"You're going to get us in trouble."

  Kate didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. The warning in it was sharp enough.

  She shot us a look that could've stripped paint.

  I ignored her, I couldn't understand how she didn't find what we were witnessing completely hilarious. Jen was folded forward in her seat, her shoulders trembling as she fought to hold in her laughter. The effort only made it worse; small strangled sounds escaped her anyway. Bran had physically turned away from the screen, both hands over his mouth, eyes wet. If he looked again, he'd crack completely.

  The last squad were getting completely dismantled. They were all hunted down with extreme prejudice and unwarranted venom, a consequence of the earlier performances. The seniors were making a point.

  After I was eliminated, having successfully gained 20 extra points, I stepped out into a room filled with stares.

  Three marshals walked over to me. The three I had taken down.

  "Gutsy move rook." The spear user said, patting me on the back. Her eyes were bright and friendly. There was no resentment in her tone. That annoyed me.

  "How in the world did you get that shot off?" The tallest of the three stepped forward. The guy I killed in the stairwell. He was much larger in person.

  I shrugged my shoulders. "It was a huge gamble. Dumb luck I guess."

  It wasn't.

  "That's some luck," the third guy chipped in, offering me his hand. "You've got some serious skills. Ever thought about applying for Enforcement? We could use someone like you."

  My eyes dropped to his hand.

  The same hand that drove a blade through my chest. The same hand that stopped me inches from the threshold. I had been close — dangerously close — to something clicking into place. A realization. A shift that would've solidified me as Tier four.

  Gone.

  I looked up at his face.

  He was smiling — easy, almost friendly. Any other person would have thought him sincere. I knew better.

  He was wary of me.

  Words may deceive but there were no falsehoods in scents. I did not like him one bit.

  He didn't need to know this.

  "Thanks for the compliments," I took his hand, forcing the most sincere smile I could muster. "I haven't finalized my decision yet, but I'll keep it in mind.

  A lie.

  Since the day I first enrolled at the academy, there was only one division I had in mind.

  The Interstate Defense Division.

  A division charged with defending our home world. The first response beyond our atmosphere and the defenders of our home. There was no higher calling, not to Bran or Kate at least.

  Personally, I just wanted to pilot fighter spacecraft.

  "I really hope you—"

  "That's enough cap," the tall one interrupted, grabbing him by the shoulder. "Let's go, the kid needs his rest."

  He then turned him around and walked away.

  The spear user turned to wave at me. "See you around."

  I waved back half heartedly and headed back to my seat.

  The other initiates weren't staring at me anymore. Something else had captured their attention. I followed their gaze to the screen. It was split into seven parts, each providing a third person view of the remaining participants. It was like they were followed by a floating invisible camera.

  From the corner of my eye, I noticed Officer Bailey looking at me. She stood near the back wall, hands clasped behind her back. She didn't blink and remained unperturbed even as I met her gaze.

  Her expression wasn't very readable from so far away but I didn't get the impression that she was surprised or impressed. If anything, it looked more like confusion to me.

  I decided to not read deeply into it and turned away.

  Jen had her head in her palms, brown hair veiling her tanned skin as she folded inward. Her shoulders were rigid, elbows planted on her knees, her lean, wiry frame drawn tight with tension. She was furious with herself.

  Jen was a primary combatant. She may not have been our best fighter but she definitely had the most natural talent. She was well versed in over a dozen forms of armed combat and was our most versatile offensive weapon, a fact she took great pride in.

  Being eliminated before Cuiran?

  That would sting.

  Taking my seat beside her, I patted her back lightly. Words would do no good in this situation. Especially those of comfort.

  After a moment, she exhaled through her fingers.

  "I messed up," she muttered.

  "I know," I said quietly.

  Lydia shuffled closer to us with Cuiran close behind.

  "Not bad Stretch," she said, punching my shoulder. "I still can't believe you got that shot off."

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  "Not bad yourself," I winced, rubbing my sore shoulder. "What was that, three–four minutes you lasted?"

  She swung.

  I leaned back just in time, laughing and noticed some excitement from the other squads.

  Turning to the screen, I saw what the fuss was all about.

  One of the senior marshals was chasing after someone. From the twin daggers strapped at the hips, I could tell it was Mous. She cut left around a cluster of synthetic trees, weaving through decorative structures and narrowly avoided a barrage of shots that ripped through the space she was but a moment ago.

  Just when it seemed like she would get away, she suddenly tripped. The reason or culprit was unclear. Maybe a stray shot.

  There was no hesitation. The hunter unhooked a long sword in one smooth motion and immediately closed the gap.

  I shook my head. Mous had done well lasting this long but it seemed—

  A door to the right exploded outward.

  The shadow burst from the building like a battering ram, massive frame already mid-swing, single-edged blade raised high above their head.

  Bran.

  The marshal sensed it — freezing mid-strike — but it was too late.

  The blade came down with bone crushing force and separated head from body.

  Another ten points.

  Bran extended a hand to Mous, hauling her up. She was grinning, actually grinning, as she dusted herself off and bumped his fist.

  Those clever little shits. It was a trap.

  Around us, murmurs spread. Other squads whispering. Recalculating. They felt threatened.

  Good. They should.

  My satisfaction didn't last long.

  A pinprick of light flashed across the screen. Mous jerked.

  Eliminated.

  The camera shifted — a sniper perched high across the map, perfectly concealed. Bran pivoted instantly, dragging cover between himself and the sightline as two others appeared out of nowhere and cornered him.

  He made the first move, immediately charging at the one closest to him. The other, however, wasn't going to give him the luxury of an honest fight. Bran lasted longer than he should have.

  But the result of a two versus one against higher ranked marshals was not in question.

  "Marshal Murphy has been eliminated. Six down, one more to go."

  He dropped into the seat beside me moments later, breathing out hard.

  "You might not be completely useless after all," I said, ruffling his hair.

  He snorted. "Rich coming from you. You barely cleared thirty minutes."

  "Oh you mean after I single handedly took down three?"

  "Touche."

  Mous slid into her seat next to Cuiran, who immediately intertwined their fingers.

  "Good job," he said, squeezing her hand.

  "I know," she responded, leaning on his shoulder.

  She tilted her chin up. "I expect a reward."

  "Oh?"

  "Yeah, something special only you can give."

  He laughed softly. "Deal."

  I turned away in disgust. Damn those two.

  Kate was the last one left.

  She had taken refuge in a tall office building. All the remaining marshals converged on her location, preparing to flush her out. Kate excelled at stealth and was highly skilled at ghosting corridors, masking movement, evading while anticipating detection and more. That would do little to help her in this hopeless situation.

  This wasn't going to be a fight. It was an execution.

  They had her surrounded and were aware of her exact position and location. One of them peeled off and entered the building through the main lobby. The other two repositioned outside, establishing overlapping lines of sight across adjacent rooftops and lower exits.

  It wasn't long before they found her and a shootout ensued. They fired back and forth for a bit before she finally made a business decision. She broke off into a sprint to the window at the edge of the room.

  The glass shattered outward as she dove through it. She hit the adjacent building hard, fingers catching the lip of a maintenance ledge.

  For a split second, she hung there. Half her body suspended over open air.

  The two outside wasted no time.

  Rounds tore into her before she could pull herself up.

  "Marshal Kaldwell has been eliminated. The exercise is concluded after sixty-five minutes and with 40 points gathered as all squad members have been eliminated."

  We did as well as we could and it was now out of our hands. Everything would be decided by how well the other squads did.

  Thirty two minutes. Jen straightened immediately when she heard the announcement and turned to me in disbelief. I couldn't believe it myself.

  The second squad had done the same as us. They landed in a massive military complex and scattered — each member claiming a defensible room, sealing doors, fortifying solo positions.

  On paper, it was a sound strategy. Reality was a separate story.

  The hunters moved through the structure like a tide. No single engagement lasted longer than three minutes. One by one, the squad members were discovered and dismantled.

  I leaned back, watching carefully. It wasn't that the seniors were overwhelming. Rather, the defending squad lacked presence.

  No discipline. No adaptability under pressure. Every time one of them was forced into direct engagement, they folded.

  All of them individually weak.

  They didn't even gang up on the last survivors, if not for that it would have ended much sooner.

  The third squad adapted. They stayed together.

  Landed in an abandoned factory and immediately claimed the most structurally reinforced section — thick support columns, limited approach vectors, high ground access.

  Better.

  Much better.

  They rotated positions. Cross-covered properly. Managed their spacing.

  They lasted fifty-four minutes. Respectable.

  The fourth squad attempted the same strategy but lacked cohesion. Their communication lagged. Angles overlapped poorly. They only managed forty-seven minutes.

  But at the end—

  Their captain activated 3 grenades, waited until two marshals closed in, and detonated at point-blank range.

  Two eliminations. Twenty points.

  I tilted my head slightly.

  Good move.

  "I wonder where he got that idea," I muttered.

  Bran smirked.

  Then came the final squad. The reason for my amusement.

  Like us, they had split. Not individually. But into clusters — two, two, and three. I tried to understand the logic. Maybe they thought smaller groups meant flexibility. Maybe they believed they could support each other across distance. Maybe they panicked.

  Whatever the reasoning—

  It collapsed immediately. The seniors had already been eliminated six times across previous rounds. Four times by us. Twice by the fourth squad.

  That was not normal. Their pride had been bruised. You could see it in how they moved this time. Much sharper.

  The final squad lasted twenty minutes.

  But that number didn't tell the full story.

  They weren't simply eliminated.

  They were embarrassed.

  The different groups were herded, forced into choke points and had their retreats cut off deliberately. One of them was left running for almost a full minute before he was casually sniped.

  The deck filled with awkward laughter. I joined in but deep down, I felt a flicker of pity for what this would do to them. Reputation was practically currency to marshals. They had just declared bankruptcy in front of everyone.

  Officer Bailey concluded her quiet exchange with the senior marshals. They dispersed without protest, boots echoing faintly against the floor as they exited the room.

  Then she turned to us.

  "Well done," she said. "I was impressed with several of your performances today."

  Her gaze moved slowly across the rows. "You have demonstrated initiative. Adaptability. And in certain cases… creativity."

  A faint pause there.

  Then her expression shifted — colder.

  "As for the rest of you," she continued, "reflect carefully on what was displayed here today and work towards improvement. Your station demands competence."

  Across the room, members of the last squad lowered their heads.

  No one laughed now.

  "I will see some of you later in private but now, I will announce the scores."

  I rubbed my hands together, smiling with all my teeth. We had outperformed everyone and the rest of our probationary period was going to be smooth sailing. With the way the day had started, it felt good to finally catch a break.

  A hologram pops up in her face and just as she begins to address it, she is interrupted.

  "Apologies for the interruption, sir," a voice said over the comms. "You have a priority message from Division Commander Lucas."

  The name drew subtle reactions across the room.

  Commander Lucas was the Civic order division commander. The man we would report to once probation ended. What did he want with Officer Bailey?

  She looked displeased. "Proceed, Smith."

  "He requests the immediate summon of Captain Aldrich."

  Primary combatant: A position in marshal squads with the priority role of handling combat scenarios and altercations.

  Excluding the squad leader, there are three positions in marshal squads filled by the other members. They are the primary combatants, artificers and medics. Each position is filled by two members each.