Vorren—Zander beneath the bio-synthetic mask—stepped into the colossal evaluation hall, and the sheer scale of the Institute hit him.
It was a dome of cold, metallic silver, vast enough to hold a small city block. The ceiling was a tessellation of hex-panels that shifted to mimic the sky, currently displaying a neutral, calming grey. Hovering holo-panels drifted in slow, programmed orbits above the testing platforms, displaying live biometrics in waterfalls of blue data.
Hundreds of new recruits stood scattered across the chamber floor. It was a sea of uniformity; each candidate wore the same dark-purple trainee uniform. The fabric was advanced, shimmering subtly as they moved, reflecting the soft blue lighting like rippling silk. It was designed to highlight movement, revealing every twitch, every hesitation, every flaw in a recruit's posture.
Announcements echoed from unseen, omnidirectional speakers, the voice cool, synthetic, and absolute.
"Phase One: Physical Condition Assessment. All recruits, proceed to your assigned platforms immediately."
Vorren stepped onto Platform 72.
It was a disc of white polymer, slightly elevated. The moment his boots made contact, a low, oscillating hum activated beneath him. He felt a tingle travel up his legs—a deep-scan field reading his weight distribution to the gram, analyzing his breath rhythm, mapping his skeletal alignment, and measuring his resting heart rate.
He inhaled. Slow. Steady.
He exhaled without fear, forcing his pulse to remain a flat, boring line.
Compared to the Ark's brutal, crushing gravity training, or the freezing winds of the Frostfront, this was… tame. It felt like standing in a gentle breeze.
Still, he kept his expression neutral, wiping away the boredom. His fake identity, Vorren Hale, couldn't show casual confidence. He had to look determined, perhaps a little strained, like everyone else.
Holographic numbers began to rise in the air around him—strength estimates, cardiovascular limits, reaction scores. The examiners, clad in Royal Blue uniforms, murmured from the observation balcony above, scrolling through tablets. They were impressed by some of the early readings, confused by others.
He performed each test with calculated mediocrity.
Force-Push: He pressed against a hydraulic wall. He could have shattered the mechanism with a flick of his wrist. Instead, he engaged only his surface muscles, keeping his core Force dormant. He pushed until the meter read "Above Average," then feigned a tremor in his arm.
Agility: Timed movement drills through a laser grid. He saw the pattern instantly—it was simple geometry. He moved through it crisp and clean, perfectly efficient, but he deliberately added a split-second delay to his turns, simulating human reaction time rather than Ashurim instinct.
Endurance: Oxygen-capacity replication. The air thinned. Recruits around him gasped, dropping to their knees. Zander held his breath, counting heartbeats, letting his oxygen levels drop just enough to trigger the sensors before "recovering."
Every motion was crisp—perfectly efficient—but not too impressive. He played the numbers like an instrument, blending impressive natural talent with believable, untrained limitations.
He couldn't stand out too soon.
Not yet. The nail that sticks out gets hammered.
The Crystalline Judge
After the physical tests concluded, the recruits were herded toward the center of the hall. The atmosphere shifted from physical exertion to spiritual tension.
There stood a tall, crystalline obelisk, jutting from the floor like a spear of frozen time. Lines of violet light pulsed rhythmically within its core, casting long, sharp shadows across the floor.
The Combat Baseline Scanner.
It was not a simple machine. It was a semi-sentient resonance reader designed to measure the intangible: cultivation realm, combat instinct, battle potential, accumulated body refinement, and internal frequency markers.
For anyone else, it was impossible to fool. It read the soul of the fighter.
For Vorren, with his Ashurim harmonic mastery—it was merely a technical challenge.
He stepped forward when his name was called, his boots clicking on the floor.
"Vorren Hale. Step inside."
The crystalline segments of the obelisk unfolded like the petals of a jagged flower, encasing him in a cage of glowing amethyst light.
The moment the segments closed, a vibration traveled across his skin. It was invasive, a humming frequency attempting to read the density of his tempered body. A moment later, deeper waves probed his core, trying to identify any resonance techniques he possessed.
It felt like cold water seeking a crack in a dam.
Zander closed his eyes. He didn't build a wall; walls could be measured. Instead, he used the Force Echo. He gathered the ocean of his true power and compressed it, hiding it deep within the void of his center. Then, he spun a thin, outer shell of energy—a false frequency.
He adjusted his inner broadcast—slowly, subtly—lowering it to a stable, tight wavelength.
A perfect imitation of a Tempered Martial Master, Stage One.
Not too weak to be dismissed.
Not too strong to trigger an alert.
Just promising enough to be molded.
A soft beep echoed, signaling the machine was satisfied.
Assessment Complete:
Rank: Tempered Martial Master, Stage 1.
Potential: High.
Combat Frequency: Stable.
Cognitive Reaction Time: Above Average.
The examiner nodded, tapping the results into his datapad without a second glance. "Clear. Next."
Vorren stepped out—unnoticed, undetected, a monster wearing the skin of a sheep.
The Competition
Clusters of recruits waited near the next testing gate, the air thick with nervous chatter and the smell of sweat. Vorren stood apart, leaning against a pillar, quietly observing the field.
He didn't know who among them would become allies, liabilities, or obstacles. But in the sea of purple uniforms, a few distinct ripples stood out.
To his left: A tall girl with silver-white hair tied back in a severe knot. She wasn't talking to anyone. She kept muttering complex astrogation formulas under her breath, her fingers twitching as she manipulated invisible equations in the air. She stared at the combat scanner not with fear, but with hunger—fascinated by the machinery itself.
Odd. Peculiar. Possibly brilliant.
Near the front: A young man wearing sleek, tactile gloves even during the physical exam. He was tapping rhythmically on his thigh, a complex, syncopated beat, as if he was listening to music no one else could hear. His grin was wide, fixed, and… unsettling. Almost too friendly.
Rhythm. A pilot? Or a psychopath?
And then there was the quiet one in the far shadow—dark-eyed, unreadable, motionless. They watched everyone, their gaze tracking threats, exits, and weaknesses. They didn't blink often enough.
Predator.
Vorren filed them away mentally, tagging them with threat levels.
No judgments yet.
Just possibilities.
The Astral Command Institute was known for molding geniuses, but it was also known for breaking them. A few of these people might one day command fleets that burned worlds. Others might wash out in the first month.
But at least one of them would become his competition.
He had no idea which one.
The Mindscape
The recruits were herded into a long, soundproofed glass corridor leading to multiple small, sealed rooms. These were the Psychometric Calibration Chambers.
Here, the Institute measured what couldn't be faked physically: mental resilience, emotional stability, cognitive flexibility, fear response, and decision-making instinct under duress.
Vorren entered his chamber. It was a small, black cube. He sat on the smooth obsidian chair, and the walls closed in, sealing with a hiss.
Total darkness.
Then, the neural-link engaged.
Lights shifted inside his mind. Images flickered, bypassing his eyes.
Illusions danced across his senses—pressure simulations of a hull breach, the stress projection of a mutiny, the simulated failure of a warp drive.
He maintained a deep, controlled breath.
Compared to the crushing isolation of the Void Wreck, or the terror of the Titan, this was nothing. It was a video game.
The system processed his responses, increasing the intensity, attempting to provoke panic, frustration, aggression, or despair.
It got none of those emotions. It got ice.
It did, however, manage to trigger a sincere reaction once.
The simulation shifted. He saw an illusion of Aethros, broken and bleeding on white snow, calling out for him in a voice filled with pain.
For a moment, Zander's pulse spiked. His pupils dilated. The connection to the beast was too deep to ignore.
Then, his logic overrode the instinct. He recognized the flaw in the render—the wrong texture on the armor, the wrong pitch in the roar.
Trick.
His heartbeat snapped back to normal instantly. He dissected the illusion, turning his back on it.
The chamber ended its sequence, unable to break him.
Result:
Mental Stability: Exceptional.
Cognitive Adaptation: High.
Emotional Reactivity: Balanced.
Not perfect—perfection was suspicious.
Just strong.
Exactly how a promising student should appear.
The Gauntlet
The final section of the initial day brought the recruits into an enormous arena—the Placement Chamber. The spectator stands were empty, save for shadows, but dozens of camera drones floated above like silent vultures, recording every micro-movement.
This trial evaluated the total package: tactical decisions, reflexive instincts, adaptability under pressure, teamwork potential, and direct combat responses.
It wasn't a spar.
It wasn't a fight.
It was a chaos engine.
The floor shifted. Environmental panels cycled from ice to sand to metal. Moving platforms rose and fell. Drones swarmed, firing low-power stun bolts that stung like wasp venoms.
Vorren moved smoothly, weaving between obstacles. He jumped a shifting gap, rolled under a laser grid, and deflected a stun bolt with a precise, minimal movement of his forearm.
But he was careful. He kept himself strictly within the limits of a Stage 1 Tempered Master.
He allowed a drone to graze his shoulder, feigning a stumble.
He took an extra second to calculate a jump, simulating hesitation.
He delivered a counter-strike that was effective, but messy—lacking the lethal grace of the Ashurim.
Enough to reach the upper ranks.
Not enough to stand out as a prodigy who defied physics.
By the end of the gauntlet, he stood panting—fake panting—as the lights came up. A massive projection appeared in the air, scrolling names.
Provisional Placement Rank: 34 / 712.
Excellent. Top 5%.
But not Number One. Not suspiciously elite.
The instructors on the balcony nodded, making notes on "Cadet Hale." Solid. Reliable. Potential leadership material.
The other recruits whispered, eyeing the leaderboard.
Vorren stayed quiet, adjusting his gloves, hiding the silver rings in his eyes.
His real strength?
Hidden deep in the void of his core, masked behind harmonic frequency control.
He would rise later—when the stakes were real, when the enemy was real.
But only when it mattered.