Youri entered the headquarters of the Royal Military Base with measured steps, the doors sliding shut behind him.
The entrance hall was vast—far larger than he had anticipated. The ceiling stretched high above, supported by broad structural beams that blended seamlessly into the architecture, giving the impression that the room itself had been carved from a single monumental structure. The floor was tiled in a striking pattern of deep red and matte black, the colors arranged in precise geometric symmetry that drew the eye naturally toward the center of the hall.
There, standing like an anchor in the open space, was a high reception desk crafted from dark alloy and polished stone. Subtle Terrian glyphs were etched along its surface, glowing faintly as if alive. Soft ambient lighting flowed along the walls, illuminating banners bearing the insignia of the Terrian Empire and the Terrian Armed Forces, each hanging with ceremonial gravity.
Youri slowed his pace, suddenly aware of how small he felt in a place like this.
He approached the desk cautiously, boots clicking against the tiled floor. Behind the desk sat a woman in a neatly pressed Terrian military uniform. Her blonde hair was tied tightly beneath a regulation cap, not a strand out of place. She looked composed, professional—someone who had repeated this routine thousands of times without losing precision.
Youri cleared his throat slightly.
"Hello," he said, keeping his voice steady. "I'm here for pilot academy enrollment."
The woman raised her head just enough to acknowledge him, her eyes sharp but neutral. She didn't smile.
"Name?" she asked.
"Youri Kronos."
She turned her attention to the digital display embedded into the desk and began typing. The faint glow of the screen reflected in her eyes as lines of data scrolled past. Seconds stretched longer than Youri expected. His shoulders tensed, and a dozen thoughts ran through his mind—about forged records, about Barnaby's promises, about the countless ways this could still fall apart.
Then the woman paused.
She slowly rose from her seat, her expression unreadable.
"Follow me," she said.
Youri blinked, then nodded and stepped around the desk as she led the way.
They walked down a long corridor branching off from the main hall. The walls here were a muted gray, broken only by recessed lighting and the occasional Terrian emblem engraved into the metal. Their footsteps echoed softly, the corridor otherwise silent.
As they walked, the woman spoke without turning around.
"After your official enrollment," she said, "you will be assigned a codename. This designation will identify you throughout the duration of your training."
"A codename?" Youri repeated.
"Yes," she replied evenly. "Names create attachments. Attachments interfere with discipline. The academy removes both."
Youri absorbed that quietly.
They continued on, passing several sealed doors marked with restricted access symbols. Eventually, they stopped in front of a large automatic door reinforced with heavy alloy plating. A Terrian crest was embossed at its center.
The woman turned to face him.
"This is General Presley's office," she said. "General Harald Presley is the director of the Orbiton Pilot Academy."
Youri straightened instinctively.
"Once inside," she continued, "you will be informed of the final procedures required for enrollment. These include a full blood analysis, comprehensive medical evaluation, and a background check."
Youri felt a faint tightening in his chest.
"Upon successful completion of all three," she added, "you will be officially enrolled."
She studied him for a brief moment, then nodded once.
"That is all."
Without another word, she turned and walked away, her footsteps fading down the corridor.
Youri remained standing before the door.
For a moment, he didn't move.
Every doubt he had tried to bury resurfaced all at once. His past. His underground fights. His lack of formal records. Volar. The things he had done to survive.
Too many things could still go wrong.
But then Volar filled his thoughts—not just the planet, but what it represented. Loss. Resolve. The reason he had endured everything up to this point.
There was no other path.
Youri stepped forward.
The doors parted with a low mechanical hum.
General Presley's office was smaller than expected—almost modest compared to the grandeur of the headquarters. The room felt hollow, utilitarian. At its center stood a solid wooden desk, old by Terrian standards, its surface worn smooth by decades of use.
Behind the desk hung two flags: the Royal Terrian banner on one side, the Terrian Army insignia on the other. A wide window stretched across the far wall, allowing natural light to spill into the room and illuminate floating dust motes in the air.
But the room was empty.
Youri hesitated, then took another step inside. He glanced around, uncertain.
Maybe he was early.
He turned slightly, about to leave—
"Who are you?"
The voice came from his right.
Youri froze and turned as a side door opened. A man stepped out, adjusting the collar of his uniform as he entered the office. He looked to be in his mid-fifties, overweight, with thinning hair and a round face that suggested years spent behind a desk rather than in the field. His black eyes, however, were sharp—calculating.
He stopped when he noticed Youri.
"Who are you?" he repeated.
Youri stepped forward and stood at attention, instinctively.
"I'm the new recruit for the pilot academy," he said calmly.
The man's expression shifted slightly.
"Oh," he replied, walking behind the desk and lowering himself into the chair. "I see."
He folded his hands atop the desk and studied Youri.
"I'm General Harald Presley," he said. "Director of the Orbiton Pilot Academy."
"It's nice to meet you, sir," Youri replied.
Presley leaned forward, his elbows resting on the desk.
"So," he said, "who brought you here?"
Youri hesitated.
For a fraction of a second, he considered giving a vague answer. But something about Presley's gaze told him that evasion would be pointless.
"Commander Fanrat brought me here," Youri said.
Presley's eyes widened noticeably.
"Fanrat?" he repeated.
He straightened abruptly.
"Why didn't you say that sooner?" Presley said, standing up with surprising energy. "Come here. Let's get you enrolled immediately."
Youri blinked, caught off guard.
Presley retrieved a data pad from a drawer and activated it, sliding it across the desk.
"Fill this out," he said. "I'll walk you through it."
Youri followed his instructions carefully, answering question after question as Presley guided him. Unlike the woman at reception, Presley moved quickly, efficiently—skipping steps, overriding delays.
Minutes later, the form was complete.
Youri handed the data pad back.
Presley glanced over it one final time, then nodded.
"Well," he said, placing the data pad aside, "that's done."
He stood and extended his hand.
"Welcome to the Orbiton Pilot Academy."
Youri shook it, his grip firm.
Presley turned to his display and tapped a few commands. A moment later, he smiled faintly.
"Looks like your codename just came through," he said.
Youri waited.
Presley looked up.
"Welcome, D7."