Following the compass through the treacherous, ice-choked canyons, Russell finally pushed through a final dense thicket of frozen, alien flora. The view opened up, revealing a vast, eerily still lake of liquid methane that reflected Saturn's pale glow.
He checked his compass.
"North-east 34° 56°," he muttered to himself, the coordinates his uncle had drilled into him. "And this is that methane lake. Which means…"
He looked up, and his breath caught in his throat.
On the far side of the lake, built into the very face of a colossal glacial cliff, was a structure that defied all logic. It was a breathtaking fusion of a massive, brutalist futuristic fortress and a sprawling Gothic medieval castle. Titan-reinforced durasteel met ancient-looking, towering stone buttresses. Gleaming energy shields shimmered over sections of wall that looked a thousand years old. Landing pads for sleek interceptors were built alongside crenellated battlements where figures with massive bows stood watch. Searchlights carved through the haze alongside flickering torches.
It was a paradox made real—a symbol of the Hunters' own duality: cutting-edge technology forced to coexist with ancient methods of war.
This was the Martian Hunter Headquarters.
The Crucible.
A sense of awe, dwarfing even his first sight of Salvador's lab, washed over him.
This was real.
He had made it.
Crossing a heavily fortified bridge that spanned the methane lake, he approached the main gate—a colossal affair of layered alloy and enchanted-looking runes. Hunters of all shapes and sizes moved past him, their armor scarred, their weapons exotic and deadly. They paid him no mind, just another new face.
---
Inside, the atmosphere was a mix of military barracks and a medieval great hall. The air hummed with low conversation, the clang of forging metal from a nearby armory, and the faint, ever-present ozone smell of active teleporters.
An inspection officer stood behind a podium, his armor more ornate than the others, marked with a single glowing silver star on his pauldron—the rank of a Magus. His eyes, sharp and discerning, scanned everyone who entered.
They fell on Russell.
"Hold, recruit," the man's voice was a low gravel, devoid of warmth. "State your identity for the ledger."
Russell, intimidated but trying not to show it, stood straight.
"Huh… Russell Zodiac. Is that enough?"
The officer's fingers danced over a data-slate on his podium. A holographic screen materialized in the air, displaying Russell's profile, his academy records, and a glaringly bright tag:
AFFILIATION: Dr. Salvador Zodiac
CLEARANCE: OMEGA
The Magus's eyes flicked from the screen back to Russell, a cynical smirk pulling at his lips.
"Nephew of the good Doctor. Welcome to The Crucible, Russell Zodiac. But understand this clearly: that name might have gotten you through the gate. That nepotism won't save you from a Hollow's claws out there. The monsters don't care who your uncle is."
A hot flush of anger rose in Russell's cheeks, burning away his nervousness.
He met the Magus's gaze.
"I didn't come here because of my uncle! I don't want that 'nepotism' shit! I'm here to prove myself on my own!"
The officer's smirk didn't fade, but it gained a flicker of something else—perhaps the faintest shred of respect. He gave a short, sharp nod.
"Good. That's the only attitude that survives here."
He jerked a thumb toward a bustling area deeper into the fortress.
"Now, get out of my line. Go to the reception. Get your bunk assignment and your beginner's manifest. Try not to die on your first patrol, Zodiac. The paperwork is tedious."
Dismissed, Russell walked past the podium, his heart still pounding, a mix of indignation and determination fueling his steps.
He was in.
Now, he had to prove that his name was his own.