A century passed in what felt like a blur, a relentless march of time that twisted and molded the children into something far beyond human. The years had been filled with brutal trials, impossible challenges, and endless tests that no ordinary person could survive. The training facility, vast and unforgiving, had become their world, a cage in which they were shaped into the Empire's deadliest warriors.

From the very beginning, the trials had been merciless.

At first, they were pitted against hostile alien lifeforms—creatures of unimaginable terror. Some had razor-sharp claws, others could blend into their surroundings, striking from the shadows. The children had to fight these monsters with nothing but their wits and crude weapons. Many fell, torn apart by beasts they couldn't even see coming. But those who survived learned fast—how to move, how to strike, how to kill.

Then came the environmental trials. They were dropped into harsh, uninhabitable regions of distant worlds. Some were sent to planets engulfed in endless blizzards, where the cold could freeze a person solid in minutes. Others were forced to navigate searing deserts under twin suns, with no water and no shade, where the sandstorms could strip the flesh from their bones. Some were sent to hostile, volcanic landscapes where the air was toxic, and one wrong step could lead to death by molten lava.

Fewer and fewer children returned from these trials. Each loss was a reminder that they were being forged into something extraordinary, something no ordinary human could ever become. And yet, with each step forward, the weight of survival grew heavier.

But the worst trial of all—the one that broke nearly everyone—was the augmentation surgery.

It was not just pain. It was suffering on a molecular level. It was as if every strand of their DNA was being torn apart, rewritten, and forced to bend to an inhuman will. The children were strapped down as the machines worked over them, injecting, cutting, and remolding their very being. Sahaad could never forget the feeling—the searing, white-hot agony that seemed to reach into his bones, into his very soul.

There was no escape from it. No reprieve. He could feel his body being destroyed and rebuilt, over and over again, until he was something else entirely.

The physical trials were brutal, but the psychological ones were far more insidious.

It began subtly at first. The children, still wide-eyed and full of fire, were led into vast, sterile chambers, their bodies strapped into sleek metallic chairs that hummed softly with energy. Electrodes were placed on their heads, wires connected to machines that pulsed with an eerie, low hum.

Sahaad had been wary of it from the start, but he told himself it was part of the process, part of what was necessary to become a warrior of the Empire. What none of them realized, at least at first, was that this was the beginning of their true transformation—the remodeling of their very minds.

For hours, sometimes days, they were forced to endure what the instructors called conditioning. It wasn't just education or training in the traditional sense; it was far more than that.

The sessions dug deep into their subconscious, pushing ideas, beliefs, and doctrines into the recesses of their minds. Ideals of loyalty, sacrifice, and obedience to the Empire were etched into their thoughts with a relentless persistence.

The Empire was their god, its king their savior. Every action, every breath they took, was to serve the greater purpose of the Empire.

But that wasn't all. The machines reached into their memories too. Sahaad could feel it when it started happening—the faintest tug at his past, like someone rifling through an old journal, tearing out pages.

The first memories to go were the small ones: the faces of strangers in his village, the color of the sand on certain days, the sound of birds overhead. Little things that, at first, didn't seem significant.

But for the others, it went deeper.

Zara, the fierce and powerful girl who had once spoken so passionately of her family, started talking less and less about her past.

Ji, always sharp and quick-witted, began to forget the small quirks that had made him laugh as a boy. The memories of their homes, their parents, and their lives before the facility were fading, slowly dissolving like mist in the morning sun.

It wasn't that the children noticed right away. It was gradual. The faces of loved ones blurred, names became difficult to recall, and eventually, those past lives seemed like distant dreams.

The emotions that once fueled them—fear, sadness, even joy—began to fade too.

Sahaad saw it happen. Zara, who had once laughed heartily during breaks between training, became quiet and cold, making deadpan jokes. Ji, who had been quick to smile, now wore only a blank expression most days, his eyes distant, his focus always on the task at hand. Their anger, their sorrow, their joy—it all withered, replaced by an unflinching sense of duty and obedience.

Sahaad knew he wasn't immune to it. He could feel the dulling edges of his own memories, the faint blur over his childhood, but somehow, he clung to them harder than the others. He forced himself to remember his old life—his mother's warm hugs, his sibling's pranks, and his memories of navigating the concrete jungle.

He would lie awake at night in the cold dormitories, forcing his mind to relive those moments, trying to anchor himself to the person he had been. But even then, he could feel the pull of the psychodoctrination, trying to pry him away from his past, to bury it under layers of blind loyalty to the Empire.

He believed that he was the least affected. While Zara and Ji slowly became hollow shells of their former selves, molded perfectly into soldiers of the Empire, Sahaad held onto his core, to the adult mind that resided within this child's body. He maintained a sense of awareness that the others seemed to lose over time. He saw what was happening to them—the way they spoke less of their pasts, the way their emotions became muted and their thoughts singular in focus.

Even as his own mind was tampered with, even as his memories dimmed, he fought it. He told himself he could resist it, that he could remain separate from the process. He would not become a mindless drone, a puppet of the Empire. He told himself this every day, holding onto the shards of his former life with a white-knuckled grip.

But he could feel the cracks forming. It was harder to remember the sound of his father's voice now. Harder to recall the faces of those he had left behind. He feared that one day, he would wake up and find that he no longer cared, that the person he had been—the man who had struggled in a child's body—would simply disappear, leaving only the soldier behind.

But for now, he fought. He resisted. He kept those fragments of himself alive, even if they were growing more fragile with every passing day.

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And almost everyone died.

Of the original children, only three survived.

Zara, the strongest of them all, had become a force of nature in melee combat. Her frame had grown tall and powerful, her muscles packed with an inhuman strength that allowed her to crush enemies with ease. She wielded her blade like an extension of herself, moving with a grace and ferocity that made her unstoppable in close-quarters combat. Her mind, once focused on the past, was now a machine honed for war.

Ji, always fast and calculating, had become the perfect blend of speed and power. His reflexes were razor-sharp, his strength just as immense as Zara's, but where she excelled in strength, Ji dominated in speed and precision. His movements were blurs, impossible to track. He could dodge gunfire, leap over obstacles, and dismantle enemies in seconds. Together, Zara and Ji were an unstoppable pair, complementing each other perfectly.

Sahaad, however, was different.

He had never been as strong as Zara or as fast as Ji, and that hadn't changed. But he had found his place in long-range combat, where his skill with guns and ranged weaponry had outclassed everyone. His mind was sharp, analytical, able to calculate distances, wind speed, and enemy movement in a heartbeat.

Given a rifle, Sahaad could hit a target from miles away with deadly precision. He had become the deadliest marksman of their group, capable of taking out enemies before they even knew he was there.

Together, the three of them had outlasted all the others. The countless children who had once trained alongside them were long gone, reduced to memories and names etched on the walls of the facility. They had survived where the others had fallen, emerging stronger, faster, and far more dangerous than any human could ever dream of becoming.

There were others that joined-various children trained in other facilities- making the group grow from three to six individuals.

For now, they were the Empire's finest warriors-in-the-making, the survivors of a program that had pushed the boundaries of human capability.

They were not yet Imperator, but they were something new, something deadly. And they knew that whatever awaited them next would be even harder, even deadlier than what they had already endured.

The training facility had changed over the last century, just as much as those who inhabited it. Once a place of torment and brutal survival, it had evolved into something more structured, more routine. The children who had once feared every new day were now adults, their bodies and minds reshaped by a century of relentless trials. Zara, Ji, and Sahaad had grown into their roles as Imperators-in-training, no longer the wide-eyed recruits who had been thrust into this world.

They were massive, even dwarfing the Praetorians in size, thanks to all the genetic tampering. Sahaad, who had always felt physically inferior to the others, was still enormous by normal standards, his enhanced body bulging with strength he never thought he would have. Zara and Ji, always excelling in physical training, seemed like living tanks—especially Zara, who was nearly as wide as she was tall, her armor hugging her muscular frame. They barely looked human anymore.

The power armor worn by Sahaad, Zara, Ji, and the others was a far cry from the ornate and imposing suits of the full Praetorians they had trained under. It was a dull, utilitarian gray—completely functional, lacking any of the flair or embellishments that the Praetorians boasted.

The absence of company colors, insignias, or personalized markings on the plating only served as a reminder that they were still in training, not yet part of the elite rank they had been striving for over the past century.

The design was sleek yet bulky, crafted with a focus on endurance and protection rather than aesthetics. The thick, interlocking plates formed a solid barrier around their bodies, covering everything from neck to toe in a cold, metallic shell.

The helmet, featureless save for the slit visor, provided a complete heads-up display and enhanced visual capabilities, though it lacked the glowing optics and intricate designs that made a Praetorian's helmet so intimidating.

The dull sheen of the armor gave them the appearance of living machines—almost indistinguishable from one another when suited up—functional but impersonal

But despite its nondescript appearance, the armor got the job done. It protected them, enhanced their capabilities, and made them the closest thing to superhuman that their training had allowed thus far. And as they had grown into it over the decades, the armor had become a part of them. When they put it on, they felt the weight of their trials, their growth, and their purpose.

Even without the prestige and honor that came with full Praetorian armor, the gray suits had become a symbol of their progress, their struggles, and the future they were being forged for.

One day, they would wear the armor of full Imperators, adorned with the marks of their rank and power. But until then, the dull gray armor would be their constant companion in the grueling march toward that destiny.

Zara sat on the edge of a large metallic bench in their quarters, her attention focused on a glowing data tablet. She scrolled through various news articles with a rare sense of calm. The years had made her stronger, more composed, but she still had the sharp, predatory edge of a warrior. Her hair, cut short for efficiency, framed her hardened features. She leaned back slightly, letting out a faint sigh.

"Looks like they've officially renamed the Empire," Zara said, her voice as measured as always. "Federation of Humanity. Ever since the princess took control, things have been shifting. It's been almost a decade now."

Sahaad, sitting cross-legged on a nearby mat, glanced over at her with a faint smirk. He had a rifle laid across his lap, disassembled as he cleaned it with careful precision. His hair had grown out slightly, though he kept it tied back. He looked up with a slight twinkle in his eye, his once tired and weary expression now carrying a hint of maturity and confidence.

"The Federation, huh? Guess 'Empire' was too dramatic for her taste. Maybe next, we'll all have to wear fancy uniforms and start doing some 'diplomacy'," Sahaad joked, a wry smile crossing his face.

Zara glanced up from the tablet and gave him a small chuckle—just a brief moment, but enough to break the usual stoic air around her. "Wouldn't surprise me. I'm not sure how I feel about it, though."

"Beats getting shipped out to another backwater world to 'enforce the old king's will,'" Sahaad quipped, turning back to his rifle with a soft laugh of his own.

Ji, as usual, was off in his own world. He was sprawled out on his cot, his data tablet in hand, music blaring through his headset. The quiet thrum of some synthwave beat pulsed through the room, and his fingers tapped absently along with the rhythm. He had always been the one who moved to the beat of his own drum, even during their childhood. Now, that individualism had only sharpened into a relaxed, confident demeanor.

The room had a strange sense of calm to it—a momentary respite between the endless drills and combat exercises. But the atmosphere was lively in another corner of the room, where three other Imperators-in-training were gathered around a massive screen. The display lit up the space with bright, chaotic colors as they engaged in a fast-paced video game. Explosions, gunfire, and victory shouts echoed off the cold metallic walls.

A tall, broad-shouldered man named Kato, known for his gruff demeanor, was hunched forward, his face scrunched in concentration as he furiously mashed buttons on his controller. Beside him sat Sia, a large woman with short-cropped hair and sharp features, her hands moving gracefully over her own controller, eyes laser-focused on the screen. Next to them, Nate—who had been quiet for most of his training—leaned back casually, his massive frame relaxed as he played, his eyes darting over the screen with an almost bored look. Despite his casual demeanor, he was performing exceptionally well, his character dancing across the virtual battlefield with precision.

"Damn it, Nate!" Kato barked as his character was downed by a surprise attack. "You always do this!"

Nate just shrugged, not bothering to look away from the screen. "It's not my fault you play like a tank in a strategy game."

Sia snickered, her fingers flying across the controller as she capitalized on Kato's frustration, landing a blow on his respawned character. "Maybe don't charge headfirst into a trap next time."

Kato grumbled something incoherent under his breath as the match continued, the sounds of explosions and victory music filling the room.

Sahaad glanced over at them, chuckling softly at the scene. It was strange—after everything they had been through, after all the loss and the pain, moments like these felt almost surreal. The bonds they had formed over the last century, through survival and hardship, had made them a unit. But here, in the quiet moments between the battles, they were still people.

People with their own quirks, their own lives, their own need for some semblance of normalcy. It reminded him of how he used to come home after school and play with his friends.

He looked back at Zara, who had turned her attention back to the tablet. "Think she'll change much else?" he asked, referring to the princess.

"Probably," Zara said. "She's different from the old regime. More calculated, less... harsh. But change is coming, whether we like it or not."

Ji, ever in his own world, suddenly chimed in without looking up. "As long as we keep getting the best tech, I don't really care what they call it. Empire, Federation, doesn't make a difference to me."