— Nozomi —

  The door closed behind her.

  Captain Shen Kaizen did not rise. He didn’t need to.

  He sat with the stillness of a man who had earned the silence in the room. Not by raising his voice, but by knowing when not to speak. His uniform was sharply pressed, sleeves tucked without a wrinkle, the insignia of the Strike Forces pinned like a blade at his collarbone. The low table before him bore a single candle, two inkstones, and a stack of unsealed scrolls.

  He glanced at her once. Hazel-gray eyes, sharp and clean.

  “Nozomi,” he said. Not asking.

  She bowed her head slightly. “Sir.”

  “I am Captain Shen Kaizen. I oversee recruitment and formation for the Cheng Province Strike Forces.” His voice was clipped, low, and unhurried. “My task is not only to accept applicants, but to determine whether they understand what they are asking.”

  He gestured to the cushion across from him. “Sit.”

  She did so, without a sound.

  He opened the scroll with her name. A few lines of official copy, a single elemental seal—Shadow, blackened around the edges, with a faint edge of distortion to the ink. The kind of result that made most readers hesitate.

  Captain Shen did not hesitate.

  “No family references. No formal training. No Imperial placement history.” He tapped the scroll. “Born in Akaltel region. Traveled under labor documentation. Affinity confirmed. And you are applying to the Strike Force.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  His eyes lifted, studying her—not searching for weakness, but for inconsistency.

  "Why?”

  Her answer came without pause. “I’ve worked on farms. I’ve hunted. I’ve defended my home more than once. I’m used to hardship. I’m not afraid to kill if it’s to protect others.”

  He didn’t nod.

  Didn’t write.

  Just waited.

  She kept her voice even, her expression calm. She knew what he was looking for—conviction, yes, but obedience, too. And she would give him just enough of both.

  No more.

  “I'm not a scholar. I'm not a clerk. I'm not looking for comfort,” she added. “If I’m going to serve, let it be where I can make a difference.”

  A half-truth.

  The rest—that she'd watched her mother collapse beneath the weight of a world that rewarded cruelty; that she'd begged an official for help once and been laughed at; that she’d spent five years hiding, training, feeding fury—that she buried.

  She didn’t need him to know her story.

  She just needed the training. The weapon. The power.

  And when she was strong enough?

  She’d decide what to do with it.

  Captain Shen was silent for a moment longer than necessary.

  Then he dipped the stamp into the ink and pressed it to her tag.

  "Report to secondary processing,” he said. “And listen carefully when they speak to you.”

  She reached forward and took the tag without flinching.

  At the door, he spoke again—quietly, this time. “Shadow users burn slow. But when they burn, they don’t go out.”

  She didn’t look back.

  “They’ll learn to watch their backs, then.”

  And she left the room.

  The corridor was narrow and cold.

  Smooth stone beneath her boots, pale light from small square windows high in the wall. Nozomi walked with even steps, the intake tag tucked between her fingers, the soft murmur of conversation and footsteps echoing ahead.

  Secondary processing, they’d called it. In truth, it was a hallway that led into another hallway, that led to an office where a man with a nose too big for his face asked her to sign three documents she didn’t read. He barely looked up when she handed them back.

  A wax stamp. A sealed folder.

  A nod.

  Then she was walking again.

  She didn’t mind the silence. It gave her space to think.

  The road from Akaltel had not been short. She had crossed half the island with nothing but an old pack, a carved pendant from her grandmother, and hands that had learned the weight of a sickle long before they held a blade.

  But it was not Akaltel that lived behind her ribs.

  It was the village—the one she never named.

  The one where she watched the fields turn to stone, the laughter dry up, and the Empire arrive too late with promises that fixed nothing. The one where she chose to lie low. To work the land. To endure.

  Until the census came.

  Until the clerk, half-drunk and half-curious, had looked at her and blinked.

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  “You’re twenty-one? You haven’t tested?”

  She’d nodded.

  He’d laughed. “Well. Maybe the wind saved you for something.”

  She turned a corner. The hallway widened, and the noise of footsteps began to echo with sharper edges.

  The walls were less decorative here—function over form. Training notices. Supply manifests. A map of the testing district with pins marked in red. One guard leaned against the wall eating an egg bun and gave her a glance as she passed, more out of habit than interest.

  She gripped the seal tag tighter.

  Not out of nerves. But because she wanted to move forward, and the waiting in between made her feel too much like she used to.

  Powerless. Watching.

  Not anymore.

  A final turn.

  The corridor ended in a wide archway that opened into a sunlit square of stone. The air changed—brighter, colder. She stepped through the arch and emerged onto the training ground.

  Ahead of her, a line had already formed.

  Young men and women stood straight-backed, facing forward, quiet. Dressed in travel cloaks or fresh-pressed tunics, some still holding the residue of the test in their eyes.

  Nozomi stepped into the square.

  She didn’t rush.

  She simply took her place.

  — Xo —

  Seven. Eight in total.

  He’d expected more out of the thousands of young men and women he has seen on the training grounds.

  Strike Force.

  Out of the thousands of young initiates enrolled in the military each year in Chengtan, it is said that one out of fifty ask for the Strike Force. And worse, one out of twenty gets accepted.

  To him, it had been a simple choice.

  If you want to watch, you go into the ministries.

  If you want to wait, you sit in logistics.

  But if you want to find something—really find something—you go to the field.

  People say the Empire hides things in shadows. But secrets live in blood. In places where the ground doesn’t match the maps. In things no one wants to talk about, but someone always has to bury.

  You don’t learn those truths behind a desk.

  You dig them out with your own hands.

  Xo cracked his neck once and rolled his shoulder. The movement was fluid—habitual now—but it still drew a glance from someone down the line. He didn’t meet it. He didn’t say anything, just folded his arms and let his eyes wander—not obviously, not enough to draw attention. Just enough to see what kind of people the Empire had chosen to bleed next.

  The first one that caught his eye stood like a stone planted deep in the ground. Broad-shouldered, sun-worn, quiet. His back was straight, but not stiff—earned posture, not inherited. His hair was pulled back in a tight braid, and his cloak was plain, well-kept. No wasted movement.

  Liu Shen, the name had been whispered when the groups were being sorted. From Jiebing, he thought. Somewhere near the mines and forests. He looks like someone who’s worked too hard to be afraid of anything now.

  Xo respected that. Quiet people who knew their own weight.

  Near him stood another one, almost the opposite—clean lines, fine fabrics, hair like fallen snow. Not flashy, exactly. Just… impossible to miss. Hazel eyes, skin like polished porcelain, the kind that belonged in portraits, not marching orders.

  Lei Shui.

  Xo had heard the surname before—a noble family tied to sea trade. The boy moved like water, alright. Smooth. Controlled. But there was tension under it, like something flowing under ice.

  Hiding something. Or holding it back.

  He didn’t look like he’d ever seen real blood. But he wasn’t posturing, either.

  That part was interesting.

  And then there was her.

  Nozomi.

  Xo didn’t know the name, didn’t need to. The old blade on her back was functional. The way she stood—shoulders loose, eyes steady—told him she was ready for trouble, not just waiting for it. She kept her gaze forward, never lingering too long on anyone.

  Not scared. But used to being alone.

  There was a stillness to her, like a fire banked low and hot. She reminded him of wolves he’d seen in the high woods—beautiful, controlled, and very, very careful not to show teeth unless they meant to use them.

  Then there were the other four.

  The ones who looked like they belonged here.

  One stood out first—red hair, proud posture, perfectly tailored tunic. He held himself like someone who thought standing still was beneath him, chin just high enough to make it a choice. He wasn’t showing off.

  He just was.

  Kiri, if Xo remembered right. The kind of person who’d read war books at age eight and expected the world to behave like the footnotes. But there was discipline there. Shoulders squared. Jaw set. He wasn’t a fool. Just convinced he was the smartest person in the room.

  He might be right. That’s the problem.

  Next to him—laughter, wind, movement. His sister, probably. She had the same bone structure, same confidence, but none of the stiffness. Miri. Light-footed, bright-eyed, and already bouncing on her heels like she was trying to find something to climb.

  She looked carefree. Too carefree.

  She’s either reckless, or good at pretending the world isn’t heavy. Maybe both.

  The big one was harder to miss than even Kiri. Bao.

  Built like a mountain. Silent as one, too. His arms were folded, feet planted shoulder-width apart, unmoving except for the slow rise and fall of his breath. No arrogance. No need for it.

  Xo caught the way the others in that group stood just a little closer to him than they needed to.

  Their wall. A stone. Same affinity than me.

  He’d known men like that in the wilds—never talked much, but the first to step between you and a blade. He’d be the last one standing.

  And then there was the quiet girl in their shadow—Jin.

  She didn’t speak, didn’t shift. Just stood with her hands folded neatly, head slightly bowed. Shadow affinity, from the mark on her sleeve. That made two of them.

  Her presence was like ink—soft, invisible until it pooled deep.

  The one who notices everything, and says nothing until it counts.

  Xo rolled his shoulders back, gaze returning to the tower door.

  These weren’t enemies. Not yet. But they weren’t allies either.

  Not yet.

  He wasn’t here to make friends. He was here to survive long enough to find answers. He settled his eyes on the entrance to the officer's tower. Waiting for whoever would come next.

  They stood in silence when the door opened.

  Captain Shen Kaizen stepped into the courtyard with his hands behind his back, his uniform immaculate, eyes unreadable as stone. He stopped in front of the gathered initiates, letting the silence stretch just long enough for their attention to focus like pulled thread.

  “My name is Captain Shen Kaizen,” he said, voice flat and steady. “For you, I’ll be sir.”

  Not a shout. No bark. Just authority.

  “This will be your home for the foreseeable future. You will find, in the rooms behind me, chests to store your belongings and a set of yifu tunics bearing the Strike Force crest. There is also paper and ink. You may write to your families, if you wish. You are unlikely to see them again for several years.”

  He let that sink in before continuing.

  “You are accepted into the Strike Force training program. Suit up. Eat. Write what you must. Then report to the training grounds after the lunch break.”

  He turned on his heel and left them without waiting for a single question.

  The barracks were clean and spartan—rows of beds, each with a folded uniform, a pair of boots, and a locked wooden chest. Armor racks lined the walls; most of them bare, but waiting.

  As the recruits filtered in, Kiri Huang stepped lightly into the room behind Lei Shui, arms crossed, an amused smile already forming.

  “Well, look who it is,” he said, loud enough for the others to hear. “Shui’s son. I didn’t expect to see you here, of all places.”

  Lei glanced at him but didn’t respond.

  Kiri leaned slightly closer, voice smooth. “Tell me—are you here to fill a water canteen, or did they need someone to cry on command?”

  Miri, lounging nearby with one boot half-on, grinned over Kiri’s shoulder.

  “Play nice, brother,” she said, her gaze flicking to Lei. Her smile was sharp. “Besides… it’s always the quiet ones.”

  Lei Shui’s eyes didn’t narrow. He didn’t take the bait. He simply stepped around them, lifted his uniform from the bed, and walked on.