Jaxon studied the man whom Dietrich had introduced—meanwhile, the Centurion had already left, leaving them with the newcomer. The newcomer strode into the hall, regarding them with dark gray eyes—the same cold shade as Dietrich’s.
He wore a long-sleeved shirt bearing the Imperial insignia, tucked into combat trousers fastened by a thick belt. It was far from the rigid uniforms Jaxon was used to in the Imperial orphanage.
He was tall and broad—not as tall as the Centurion, but stockier. He had black hair, which he tied into a tight bun, with a black lining underneath his eyelids, giving him a somewhat feminine look.
The man studied them for a moment, then spoke.
“I am Malikk Uthman, a Legionnaire First Class of the Imperium,” he said, his tone firm and clipped. “By now, common sense should have told you—we are Genome Soldiers. Myself, my comrades, the men you saw in those rooms, and my superior, Centurion Dietrich—whom you will not see for some time.”
Jaxon remained still, listening.
The man had a strange accent, with deep guttural sounds rolling off his tongue. It was different from anything Jaxon had heard before.
“You are here to become Genome Soldiers,” Uthman continued. “But not just that. You will learn what it means to be one. From now on, forget everything you learned in the Imperial orphanage. Your lessons there are useless. Only your experiences will serve you here.”
Lucian rolled his shoulders, his smirk widening. “That’s a nice speech. You enjoy hearing yourself talk?” His voice was light, mocking. “Or are you just stalling because there’s nothing actually waiting for us? And when do we eat? I’m bloody hungry.”
A few recruits shifted uneasily. Jaxon didn’t miss the way Holt tensed beside him.
Uthman’s expression didn’t change.
He simply stepped forward, his boots echoing against the cold steel floor—slow and deliberate.
“You are of the Varik lineage, correct?”
Lucian’s smirk deepened. “Of course.”
That was his mistake.
Uthman moved without warning.
His huge fist sank into Lucian’s gut with brutal precision. Lucian choked on his breath, doubling over. Before he could recover, Uthman’s boot smashed into his ribs, sending him sprawling onto the cold steel floor. Lucian gasped desperately for air.
Jaxon didn’t even try to hide his satisfaction.
Uthman stepped over Lucian’s crumpled form. His expression remained unchanged, his voice flat.
“You think your name will shield you?” Uthman’s voice was low, controlled, but beneath it was something colder. “I have seen noble sons bleed out in the mud, crying for their mothers. I have seen the heirs of great houses torn apart by the very enemies they thought were beneath them. And do you know what their names did for them?”
Lucian coughed, still struggling to breathe.
“Nothing.”
Uthman’s voice remained level. “You are lucky I held back. You should be dead—or at least on the path to it. Speak out of turn again, and I will rip off your arms like a little boy tormenting a fly and beat you with them.”
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He turned his back on Lucian, returning to his previous position. His face hadn’t changed once throughout the entire encounter.
“I am not cruel,” he said, “but the next person who speaks out of turn will be disciplined.”
He let the silence stretch for a moment. No one dared to speak.
“Now… where was I?”
He let the question hang for a second before continuing.
“Ah, yes. You shall forget all you learned at the orphanage. From this point forward, your training will not consist of meaningless drills. You will learn through experience.”
A pause.
“You will hunt. Think of it as a second test.”
A few of the recruits shifted uncomfortably.
Uthman continued. “Xeraths are not the only beasts that threaten the Imperium. Most of you have lived your lives on hive worlds, fortress worlds—sheltered behind steel buildings and metal turrets. But Megiddo is a desert world. And it is far from empty.”
He took a step forward, his voice growing colder.
“You will partake in a hunt. You will track, kill, and survive against Megiddo’s creatures. The weak will not return.”
Jaxon felt his stomach twist slightly, but he kept his expression neutral.
Uthman gestured toward the far side of the hall. “You will now be led to your sleeping space, where your basic gear will be waiting for you. From this moment forward, you are no longer recruits.”
A pause.
“You are Initiates.”
His gaze swept over them. “Have I made myself clear?”
The response was immediate.
“Yes, Legionnaire Uthman!”
Uthman nodded once. “Then prepare yourselves.”
Jaxon exhaled slowly, barely hearing Holt mutter beside him.
“I really don’t like this guy.”
Jaxon agreed.
Uthman turned sharply on his heel and motioned toward the far end of the hall. “Follow me.”
The massive steel doors hissed open, revealing a long, dimly lit corridor. The walls were the same seamless black as the rest of Megiddo, lined with faintly glowing blue lines. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the sound of their boots against the metal flooring.
Jaxon kept his steps even, but he could feel Holt walking close beside him.
“So, just to be clear,” Holt muttered under his breath, “they’re probably going to throw us into a desert filled with what I’m sure will be deadly creatures to ‘train’ us.”
They reached another set of reinforced doors at the end of the corridor. Hadrian gestured, and they slid open with a deep thunk, revealing their new quarters.
It was a massive chamber—twice the size of the quarters on New Canaan. The ceiling was high, lined with dull overhead lights that barely cut through the shadows. The air smelled of metal and recycled oxygen.
Rows of steel-framed bunks lined the walls. No blankets, no comforts. Just a single mattress, thin as paper.
Holt sighed, muttering under his breath. “Some improvement.”
Another voice whispered from behind. “The only thing that’s somewhat better is the spacing.”
It was Gideon.
Jaxon was surprised he had spoken at all. Was he trying to form an alliance?
Still, Jaxon gave a slight smile at Gideon’s remark.
Uthman gestured toward the lockers. “Your equipment is inside. Take only what is assigned to you.”
No one moved at first.
Then, as if snapping out of a trance, the Initiates hurried toward the lockers.
Jaxon found his near the center of the row. His name—Jaxon Vaes—was stamped into the steel.
He hesitated for a moment, maybe due to the fact that his name was there; it had been a while since he’d seen his name written down anywhere.
Inside was his gear: a sturdy vest, a set of dark fatigues, a long, serrated combat knife—almost the length of a short sword—a stun baton, and a belt with a knife sheath.
He grabbed the fatigues, stripping off his old jumper. Modesty wasn’t a concern—everyone here had bathed together before.
Then, a voice cut through the low murmur.
“But, sir, Legionnaire!”
Jaxon turned.
It was Guthrie. He was sweating buckets, trembling slightly, as if saying that one thing had taken everything out of him.
“How… how could we possibly match you both in physique and presence?”
Uthman walked past Jaxon toward Guthrie, staring at the boy like a giant might stare at an ant.
“Next time, raise your hand.”
A pause.
“But since your question carried no venom, I shall answer.”
Uthman glanced around at the rest of them.
“There is a reason we recruit while you are young. You are still growing. And we shall assist you in that growth. The Genetorium shall assist you in that growth. They shall alter you. It is not a problem.”
He tilted his head slightly. “Is that all, child?”
“Yes, sir,” Guthrie responded quickly, even though the Legionnaire’s answer was vague.
Uthman strode back to the center of the room.
“The hunt begins by the morrow.”
A murmur rippled through the group.
Uthman ignored it.
“You will be dropped into the hunting zone in teams of five, and you will decide your comrades yourselves…”
“This is not an exercise. This is not a simulation. You will bleed. You will suffer. Some of you will die. That is the price of becoming a Genome Soldier.”
A pause.
Then, Uthman’s eyes swept across them once more.
“Do not disappoint me—do not disappoint Sol.”
