The next day, Rus roamed Libertalia alone.
The squad had scattered, enjoying whatever small freedoms they could scrape from the city's polished surface. He wasn't interested in souvenirs or overpriced booze. Not today.
This time, it was all business. The military sector of Libertalia wasn't hard to find. Just follow the smell of boot polish, recycled air, and bureaucratic disdain.
Because of the whole "closed a Rift from the inside" thing, He was officially field-promoted. Nothing glorious about it. More like being handed a slightly heavier shovel after digging trenches with a spoon. Still, paperwork had to be done, ranks confirmed, status acknowledged.
They couldn't finalize it in Damasa, something about central authority, TRU oversight, and "classified biological parameters." Which, in bastard-speak, meant they wanted to test him like a lab rat.
So he followed protocol. Entered Libertalia's forward outpost. Got handed a stack of files thicker than his patience. They checked Rus's biometrics, scanned his neural patterns, even confirmed his blood type twice like it might've changed out of spite.
Then came the kicker, TRU.
Specifically, Garn. The bastard.
He greeted Rus in the way only a man with zero soul and too much caffeine could. "Ah, Wilson. Still solid, I see. Shame. I was hoping you'd start mutating. Just a little."
"Go fondle a Riftling," IRus muttered, dropping his papers on his table.
He ignored Rus, as always, then tapped away at a terminal with all the grace of a caffeinated monkey.
"Not every day someone enters a Rift and walks out breathing, let alone sane," he said, eyes never leaving the screen. "You do realize you're now statistically one in… well, one."
"Great," Rus deadpanned. "Where's my medal?"
He chuckled. "You get a meeting instead."
"Thrilling."
"She's waiting. Fourth floor, Observation Deck C."
He was given a new uniform that was sterile, uncomfortable, and made from something that probably could stop bullets but not awkwardness. The floor was cold. The room was white. He sat on a bench padded like it was designed by a sadist.
Then the door opened.
She entered like someone who didn't need to raise her voice to command a room. Tall. Dark hair tied into a clean knot. Sharp eyes that had seen too much and judged even more. She wore a UH officer's uniform, black with silver trim, and bore the insignia of a specialist unit he didn't recognize.
Her nameplate read: Lt. Evalyn Rhane.
She didn't offer her hand. Just a nod.
"Rus Wilson. Sit up straight."
"Ma'am," Rus said, slouching slightly more out of spite.
She didn't smile. "This is not a disciplinary hearing, but a reevaluation. You've been marked as a potential reclassification into Counter Tier Three. I'm your examiner."
"And here I thought I was just lucky."
She ignored that. Tapped on her slate. "You have displayed several anomalous traits consistent with another superhuman architecture. Specifically, pre-cognitive instincts, see, tactical augmentation, object-familiar mastery, and high resistance to Rift-induced psychosis. You've also survived extended exposure to Rift compression and executed direct deployment of an ADR device under distortion."
"Sounds like I've been busy."
"Yes. Which is why you're here. We need to verify that you're still—"
"Human?"
Her gaze didn't waver. "Operational."
He leaned back. "What's the test, then? You toss me in a padded room and wait for me to hallucinate my childhood?"
"No. You'll be performing three controlled tasks. Mental fortitude, combat response, and Rift exposure simulation. The point is not to pass or fail. The point is to assess if you are still suitable."
"Right. Not dangerous. Just useful."
She looked up from her slate. "Exactly."
The next few hours were a slow grind of scanners, question prompts, neural latency drills, and simulation chambers. At one point, he was put in a VR suite so intense it nearly fried his vision. Combat indicators lit up like fireworks as QTEs flaring in red and blue as simulated monsters came in waves.
Rus killed every single one.
When the run was over, the room returned to gray, and the silence settled like dust.
Evalyn stood behind the observation window. "Impressive. You outperformed 94% of current Tier Three Counters in reflexive metrics."
"Do I get a sticker?"
"You get reclassification," she said. "Congratulations. You're being moved to Counter-Tier One, Specialist Class."
Rus blinked. "Wait. That's… permanent?"
"Yes."
"And I don't get a say?"
"No."
He exhaled slowly. "So that's it. Four years turned into a fucking leash."
"You're not being punished, Wilson," she said. "You're being weaponized."
That made Rus laugh. Not out of humor. Just… irony. "And what about Cyma?"
"They remain under your command. Until further notice. You're too… effective to be separated."
He looked down at his hands. Still calloused. Still shaking faintly from the simulated rush. "What happens now?"
She tapped her slate. "Now? You rest. Enjoy your time in Libertalia. And wait for the next mission as always soldier."
And with that, she left.
Leaving Rus in a white room, in a clean uniform, wondering what the hell I had just signed up for.
[[[
The rest of the tests weren't any kinder.
After Evalyn's little "congratulations, you're now an elite weapon of the state" talk, they sent him back down to the test range. Different sector. Cleaner floors. Shinier walls. That kind of sterile where the air itself smells like antiseptic and disappointment.
This part wasn't about theory or simulations. No psych quizzes or VR hallucinations this time.
This was pure, sweaty, violent data gathering.
The room they shoved Rus into was more like an arena—circular, padded with impact gel beneath the plates, and reeked of machine oil. Standing across from me were three humanoid combat androids, each one shaped like a mannequin on steroids. No faces. Just dull metal and glowing combat cores in their chests. Their limbs twitched like they were eager to start.
"Close combat only," the tech behind the glass said. "No firearms. Record starts in five. Pick a weapon."
There was a table beside him with a few toys on offer. Knives. Clubs. A set of claws that looked like someone had disassembled a lawnmower. Rus grabbed the electric baton, not because it was fancy, but because it was reliable. Heavy, fast, and it made things fry.
He wasn't an idiot. Fists were for desperate men and idiots who watched too many movies. The baton crackled to life as he spun it in his hand and let the familiar hum settle into his bones.
Then the androids came.
They weren't fast. That was the first thing he noticed. Not like a real fight. This wasn't a stress test. It was data collection. They wanted to see how he moved. How he fought. How he broke things.
And he broke them.
Combat indicators flared in his vision, weak spots lit up in soft orange, danger zones in red. His eyes tracked one bot's arm movement before it even fully raised. He parried with the baton, hooked around its wrist, and drove his knee into its side. A snap of energy jolted it off balance.
Second bot lunged.
Rus ducked low, kicked out its knee joint, and slammed the baton across the back of its neck. The impact discharged enough voltage to light up a squad of grunts. It spasmed and dropped.
Third one was smarter. It tried to flank.
Didn't help.
Rus pivoted, tore the metal arm off the first one, and used it like a club. Swing. Crack. One of the androids staggered. He brought the baton down on its core with both hands. The impact caved in its chest and fried the internal servo system.
And so it went.
Rip. Tear. Disable. Dismantle.
By the end of it, the floor was littered with sparking torsos and twitching limbs. Smoke curled in the air, thick and acrid. The whole place smelled like burnt copper and ozone.
A voice crackled over the speaker, "Test complete. Exceeding Tier Two metrics."
Great. Rus tore off the gloves, breathing hard. Hus shoulder ached. His hands were buzzing. He wiped the sweat off his brow and with the back of his arm and looked up at the glass window where Garn and some other evaluators were probably flattering each other.
A few minutes later, they ushered him into a debriefing chamber. Another sterile room. Another suited official. This one didn't bother with formalities. Just a simple line.
"You're being classified as Counter Tier Three, effective immediately."
Rus blinked. "That… that's the entry tier."
"Yes."
"And you're sure you got the right idiot?"
The woman didn't even smile. "Confirmed through performance metrics, Rift exposure survivability, and anomaly resistance. You're the first spontaneous Tier Three in over two years. No implantation. No psych conditioning. Pure aptitude."
That didn't make Rus feel better.
They handed him a folder, mostly ceremonial, but he thumbed through it anyway. Details about his clearance upgrades, chain of command modifications, logistical support. Apparently, he now had the privilege of signing off on high-level requisitions. Fancy. Almost made up for the fact that he was now essentially married to the UH without a prenup.
Then they dropped the kicker.
"As a Tier Three, you're eligible to request a HEWS."
Rus frowned. "That's the High-frequency External Weapon System?"
"Correct."
"You're handing me a custom weapon?"
"Correct again. You're expected to select a platform for fabrication. Due to the nature of Riftborne biology, standard firearms are becoming increasingly ineffective against certain entities. HEWS-class weapons are designed for these engagements."
"So basically," I said, "I get to choose an impractical sword because bullets aren't enough anymore."
She paused. "That's one way to put it."
"Fine. I want a gunblade."
The tech beside her raised an eyebrow. "Simple."
"That's the point," I said. "Blade for up close. Gun for the rest. And I want the sheath to act as a charger for the HF blade. Keep it hot."
"We can accommodate that."
"Name?"
That made Rus pause.
Salvo.
It was the name of his old squad. The one before I woke up in this world. Just a codename, something stupid they called themselves back in another life.
"Salvo," Rus said. "Call it that."
"Noted."
They said it would take days to forge and calibrate. Custom weapon means custom handling systems. He'd need to undergo another round of training just to wield it properly.
Great.
Another perk to being top dog? More work.
Even so, he left that chamber with a strange weight in his chest. Not fear. Not even pride.
Just… inevitability.
They could dress it up with ranks and medals, but the truth was simple. He wasn't just a soldier anymore. He was a tool.
A very sharp one for United Humanity.
Rus spent the next few days still in the city, technically on "leave," though most of his time was spent undergoing more diagnostics, signing off on boring paperwork, and being poked at by TRU like he was some kind of exotic pet.
Garn kept pestering Rus through the comms, talking about the Rift studies, anomaly shifts, and how his vitals were such a "goldmine." He told him that if he called him a specimen one more time, he'd find where he sleeps and replace his toothpaste with hydraulic gel.
He didn't call Rus that again.
But he could feel it. The change. Not just in status, but in how people looked at him.
The soldiers at the outpost gave him wider berth. Officers stopped calling me by rank. They just nodded and called me "Counter." Even the staff at the bar inside the military wing of Libertalia's admin core started giving him free drinks.
Apparently, surviving a Rift earns you points in this world.
But he didn't care about points. Rus cared about Cyma. His team. His unit. Sure, they can be assholes, but they were his team.
Besides, matter how high they pushed Rus up the ladder, the real battle was making sure the people beside him didn't die along the way.
And he knew damn well that this world was full of things that could kill them. It had already ended once, and it could end again.