This week's drills were something out of a twisted nightmare, designed to push cadets to the brink of sanity—and then a little further.
It started with swimming. But not the usual "dive into the pool" drill. No. That would've been too kind. Instead, we were thrown into an ocean of cold, murky water—each of us tied to one or two other cadets, weighted down by bags of rocks strapped to our bodies. The goal? Get across the designated stretch of water and back. The catch? The bags. The ropes. The other cadets struggling to breathe and thrash against the tide. The weight felt like it was dragging me to the bottom, suffocating me with every stroke. By the time we were called back in, I felt like I'd crossed through some otherworldly threshold and barely survived.
Next came trenching. Mud up to our chests, the ground slippery and hostile. And of course, we were still tied together, so the squad had to work in perfect sync or risk being dragged into the pit of muck. It felt like something out of a warzone—except there were no enemies to shoot, just endless hours of grueling mud-crawling through trenches. My arms burned, my back screamed, but we were just told to keep moving. Every slip was another curse, another punishment.
Then, we faced the mechanical hell. A giant monstrosity, a gundam-like machine—slick metal, massive limbs, and deadly precision. It slammed against us with a terrifying force, sending cadets flying every time it swiped its mechanical fist. I couldn't keep track of my teammates; I could barely keep track of myself. It was like trying to fight an immovable object with no weapons. No matter how hard we hit it, it kept coming. We were battered. We were broken. But we had no choice but to keep moving forward.
And it didn't stop there.We were thrown into the next challenge: machines.Not the gundam monstrosity, but smaller, more deadly—like dolls with the personality of predators. These mechanical dolls had weapons. Lots of them. Ranged, close combat, projectiles—you name it. We were pitted against them in random groupings. I don't know what was worse—the fact that we had to fight something with no mercy or the fact that we had to rely on others who couldn't even land a decent punch themselves.
Then came the pit. The pit of human aggression. They threw us into a literal pit with other squadrons, and the orders were simple: Take each other down. No rules. No holding back. Just carnage. The worst part? It wasn't just a fight—it was a brutal reminder that every single one of us was disposable. Nothing mattered except surviving until the end. I could barely tell who was on my team anymore. We were all fighting for ourselves.
After that hell, we were tossed into another nightmare: being spun in the air. Yes, that's right—tied up with other cadets and then spun around in circles. I don't know if they thought this would somehow make us "work together better" or if it was just for amusement. Either way, it was sickening. Dizzy, disoriented, and barely able to stand after, I wanted nothing more than to collapse and disappear into the ground.
But none of that compared to the final drill. The sparring.And it wasn't just any sparring.It was Aki.
The woman who had dragged me through hell itself in the stasis chamber, who had tortured me with her lectures, and who had now become the cruel face of my punishment.
I'd always known it would come to this. That one day, I'd have to face her.But I never thought it would be like this.
She stood across from me, that damn raven-black hair cascading down her shoulders, those sharp, assessing eyes focused only on me. I wasn't sure whether to hate her or fear her more.
"You know the drill, cadet," she said coldly, her voice devoid of any emotion. "Get ready."
I gritted my teeth, preparing myself. But nothing could have prepared me for her speed.
She moved like lightning, effortlessly dodging my swings and landing blows that sent me reeling. Her body was like a machine—controlled, precise. Every strike was a lesson in humility.
I tried to fight back. I did. But no matter how many times I threw a punch, no matter how much I tried to anticipate her moves, she always seemed to be one step ahead.
Aki wasn't just a Veiler Handler. She was a monster.
And I was a fool to think I could have ever been ready for this.
I barely managed to get back on my feet after another blow that left me gasping for air, blood seeping from a cut across my cheek. The crowd of cadets gathered around the sparring ring was silent.
I could barely stand.
"Is that all you've got?" Aki taunted, her voice laced with amusement.
"Come on, Seyfe... show me something. Anything."
I hated her more than anything. But in that moment, all I could do was clench my fists and force myself to stand tall, despite everything.
This wasn't just training. It wasn't just a spar. This was survival.
The next two weeks felt like an eternity. Every day bled into the next, with each training session more grueling and relentless than the last. After that brutal spar with Aki, it was like the final straw for my sanity. I barely had the strength to keep my eyes open in the morning, let alone endure the horrific drills. But there was no way out. We had to endure.
As if the training wasn't enough, the lessons kept coming. They made us familiarize ourselves with the Cellik—these strange, eerie devices that had been strapped to us since day one. It wasn't just a communication tool, as I had originally thought. The more we learned, the more I realized how integrated it was into the entire Veiler system. They gave us lessons on how to use it for everything from tracking signals to hacking into military systems. The government wasn't just training us to be soldiers; they were shaping us into something more, something entirely under their control.
We were also introduced to weapons—oh, and not just any weapons. The usual assortment of guns and knives, but with a twist. Some of them were designed for Veilers, enhanced with runic magic to increase their power or precision. Some had elemental properties, others were tied to specific abilities we hadn't yet unlocked. We were told to bond with these weapons, to feel them as an extension of ourselves. It was the government's way of ensuring that we would be more than just human—that we would be tools, effective but expendable.
I wasn't sure which was worse: the physical hell we were subjected to or the mental conditioning that came with the constant bombardment of information. Propaganda. All around us. Every day, more and more "facts" about the government's purpose, their fight against the fractures, the 'truth' behind the Shattering. We were constantly told how they were saving the world, that the Veilers were the only ones who could bring stability back to the realms. There were even glimpses of the world before the Shattering, a place where magic and technology coexisted in peace.
But I knew better. We were being lied to. I could see it in their eyes—the way the higher-ups would speak with that same cold conviction, the way they masked their fear with arrogance. They were hiding something. And I could sense it. They were preparing us to fight a war that we couldn't fully understand.
And then came the punishments. They only became more twisted, more cruel with each passing day. If we faltered during training, if we didn't perform as expected, we were forced to endure extra sessions—extra physical pain, longer hours of exposure to the elements, more time strapped to those infernal machines.
Some cadets cracked, while others merely numbed themselves to the agony. I watched as some of them went through the motions, completely hollowed out, eyes glazed over as though their spirits had been completely erased. They didn't scream anymore. They didn't fight back. It was terrifying, knowing that could be me one day if I wasn't careful.
But even amidst the hellish routine, the trio still stood out. They acted like nothing had changed. Saline, the relentless powerhouse, seemed to thrive in the chaos, as if each drill was just another game to her. The silver-haired boy, with his eerie calmness, moved through everything with a detached ease, as though the world around him was nothing but noise. And then there was the short silver-haired girl—always playful, always mocking, even when she had her hands full with a grueling task. It was like they were immune to everything.
And me? I wasn't immune. I could feel the cracks starting to form. I was tired, both physically and mentally. But something in me—something dark—refused to break. I couldn't give them the satisfaction of seeing me fold.
Finally.
Two weeks of break. It felt like a distant dream, something I hadn't even allowed myself to imagine in the depths of all the hell we'd been put through. But here we were, with the training temporarily halted. It was strange how quickly my body had adjusted to constant physical punishment, and now, with a semblance of rest, I didn't know how to act. The thought of relief was both a welcome change and a terrifying one.
They told us we could "rest"—an odd term for something that seemed so foreign in the wake of constant pain. In truth, it wasn't rest in the sense of peace or freedom; it was more like a forced pause, a momentary reprieve before the inevitable continuation of the grind. The government didn't just hand out breaks. No, they wanted us to feel that sweet relief just enough to keep us desperate for it, to make us cling to the hope of freedom even though we were never meant to truly have it.
But for the first time in weeks, the thought of just doing nothing didn't sound so bad. The soreness in my limbs was intense, a dull reminder of every grueling session, but there was no constant voice in my head, no orders pushing me forward. No one was screaming at me to push harder, to do more. I could breathe without feeling like the air itself was a weight dragging me down.
I didn't know how to rest. Not really. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the same drills, the same machines, the same faces twisted in pain. I knew I had to reset my body, but there was something in my mind—a part of me that still couldn't let go of the tension, of the fight. How could I just switch off?
The others seemed to be in the same boat. They milled about, exhausted, as if unsure what to do with themselves now that they had some space. Even Saline, the one who always seemed to thrive on chaos, wasn't her usual self. She didn't seem as eager to jump into some kind of fight, and that said a lot. We were all worn out, just not in the same way.
I tried to push thoughts of rebellion aside, but it kept creeping in. How much longer could we take this? How long before it broke us entirely?
Two weeks of so-called "rest." And yet, the constant hum of the Cellik and the ever-present looming threat of what would come next hung over us. We were still just waiting for the storm to hit again.
Even if heaven was a myth, this place, this training, the lives they had carved out for us—it sure as hell felt like one.