The recycled air pulsed with anticipation. The silence was interrupted only by the low, rhythmic voice of the recruits. The cavernous hall was filled with a chilling, unified chant.
"In stalwart silence, our hearts strong,
For Him, we heed the night's grim song,
The words rolled off our tongues, each syllable echoing off the steel walls.
Masters of evil, our souls bound,
To covenant's call, on sacred hallowed ground.
My throat was dry, but forced to stay steady, matching the cadence of my comrades, otherwise I'd probably end up like- actually I'd shouldn't think about that right now.
Unyielding in faith, at His every command,
In His name, like pillars we stand.
I've recited this chant hundreds before, but tonight... tonight it sounded different, there was a sombre tone amongst the crowd. It felt... final.
In Eternal's embrace, purpose we find,
For The Khan's reign, our hearts are enshrined."
My right fist slammed against my chest in unison with the others, the force making my ribs ache beneath the uniform's rigid fabric.
The final words rang in my ears, fading into silence, hanging in the air like dust.
I wondered what my purpose was. Maybe I knew months ago, back when I still believed I could leave this place alive or... unsullied.
We stood at attention in the hall, the walls tall and towering, eventually doming over our heads. Artificial bio-lamps illuminated the room. Many straight and disciplined lines of recruits were dressed in their formal garments: bottle-green dress uniforms, tight waists, stiff collars, black utility belts, and a badge of the Khan's crest. The room was as quiet as a crypt; not one dared to even cough.
The academy's banners hung above the metal stage, their deep crimson catching the bioluminescence, glowing like fresh blood. They were meant to inspire pride, honour, and above all, faith. but all I felt was the weight of potential failure pressing against my thorax.
The steel floor beneath my boots felt colder than usual, creeping up my garments and chilling my spine. Or maybe it was just my nerves, becoming more agitated every second longer I spent here. The light from the bio-lamps throbbed along the walls, their shadow casting what resembled a dancing spectre. Strangely, it reminded me of home
One by one, we were called up onto the stage for initiation. One disinterested face after the other - it was clear to me that none in the hall were volunteers. I doubted anyone in the room was above the age of sixteen. Whether they were lawbreakers, orphans, poor, or conscripted, the Yester academy did not discriminate.
A strange figure stood upon the stage, their stern and masked voice - a cold, muffled echo amplified by some artificial voice box- declared that they were the Regimental Sergeant Major. The title alone struck fear, but it was the mask that truly unnerved me. I couldn't quite see their face, hooded by a silken cloak, their mouth replaced by what seemed to be a metallic glint; wires, circuits, pipes, and strange technology embroidered onto the mask, connected and intertwined throughout its structure like blood-pumping veins. They wore a grand formal uniform, knee-high boots, tight belt equipped with the finest ushercomet peacemaker. Their chest heavy with a vast selection of badges, each one an unspoken record to deeds I wasn't sure I wanted to imagine. The aiguillette draped across their torso, glistening under the bio-lamps, but all I could think about was whether those decorations were earned through honour... or blood.
During the primary phase of Yester education, every rank, regiment, and all relevant information was taught to me, down to the smallest pieces of equipment crammed into my mind, and according to my knowledge, that mask was the infamous Bab Al-Hadeed, or in common tongue, Iron Door. The Bab Al-Hadeed was the life support system for the advanced Yester soldiers, pumping a synthetic, dense hydrogen respiratory gas as a substitute for oxygen. These yester were barely considered human anymore. To wear such a mask meant you survived the Yester trials: a series of brutal procedures and surgeries to successfully mutate the human body into a freak of nature. Cells morphed and rewired to change their function, muscle fibers reinforced and laced with galvanized metal and eyes... eyes torn from their sockets and replaced with biotech optical lenses.
It was a grim and cruel fate, knowing that these trials had a twelve percent success rate. My friends, allies, and rivals here at the academy were most likely going to die. And for me? it lingered in the back of my mind - the possibility that one day, I'd end up like-
"AREEF SPOT BLACK," boomed the strange figure on stage, interrupting my thoughts.
"STEP FORTH."
The strange figure's voice never failed to strike fear into our hearts, bouncing around the mechanical dome like ricocheting bullets. This was a graduation ceremony. Most of us were being called forth for our promotions from Areefs into Raqibs. For those who don't speak New-Gaetish, that's Corporals into Sergeants.
I never really knew much about Spot, but he was definitely dedicated. It was easy to tell just by looking at his focus while following the procedure—firm and formal marching to the stage, his salute, and even the way he took the blood pact.
"AREEF LUQA, LAEL-SON, LOT-SON," their voice thundered again while Spot paced off.
That's my name, I thought to myself as every adrenal gland boiled my blood and supercharged my heart rate.
It was never a particularly interesting name. No notable lineage, no respected name in the city to claim. Just the name of my father, Lael, and his father before him, Lot. Men who left nothing but their names. My father Lael was a simple aeromechanic living outside the Inner City, or so I've heard. I was born with nothing, that's why the academy means so much to me - it's my shot at becoming something more.
I stepped from the line, spine rigid, boots striking the floor with sharp 'thunks', tactical belt rattling. The silence swallowed everything.
Thunk... thunk... thunk...
The metal-plated stage groaned under my weight. I planted my feet firmly facing my fellow Areef. From up here, they looked smaller, but their expressions told another story. Looking down upon the straight, unfaltering lines of young men. Some focused, others already numb to the process, and the rest? You could see the fear in their eyes...
It was clear to most of us that we likely wouldn't make it out of the academy alive. And even if we did, we wouldn't be the same. I wondered where I fit amongst them, but I didn't linger on the thought. Not now.
Following procedure, I retrieved the khyber knife from its holster with my right hand, which at this point was slick with cold sweat. The blade caught the light as I pointed it out towards the crowd - a sign of respect but also a silent testament to the cause. The pointed edge embodied our unwavering resolve, honed to strike when ready. Trust was essential amongst the brotherhood, but even a comrade could falter. And when they did, we had to be ready - not just to stand together, but to defend against betrayal.
The blade was sleek and petite, more of a ceremonial weapon than a conventional one. Its handle was made of an dark ivory-like material with engravings representing our cause. The blade curved back like a scimitar, an infinitely sharp edge at the peak, able to pierce practically anything.
There is a rule amongst the Yester: you're not allowed to resheath your weapon unless it has tasted blood.
I placed my blade-gripping hand on my shoulder, saluting my comrades in the way we were taught - weapon in hand, as honour demanded. It would be considered disrespectful to salute otherwise. After a swift turn, I faced the Regimental Sergeant Major.
"Prove yourself, Areef. Are you unwavering? Are you faithful to your Khan?"
In a state I could only describe as 'agentic', without hesitation - because hesitation had no place here, not if I wanted to survive - I plunged the palm of my left hand into the tip of the knife, edge facing my fingers. The edge kissed my flesh, like butter, my hand glided down the blade, smearing my blood across like ink on a page. I didn't flinch. I couldn't afford to.
"Do you have what it takes? Will you pull the knife out and reveal your weakness...
or cut through your own hand and prove your faith?"
Peering across the crowd, I realised the number of eyes looking at me. All attention was on me. The silence stretched on as every eye in the hall awaited for my answer. My blood still dripping onto the blood, pooling around its edge. Regardless of the pain, a part of me understood what was at stake here.
My next decision would either forge me... or break me.