The reception area was a stark contrast to the grim Magus at the gate. A young woman with kind eyes and an efficient smile processed his details. Her fingers flew across a holographic keyboard.
"Russell Zodiac. Room Z-25. It's in the western residential spire. Your basic sustenance credit allowance has been added to your profile. The mess hall is on level four."
She handed him a physical keycard—an archaic but reliable system in a place where tech could fail.
"Your first training trial is scheduled to begin soon with the other new Hunters. The arena is on the lowest level. Be careful," she added, her tone shifting from professional to genuinely concerned.
Russell offered a small, grateful smile.
"Thanks. I will be."
He found his room—Z-25.
It was Spartan: a reinforced bunk, a small desk, a locker, and a single port for charging gear. But it was clean, warm, and, most importantly, it was his.
He dropped his small pack and let himself fall onto the bed with a groan. The mattress was firm, the blankets thick and warm.
"Huh… their service is good," he muttered to the ceiling, a wave of exhaustion finally hitting him.
As if on cue, his datapad buzzed on his chest. He fumbled for it.
The caller ID flashed: Uncle Sal.
Of course—his timing was, as always, impeccably terrible.
Russell accepted the call. Salvador's worried face filled the screen, the lab glowing behind him.
"Russell! You're alive! The telemetry came through. You made it to The Crucible. The biometric readout spiked about forty minutes ago—what happened? Did you trip?"
Russell sighed, sitting up.
"Something like that. Ran into a Juggernaut. I'm fine. Made it to my room. It's… impressive here."
"Good, good. Remember—Molecular path. Focus. Don't get cocky. And for the love of science, don't touch any Transmutation orbs you might find, they'll—"
Salvador was abruptly cut off as another, louder buzz erupted from Russell's datapad—an official Crucible alert. A text notification scrolled across the screen, overlaying his uncle's face:
>> ALL ROOKIES REPORT TO PRIMARY ARENA.
TRAINING TRIAL COMMENCES IN 10 MINUTES.
FAILURE TO REPORT CONSTITUTES FAILURE OF ENLISTMENT. <<
"Uncle, I have to go. First trial," Russell said, already strapping Emma's scabbard to his back.
"Already? Don't get killed! And remember, the basic ability is Alchemical Healing, it's the first node on the Molecular—"
Russell ended the call, cutting off the frantic advice. He took a steadying breath.
This is it.
No more watching.
No more studying.
He left his room and followed the signs—and the flow of a few other nervous-looking individuals—down into the bowels of the fortress. The air grew colder, filled with the sounds of clashing metal and shouted commands echoing up from below.
The "arena" wasn't sand and stone.
It was a massive, circular chamber of polished durasteel, surrounded by tiers of observation decks. Holographic projectors hung from the ceiling, and various obstacle courses and training dummies were arranged around the perimeter.
About two dozen other rookies were already there, a diverse group of men and women from across the settled systems. They all shared the same look: a mix of fear, determination, and the brand-new, unscuffed armor that marked them as fresh meat.
They sized each other up, a silent, nervous energy hanging between them.
Russell found a spot near the back, his hand resting on Emma's hilt.
He was no longer just Salvador's nephew.
No longer the guy Juliet rejected.
He was Rookie Hunter Z-25.
And the trial was about to begin.