A near-deafening roar filled the auditorium as students conversed. Though there were differences in the styles of clothing between male and female cadets, their colors marked the city's quadrant: Blue for the north, yellow for the east, black for the south, and red for the west.

Their colors weren't a reflection of power. It was a reflection of their morals and values. The numbers on their jackets displayed their strength, a public declaration of the city's harsh meritocratic order.

Each body of students, sectioned by color, was divided into four rows of eight-by-eight squares. This year was slightly larger, with two and a half blocks per quadrant, but that detail mattered little.

The dropout rate was at least fifty percent- and of the remainder, many more would die during training or in their first year of service.

Ding-ding-ding

A bell rang out, cutting through the noise. Conversations hushed as cadets rushed for seats in their designated areas. Though no were officially assigned seats, the top ten students were an exception with their chairs marked. First come, first serve after that.

Heavy, iron-toed boots echoed as they struck the metal floor in rhythm. Four instructors, each flanked by a younger assistant, stepped onto the platform with the discipline of a military parade.

Sharply turning, their heels struck the floor in unison as they faced the students.

Noland, sitting at the front in his designated '1' chair, sat straighter upon seeing who stood before their section.

Fenrik Greythornne.

Beside him stood a slightly younger man, dressed identically but whose red hair and body lacked the stories and stress that battle delivered. Untarnished, and free of scars.

Swallowing slightly, Noland's gaze shifted. He couldn't recognize the others but was still awed by the weight of their entrance.

Several seconds passed before an older man, unkempt and dressed in long, grey robes, stepped onto the platform. His face bore too many scars to count, and his back hunched slightly from age, yet his footsteps were sharp and deliberate.

Approaching the center podium, however, his presence was anything but fragile. He cleared his throat, and when he spoke, his voice resonated clearly through the auditorium.

"Welcome to the Iron Veil Academy," his voice of authority rang out. "My name is Reynald Asheville, principal of this academy."

"Today, your journey begins as you seek to become protectors of this great city- the City of Iron." Reynald's curled, stiff hand gestured across the assembled students. "Many of you will fail. You will not succeed. This world is harsh. You will see friends and loved ones fall. And the training you face will be equally unforgiving."

A glint of sadness entered in Reynald's eye as he spoke. He closed his eyes briefly, gathering himself, before clearing his voice again.

"For that very reason, a new approach will be taken with your training this year."

Students shifted uncomfortably, exchanging glances. A few hushed whispers of doubt emerged, uncertainty, questioning if this was a good idea.

The principal's eyes narrowed. They carried no forgiveness nor compromise.

"If you are concerned, you may leave. There is no shame. But you will not return."

"Students this year will be assigned to live units." Reynald continued as if the disruption never took place, his voice cutting through the commotion. "After the first three months, you will be transitioned to your units. It's been decided that a hands-on approach is the best approach for survival."

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"Theories-" his voice darkened, "will not prepare you for the chaos in the streets, or beyond the walls."

After at least half an hour, going through the rules, regulations, dos and don'ts, and ways to succeed, Reynald finally motioned to Noland and three others.

"May I have the top student from each district give their closing remarks," Reynald smiled gently.

Noland and three others stood up and stepped onto the stadium. This was his chance to make sure everyone understood what was right, what they stood for!

Turning his head, he watched the others make their remarks, waiting with bubbling excitement.

"My name is Eliza Coldwell! Rank fifteen."

From the far side representing the yellow team, a blonde-haired woman stepped forward. Her hair loosely hung down to her shoulders and she had very soft, delicate features. Her green eyes carried an innocent glow that contrasted sharply against her angular eyes and defined brows.

Noland's face twitched, 'That name...'

Eliza continued, her voice ringing with conviction.

"Our district stands for change! I believe we can build a better tomorrow! One where our citizens feel safe and grow, nurture innovation, and reclaim the outlands- allowing us to revive mass farming and cultivation, just like our ancestors once did!"

Her heels sharply clicked as she stepped back into line, and the next stepped up.

"My name is Richard! Rank eight."

Representing the blue team, Ricard seemed just as equally innocent and naïve as Eliza- on the surface. His features were unharmed, without blemishes or scars, no signs of past struggle. Soft brown hair and green eyes lent him a softer, gentler appearance.

Snorting, Noland gave a wry smile. The number didn't lie. There was strength behind that soft exterior.

His face also held a certain determination, his expression tighter than the others with a hint of agitation.

"Our district stands for knowledge and progress. Reading texts, scrolls, theories- histories of our path so that we don't repeat the same mistakes."

Noland caught the subtle twitch of Richard's gaze toward the principal. A smirk tugged at the corner of Noland's lips, despite trying to suppress it.

'Richard doesn't like this new approach.'

"We believe texts from the past," Richard regained his brief loss of composure. "serve us best. They will help us build a better future. We look forward to working alongside the East."

Richard glanced back, exchanging a small friendly smile with Eliza before stepping back. Their eyes met again, Eliza returning the gesture with a soft smile of her own.

Filling Noland's vision, a red uniform filled his sight as the next cadet stepped forward.

"I'm Blaze! Rank two!"

"Keh..."

"Tsk" Blaze's confident, friendly gaze shifted sharply to hostility back toward Noland. The two stared each other down, sparks flying between them.

Noland respected him, he could admit that much. But just like his name, Blaze, he was just too...annoying. Loud, short, frustrating. His wild red, messy hair starkly contrasted with the others. His square features were rougher than the more refined looks of the academy's top ranks.

But the scars? Those were real. Signs of combat set him apart from the dough boys and ladies beside him.

"We," Blaze emphasized, spitting in Noland's direction. "will be the ones to clear the outlands. Our power- our passion- will forge the path ahead!"

"Heh."

Blaze's face twisted. "Gr... You-!"

"Step back, cadet." Principal Reynald's voice warned from the podium. "Next."

Exhaling sharply, Blaze stepped back, fists clenched.

"Asshole," Noland heard him mutter but it didn't matter. It was his time to shine!

Each of the previous introductions earned a thunderous round of applause. Now it was his turn!

"My name is Noland! Rank one."

His gaze slowly moved through the crowd. Looks of disgust, contempt, and very few of admiration despite being rank one. Even among the black-uniformed students, plenty appeared disgruntled.

"Law and order. Our city is falling apart, it doesn't need more naïve idealists! Crimes will be punished accordingly," When his gaze swept the auditorium again, he smirked. "even amongst our finest. Letting one go allows corruption to flourish. We will not let that happen."

Sharply stepping back, there was no applause. Noland couldn't help but frown. Why weren't they applauding? The law is what kept the city together. He exhaled, casting a pitying look out at them.

An awkward silence lingered before the principal finally spoke.

"Thank you for your... remarks. With that, everyone is dismissed. Fill your stomachs, find your dormitories. Tomorrow, your training begins."

When Noland turned his head, he spotted the other three looking at him. Their eyes were filled with contempt. Richard and Eliza's lips curled with disdain, while Blaze snarled.

"Try your hardest, number two." Noland taunted Blaze with narrowed eyes. He could see his gears turning, teeth grinding.

"Asshole," Blaze scowled. "Rank is temporary. You could lose it tomorrow."

"Maybe," Noland shrugged. "But who's going to do it, rank two?"

"Aaaa!" Growling loudly, Blaze started to step forward with his fists beginning to glisten. Eliza and Richard quickly stepped up behind him before it could escalate, pulling him back.

"It's not worth it!" Eliza pleaded.

"Let him go! Wait until tomorrow at least!" Richard growled, glaring accusingly at Noland.

To the crowd, it was a spectacle. Noland didn't particularly care anymore either, stepping off the podium into the unfriendly, rising crowd.

His stomach was growling. What more could he want with these people?