The rickety transport airship lurched as it switched from thrusters to rotary engines. Fahon wanted to vomit with how shaky the flight had been. Based on the rust and bullet holes dotting the hull, he figured this vessel had seen better days. The Warrior Sect testers used retired models from the Unification Wars, over thirty years old.

The passenger cabin had enough room for two squads of troopers. Six members of Blue Team sat in bucket seats, strapped in tight. Each wore a pair of faded blue coveralls and blocky steel helmets with goggles. The helmets, over a century old, stunk like dirt and sweat. Fahon was among them, hands clutching the metal bars above.

Hanging from a strap over his neck was an auto-rifle modified for sim-ammo. The only ammo available was two magazines dangling from a harness on his chest. On impact, the rounds left a paint mark on their target. Getting marked meant elimination from the test.

The objective was simple. Fight for your simulated life. The longer a student lasted, the better the score they received.

"Twenty seconds to touchdown!" the pilot called back.

Fahon checked his weapon over, ensuring it was ready. He unbuckled his harness and leaned forward in the seat, prepared to move. The compartment door opened, metal gears shrieking as it pushed out a ramp. With a rumble, the airship set down on a set of metal landing claws, straining beneath the great weight of their charge.

Their destination was the Temple of Glass, a complex built by the ancient colonists who settled Promise. It was half the size of Whitestone, the capital city, and rose like a giant's thumb out of the sweeping grasslands of Northern Ophan.

The name was deceiving. Any glass used in its construction had deteriorated or broken ages ago. Only the enormous steel and titanium skeleton girders of the complex remained. Any smaller beams had long ago been cannibalized by the post-apocalyptic tribes after the Conflagration. Sallow grass swayed beneath the forest of ancient supports.

The eighth Sovereign, the monarch of Ophan, declared the Temple of Glass a cultural site. It quickly fell into the hands of the Warrior Sect. They now used the site for the Warrior Sect for combat drills and the yearly test. At least it was a unique and awe-inspiring battleground.

When the ramp touched the ground, Fahon surged into motion, boots thundering on metal. He put the butt of his weapon to his shoulder, ready to hip-fire while he hustled. The rest of his squad shuffled after as he sprinted through the swaying grass of the plains.

Additional transports were landing in waves, allies wearing blue coveralls streaming out of passenger bays to join the battle. The muffled war cries of his team soothed his ears, his heartbeat pounding in his chest with excitement. He wondered if real war was like this. Would he be as enthusiastic, or would he freeze with fear?

 Charging forward, he bellowed a war cry of his own.

The Red Team would be landing half a kilometer away. He couldn't see their transports through the forest of metal girders.

Breath steaming inside his helmet, he inched forward as he approached a web of trenches and sandbag emplacements dug into the grassland. The fastest team could claim the fortifications and let them take a defensive position for an advantage. It was always costly to advance the entrenched. Even with speed, Fahon couldn't be careless. Most of his teammates were lagging. His hope to capture the center faded immediately.

No use playing hero and getting shot for no reason.

He slid into the nearest trench and hunkered low, creeping forward.

Blue Team members with combat training set themselves apart immediately. Auto-rifles chattered, simulated rounds streaking overhead. Managing a peek over the top of the embankment, Fahon witnessed dozens of his teammates stampeding in behind him. Half of them were cut down, their large splatters of bright red on their blue coveralls. Those tagged cursed, some even throwing their weapons or helmets in frustration. They would score the lowest on the test and be discouraged from joining the Warrior Sect.

His squad slid in close to him and laid down fire, weapons ripping out rounds aimed at targets wearing red coveralls in the distance. A unit of Red Team gathered in the trench across from them, blocking their advance. Fahon tapped two squad mates on the shoulder and gestured for them to follow. With covering fire, they could make it to the other trench and ambush the reds before they arrived.

"One."

"Two."

"Three."

Fahon went over the top, rounds zipping past him as he charged their position. A paint bullet shrieked past his ear. He dove into a prone shooting position and leveled his weapon, eyes down the iron sight.

The shooter in the trench fixed his aim. Fahon dropped him with a shot to the facemask and a pang of sympathy for how much it would hurt. His squad's shots put enemy heads down, and Fahon was pulled to his feet by a squad mate behind him. Crossing the remainder of the distance, they dropped into the nearest trench to surprise the unsuspecting enemy.

The enemy jerked around and raised their weapons. A spray from his squad sent stinging rounds into them. They flinched and misfired as they were hammered. His squad left them groaning and cursing as they set up defensive positions, facing the other way. The rest of the squad would be running from behind to catch up and reinforce.

Fahon went to prop his rifle on a sandbag when a hand yanked his shoulder, turning him around. The eliminated red, four splatter stains across his chest, headbutted him. His head snapped back, and he fell onto his rear.

This red was out and picking a fight. Fahon didn't have the time or patience to deal with a cheater. The rogue red went to kick him in the chest. He rolled out of the way, grabbing his rifle by the barrel in both hands. With a mighty swing, he struck the rogue red in the back with the butt. The man stumbled forward from the blow. Before he could recover, Fahon smashed him again, this time in the back of his head. The strike wouldn't kill him with the helmet on. It instead knocked him out. He would have a concussion, but he'd recover.

Fahon suppressed his guilt and claimed a new shooting position, laying down suppressing fire on advancing Red Team members.

The enemy grabbed the advantage. They were dug in well. He doubted Blue Team could pull another flank maneuver like he did moments before. They'd get mowed down in an instant.

"Grenadier!"

The squad mate in the middle of the row stepped back and pulled a hand grenade, tearing the pin out. With a well-practiced throw, the grenadier lobbed the green pineapple into the enemy trench. It exploded with a disorienting pop and splattered all the reds with steaks of blue paint.

Specialists were assigned to each squad. His rifle was modded with a special barrel, giving him excellent range and accuracy, making him a sharpshooter. Medics were supposed to perform mock triage on squad mates who were 'wounded.'

His squad bolted out over the top to take the paint-splattered trench. Fahon slid down on his rear. An enemy grenade landed on his lap, and he immediately flung it out. It bounced into the neutral zone and detonated harmlessly.

Droplets of sweat ran down his brow, despite the chilly breeze swaying the surrounding long grass. He leaned against the trench wall and took a moment to steady his breathing. The excitement was overwhelming. Once his squad arrived, he started picking targets.

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A group of reds advanced on the left, nearly flanking his squad before they were ready. Fahon pelted the first guy in his unprotected neck. The red fell, screaming in pain. Snapping his rifle to the next runner, he shot their center mass. The third, desperate, held down the trigger sending a stream of bullets Fahon's way. A round struck the sandbag in front of him, spraying flecks of red paint onto his goggles. Flinching away, he dipped back down.

Where, in the name of the Cosmos, is my squad?

He couldn't hold the trench by himself. Looking over his shoulder, he noticed them making the walk of shame. He was alone. He gulped, mind reeling on what to do next. In moments, the Read Team would surround him.

Two reds skidded down into the trench on his right. Fahon swept his rifle around and popped two quick shots into their guts. More would come. He needed to retreat, but putting his back to the enemy was asking to be shot. Another red nearly fell on top of him. He rolled out of the way, splattering the guy's side with blue.

Click.

His magazine was empty, and he ejected it. Fumbling with shaky hands, he shoved the new one in and readied to shoot.

The enemy swarmed the trench and didn't notice him huddled in a crenellation. Gritting his teeth, he hosed them with paint bullets. Enemies turned on him, and he flinched, knowing what was coming for him. Rounds peppered his legs and torso, jolts of white-hot fire lancing his flesh through the thick coveralls. Sim-ammo didn't have the same velocity as real bullets. But it easily would break the skin and leave crater-like bruises.

He lay in the nook, suffering for a long while, until a loud buzzer sounded, indicating the battle was over. Staggering to his feet, he pulled himself out of the trench, limping back to the transport airships. He removed his helmet, dark hair and face soaked with sweat, and tucked it under one arm.

Two squads of reds who survived the battle gathered in a circle, giving each other high fives and pats on the back. It was the group Fahon hoped to be in, the winners. They were the few getting perfect scores on their test. For them, success would be guaranteed in the Warrior Sect. They'd be able to choose whatever specializations they wanted. Depending on their Scholar Sect test scores, some might even become junior officers.

On the bright side, Fahon had been eliminated late compared to most of Blue Team. Only five were making the walk of shame with him. His score might not be so bad after all.

---

The squad medic gave him pain medication on the long flight back to the Academy. After turning in his equipment, he hit the showers and dressed. He put on his student uniform, a gray vest over a buttoned white shirt, black slacks, and a pair of dark leather dress shoes. The left breast of his vest was embroidered the emblem of Ophan, a silver sword over a shield of blue.

The Academy's Central Whitestone building had ostentatious decorations, like most Scholar Sect institutions.

Paintings of ancient sage-like scholars lined the walls, gold plaques beneath them noting their accomplishments. The floor and the pillars supporting the tall painted glass ceiling were fluted white marble. Double doors inlaid with bronze murals lined the middle corridor, each leading into a great lecture hall.

Fahon frowned as he stood near the lobby entrance against a gleaming white pillar. The pain medication from earlier had worn off, and his purple welts were throbbing.

He checked his scores on his comm, a handheld communications device. The device opened and closed like a clamshell and had touch screens on the inside. It connected to the Repository, an ancient satellite network allowing the free exchange of information across Promise. Swiping through the interface, he found his Academy profile and viewed his final scores.

Scholar Sect: 9.8

Worker Sect: 7.4

Warrior Sect: 8.7

At least he didn't fail any of the tests. His childhood had been sacrificed at the altar of education. He spent most of his time outside the Academy working with private tutors. He didn't get to play and have fun like other kids.

Both of his parents were members of the Scholar Sect. His mother pressured him to learn as many subjects as possible to find his specialization. His father always stressed the importance of learning political theory and participating in student government. Fahon couldn't have had low grades, not if he wanted anyone to take him seriously as Sovereign one day.

He swallowed his disappointment. Closing his comm, he stuffed it in his pocket and decided to go for a walk, limping along. Perhaps subconsciously, he found himself outside the Academy's training room. The Academy focused on a well-rounded education. This included physical fitness and martial training for those students wishing to join the Warrior Sect someday. Many students would be proud of the test scores they received. Fahon joined the martial arts club in his tenth year, staying hours after school to train and learn how to fight. The camaraderie of the club would be one of the things he missed the most after graduation.

The door was open. Instructor Marik, a well-muscled man with long dark hair tied back was organizing and cleaning training equipment. He dressed in the crisp charcoal uniform of the Warrior Sect.

"Your Highness," Marik said without looking over his shoulder. How did he always know without looking? "How did you do on your test? It was today, wasn't it?""

"I got an eight-point seven."

Dwindling rubicund sunlight from the Twins, the binary stars of the Haven solar system, filtered through the windows. Outside on the courtyard lawn, young students kicked around a football and a flock of pigeons pecked around in the grass near the window.

"You should be proud. It's a high score. Even I only scored an eight-point zero back when I graduated."

Fahon grunted. "Except my scholar test was a nine-point eight."

Marik wiped down a caged sparring helmet. "I see. The Warrior Sect test isn't always the best measurement of a warrior's skill. I've seen how hard you've trained. You can become a warrior if you wish. There are no rules against picking your own Sect. The test scores are there to guide you towards your future."

"You and I both know it's taboo. My parents will expect me to follow in their footsteps."

Marik grabbed a blunted straining saber from a rack on the wall and tossed it to Fahon, who turned around at the last second and snatched it out of the air.

The instructor took another saber in hand and assumed a fighting position in the center of the sparring mat. "I'll give you a real test. Show me the type of warrior you wish to become."

Fahon lifted his shirt, showing the deep purple circles across his chest. "I'm a bit injured, as you can see."

"Good. In battle, you'll seldom be in perfect condition. You'll be injured, tired, and starving, but you must fight the enemy and protect your allies."

Before Fahon could speak, Marik closed the gap and swung his saber with incredible force. Eyes wide in surprise, Fahon parried the strike, blades clanking off each other. Marik went into a flurry of attacks to overwhelm his guard. He was forced back, gritting his teeth. Brutal pain jolted through his welted legs as he focused on proper footwork, trying to circle around.

Sick of blocking, Fahon sidestepped, forcing Marik's thrust to pass through open air. Fahon swept his blade upwards in a backhanded slash. With practiced grace, Marik stopped the blow by grabbing his wrist. Shifting his weight, he pivoted and tossed Fahon onto the ground.

Grunting with the pain of hitting the mat, Fahon rolled, narrowly avoiding a subsequent boot stomp.

He's not messing around!

"Show me you have the heart of a warrior, Inheritor!"

With a growl, Fahon leaped to his feet and blocked an off-hand punch with his forearm.

"Fight back! Don't only defend yourself. Show me what I taught you."

Fahon took his saber in two hands and cleaved the instructor with all his might. Marik turned his saber, stopping the attack on the blade's side. He smirked and shoved Fahon away.

Holding back wouldn't do Fahon any good.

Marik spun his weapon and stabbed. Face twisted in a grimace, Fahon dipped and took the blow on his shoulder. It would be another bruise, he had no doubt. They weren't even wearing protective padding, as was typical for a spar. He gritted his teeth through the lance of pain and lunged, closing the gap with a thrust of his own. Marik spun out of the way. Fahon let go of his weapon with one hand and struck out, hitting him with a palm strike in the center of the chest.

Marik stumbled. Fahon pounced with a flurry of rapid slashes and thrusts.

"Good! Never hesitate. Force an opening."

The instructor went for an overhand slash and Fahon's blade collided with his. Remembering his training, he slipped his saber around the other and jerked hard, a disarming maneuver.

Marik's saber bounced across the mat. With his opponent unarmed, Fahon seized the advantage and surged forward, stabbing at his torso. With surprising speed, the instructor avoided the blade and ducked inside Fahon's guard. He shoved Fahon, hooking a leg behind his calf. The trip move caused Fahon to slam down on his back. Air wheezed from his lungs, and he stayed there to recover his breath.

"This is the spirit the Warrior Sect is looking for." Marik proffered a hand.

Fahon slapped his hand into the instructor's and was pulled to his feet. Marik collected their sabers and put them back on the shelf, turning and nodding sagely to Fahon.

"Your grandfather was among the best swordsmen and warriors this country has ever seen. He would be proud of your skill if he was alive. I'm certain of it. When you become Bonded, you'll be a force to reckon with. Never stop training and pushing yourself to new limits, even when you become Sovereign. Be an example for your men. Lead from the front and protect them."

Fahon hobbled forward on shaky legs and bowed in respect before his instructor. "Thank you, sir, for your words of encouragement."

"You only get one life, Your Highness. Don't let other's expectations keep you from your dream."

Fahon smiled. "I won't."