Seyfe found a shaded corner near the armory bench and sat down, the weapons he hadn't completely given up on resting beside him like discarded burdens. He tapped his Cellik and opened the interface, flicking through encrypted archives, restricted networks, and eventually finding a few old, half-corrupted tutorial videos hidden beneath layers of obsolete training logs.
They were raw and unpolished—some from the early days of Veiler formations, others filmed in shaky, handheld footage by grizzled veterans who likely didn't survive long enough to finish their series. But Seyfe didn't care. His eyes locked on to every movement, every explanation. He watched how their feet moved with the weight of a glaive, how they compensated the recoil of rune-infused rounds, how their stance adapted mid-combat when the opponent shifted pace.
He watched the same video a dozen times if it meant catching a single trick.
He mimicked their footwork on the dirt-stained tiles, stumbling forward, adjusting his balance, then going again. Swing. Reset. Swing. Reset. He visualized the enemy, visualized Saline, Aki, that damned machine—every strike was a rehearsal for vengeance, for survival, for purpose.
At times he cursed out loud, frustrated when his body refused to mirror the perfect frame-by-frame form he saw in the tutorial. At other times, the faintest smirk crept on his face when a maneuver felt right.
And when the sun finally dipped low enough that shadows overtook the training ground, he was still there—drenched in sweat, a layer of dirt coating his arms and face, but eyes focused, refusing to quit.
He played the video again.
He got back up.
And kept moving.
If he couldn't find a weapon that fit him… he'd earn one. Make it his own. Or become one himself.
The twin hatchets sang through the air, slicing with precision as Seyfe spun low, then pivoted into a double-cross slash that sent dust kicking upward in a perfect arc. The Cellik at his hip buzzed quietly—registering the force and form. It might not have been elegant, but it was undeniably effective.
"Yes, finally!" he shouted, breath heavy, a manic grin stretching across his face as he planted one hatchet into the ground and leaned against it.
Blisters lined his palms. His joints ached from the constant repetition. But the satisfaction in his chest drowned it all out.
He'd started with the sword—four agonizing hours of trial, error, and adaptation until his movements became instinctive. Not graceful like some of the prodigies he saw, but functional, powerful. His.
The spear was next. Its fluid range and leverage took less than three hours. By then, his muscle memory had begun aligning with the different forms. He danced with it like a makeshift ranger, skewering phantom enemies.
The gun and sniper felt like extensions of his frustration—methodical, breathing in rhythm, each shot better than the last. Even with limited rounds, he practiced reloads, recoil absorption, and targeting while crouched, standing, prone—he clocked it all.
The gauntlets were the most brutal. He broke form twice, twisted his wrist once, and punched himself in the face accidentally more times than he'd ever admit. But in the end, he learned to move with them, not against. Every weapon after that came easier. Faster. Sharper.
And now, standing at the center of the field, hatchets still humming with momentum, he let out a long, shaky breath.
Not because he was tired—but because for the first time… it felt like he wasn't drowning anymore.
He was climbing.
And next time they threw him into hell—he might just set it on fire.
Seyfe blinked, unsure if what just popped up on his Cellik was real. A flicker—a pulse—and suddenly a hidden file sat in front of him, its title faint and nearly camouflaged.
"Garuda Hand-Hand Combat: Archive 13-B (Restricted Access)"
His eyes narrowed. That word—restricted—practically screamed at him. He glanced around the quiet training grounds. Most cadets were either asleep or wasting their break pretending the last weeks hadn't happened. No one saw him. Good.
He tapped into the file. The screen buzzed, and a loading bar crawled forward as if even the system hesitated to let him through.
Accessing Archive...Veiler Log – Garuda Hinikaya, Unit S: First Generation Vanguard
The screen dimmed. Static washed over the audio. Then, a figure appeared.
Not a polished tutorial. Not one of those flashy recruitment vids with proud instructors spouting government slogans. No, this was different. A tall, lean man stood barefoot in a rusted room. He wore nothing but training pants and old combat wrappings, eyes like sharpened stone.
"If you're watching this, you're either not supposed to… or meant to more than anyone else."
Seyfe paused the video immediately.
Garuda Hinikaya.Unit S.
His breath hitched. That wasn't just a name. That was legend. Unit S wasn't some prototype team—they were the pinnacle. Twenty-three elite humans across Veiler history. Selected not just for skill, but for surviving things most people would break from just seeing.
The top of the top.The kind of people even handlers spoke of in hushed tones.
Seyfe had only heard their unit number dropped during higher briefings—never details. Never names. They weren't celebrated. They weren't recorded. They were preserved—like holy relics hidden in a vault.
Why was one of them here?Why was this archive buried so deep, and why now?
Seyfe scrolled down. No metadata. No origin logs. It was like the video didn't exist.
He tapped play again.
Garuda moved—not like a human—but like something forged for war. Every strike was bone-snapping. Every motion was instinct, forged in the fire of experience Seyfe couldn't imagine. No drama. No wasted power. It was vicious, mechanical, and deeply… personal.
This wasn't a lesson. It was a transmission. A record for someone meant to survive something far greater.
Seyfe's fingers hovered over pause again, but didn't press it. Not this time.
He whispered under his breath, "What the hell was Unit S really built for?"
Then, without another word, he began studying the movements frame by frame.
Not just to learn.But to understand why Garuda left this behind.And maybe, just maybe…What kind of monster the government wanted to create next.
The more Seyfe watched, the more a knot tightened in his stomach.
These weren't just combat techniques—Garuda's every motion carried the rhythm of finality. No disarming. No restraint. No mercy.
Every strike was lethal.Every maneuver ended in a kill.
This wasn't what their instructors fed them during drills—"subdue, protect, neutralize"—no, Garuda's style was raw and unapologetic. A blueprint for predators, not peacekeepers.
Then, the man in the video paused. His eyes locked with the camera like he was looking through time itself—right into Seyfe.
"Now that I've shown you… you're probably wondering why this doesn't match what they're drilling into your heads."
A static buzz followed his words.
"Simple. They're changing the curriculum.""They fear us now. Fear what they made."
Garuda stepped closer to the lens. The background behind him was dark, scratched with symbols Seyfe couldn't recognize—maybe forgotten writing or something far older.
"This message… it's buried for a reason.""They clipped our wings. The first generation of Veilers—we weren't meant to protect. We were meant to decimate anything that stood in our way."
"But the second generation and beyond? You're subjects. Measured. Watched. Controlled. They stripped the spine from the program to make sure Veilers obeyed."
"Ever wonder why they keep rewriting history since the Shattering? Why they burn the records and turn you into symbols?"
"It's because the truth would tear them apart.""Like what really happened with the deities."
That word hit Seyfe like a blade to the back. Deities?What the hell was this guy talking about?
But the video ended.Abrupt. Cut mid-sentence like someone had severed the feed with purpose.
And then—A soft beep from the Cellik.
INBOX (1 Unread Message)Sender: [Unknown – Locked Node]Subject: "If you're brave enough to continue, open me."
Seyfe stared at the screen, pulse climbing. His finger hovered over the message.
This wasn't training anymore.This was a rabbit hole—and he just stumbled into something no cadet was ever meant to see.
Seyfe's finger hovered a breath away from tapping the message, nerves taut like a coiled wire.
That was when the voice cut through the silence like a crack of thunder in a still night.
"Cadet, how long have you been here?"
He nearly dropped the Cellik. Whipping around, his heart thudding against his ribs, he came face-to-face with Jannet Dwight, Veiler Handler of the Spearhead Squadron.
Her silhouette stood framed by the dim glow of the training hall's emergency lights, arms crossed, posture perfect—an unspoken demand for explanation radiating from her presence alone.
Seyfe swallowed hard and subtly dimmed the screen of his Cellik. The last thing he needed was for her to catch a glimpse of the restricted archive still open in the background.
"I couldn't sleep," he muttered, doing his best to sound like just another restless cadet, "Figured some late-night practice might help."
Jannet's eyes flicked to the still-warm weapon rack, to the weapons scattered around him, then finally to the Cellik he held. Her brow arched slightly.
"At least lower the damn brightness, cadet. You're lighting up the whole damn hall like a beacon," she said with a sigh, half-scolding, half-amused.
Seyfe gave a sheepish smile, tapping the screen into standby mode.
"Sorry, didn't notice."
Jannet lingered for a moment longer, scanning him with that cool, calculating gaze. He could tell she was trying to decide whether to press further. Whether there was more going on here than what met the eye.
But after a moment, she just exhaled through her nose and turned to leave.
"Just don't push yourself too hard. You're no good to the program if you collapse before your first real mission."
As she walked off, her voice echoed one last time:
"And don't make a habit of this. You're not the only one haunted by insomnia."
Then she was gone, the door hissing shut behind her.
Seyfe waited until the hallway fell silent again before turning the Cellik back on. The message was still there. Untouched.
Now, his heart raced not just from fear—but from curiosity.
Because if that woman hadn't seen the archive… and still felt the need to say that?
Then maybe—just maybe—someone else already knew exactly what he was about to uncover.