.
One by one, the fights ended. Some recruits triumphed, standing over their deactivated dummies, breathing heavily but victorious. Others were on the floor, clutching bruises and minor injuries.
Not everyone had passed.
Dietrich studied them with cold, clinical interest.
“Acceptable. You all pass—for now,” he finally said. “But barely.”
His gaze lingered on the fallen recruits.
“Failure is not tolerated here.”
The walls of the white hall opened up again, revealing other recruits—flanked by men almost as tall as Dietrich .
Had the other recruits gone through the same thing?
Then, Dietrich’s voice thundered across the hall.
“You are all here to become the first line of defense for the Sol Imperium—otherwise known as Genome Soldiers. Or at least… you will attempt to be.”
A cold silence filled the hall.
“Like I said—and like you have probably heard from your overseers —failure is not tolerated. Some of you will not make it. Some of you may survive, but you will be broken mentally.”
Dietrich’s expression darkened.
“But those who survive… will be made into something more. Something beyond human.”
Jaxon felt his stomach tighten.
“You will serve Sol with everything you have. Some of you may have questions. Some of you may wonder why you were chosen. But let me be clear—I do not care.”
His voice was ice.
“The world you are on is called Megiddo.”
Jaxon barely had time to process the name before a ripple of shock spread through the recruits.
Megiddo.
A name you were never meant to hear. A place that does not exist.”
“Dietrich’s lips curled into a faint smirk, but it was void of amusement.
“Megiddo is a classified training facility for Genome Soldiers. The only person permitted to disclose its location is the Imperator himself. Most of you may know who that is. Some of you may not.It doesn’t matter.”
Jaxon swallowed hard.
“This world also harbors the Genetorium—the key to the creation of Genome Soldiers. You will all take this information to your graves. That is not a threat, that is certainty .”
Should you fail—if you prove too weak, too slow, too fragile for what lies ahead—you will not be dismissed. You Will not be exiled. I will lead you to your graves myself.”
His gray eyes darkened.
“And then, I will follow your putrid soul to Hel… and end you a second time.”
The silence was suffocating.
Jaxon’s breath came slowly, evenly. Around him, no one dared to speak. Even Lucian, who always had some snide remark, remained perfectly still.
Dietrich finally exhaled, as if bored with their existence.
“You will now be led to your dorms in the same groups you arrived with. Each dormitory will house fifty recruits.”
A pause. His lips curled slightly.
“That is a vast improvement from Canaan.”
The sarcasm wasn’t lost on them.
Dietrich straightened, his tone final.
“You will know be told what your second test is.”
His next words carried a weight that settled in Jaxon’s chest like iron.
“I hope you all survive.”
“Now, let me introduce you to Malikk. He is the man who will teach you what you need to know, and judge whether you are worthy to join or be cutoff. Listen to his words carefully”
Immediately after Dietrich said this, the doors to the other recruits sealed shut, leaving the fifty of them alone with Dietrich and the newcomer, Malikk.
