The hum of the engines droned endlessly as the military ship soared through the polluted sky. Inside, the atmosphere was tense. The boy with piercing green eyes sat motionless, his gaze fixed on the metal floor beneath him. Around him, the other children shifted uneasily in their seats. Some whimpered softly; others clenched their fists and stared defiantly ahead, but no one dared speak. The soldiers, clad in their black, faceless armor, stood at intervals along the cabin walls, their postures rigid and unyielding.
The journey seemed to stretch on forever, and the boy's thoughts wandered. He thought of the dumpyard, of the mountains of trash where he'd spent his short life scavenging for scraps. He thought of the other children, the ones who had managed to hide or run fast enough to escape. Was he unlucky to have been caught, or was this fate some kind of strange fortune? He didn't know.
The ship began its descent, the engines whining as it slowed. The lights inside the cabin flickered momentarily, and a soft mechanical voice announced their arrival. The children glanced at each other nervously, but the boy remained stoic, his expression unreadable.
The hatch opened with a hiss, and blinding white light poured into the cabin. One of the soldiers barked an order, and the children were unstrapped and herded out of the ship. They emerged onto a massive, sprawling compound surrounded by towering steel walls that stretched high into the sky. Watchtowers loomed in the distance, each manned by soldiers and bristling with weaponry.
The ground beneath their bare feet was hard-packed dirt, and the air was sharp and cold, stinging their lungs with every breath. Rows of barracks lined one side of the compound, their gray, utilitarian structures indistinguishable from one another. In the center of the camp stood a towering building, its sharp, angular architecture intimidating even from a distance.
A soldier gestured for the children to form a line, and they obeyed, their small frames trembling as they stood shoulder to shoulder.
"Welcome to the Forge," a voice boomed.
The children flinched and turned to see a figure approaching. He was tall and broad-shouldered, his face visible beneath the brim of a military cap. His sharp eyes scanned the line of children with a mixture of disdain and calculated interest. He wore a long coat over his uniform, the insignia on his chest denoting his rank as a high-ranking officer.
"My name is Commander Drakos," he said, his voice cold and clipped. "From this moment on, you belong to the empire. Your past lives are over. Whatever you were before—scavengers, orphans, street rats—it doesn't matter anymore. Here, you will become soldiers."
He began pacing in front of the line, his boots crunching against the dirt.
"This is the Forge, where we shape the empire's finest. You will eat, sleep, and train here until you are eighteen. Those who succeed will join the military ranks, earning glory and purpose. Those who fail…" He paused, his gaze lingering on a trembling child. "...will be discarded, like the trash you came from."
The boy with green eyes didn't flinch under the commander's scrutiny. Drakos noticed him and smirked faintly.
"You," Drakos said, pointing at him. "What's your name?"
The boy hesitated for a moment before answering, his voice steady despite the fear coursing through him.
"I don't have one."
Drakos raised an eyebrow but didn't press further. "No name? Very well. From now on, you are Cadet Seventeen."
Seventeen. A number. Stripped of even the identity of a name, the boy simply nodded, his defiance flickering like a candle in a storm.
The days in the Forge were grueling, beginning before dawn and stretching long into the night. Seventeen and the other children were assigned to barracks, their living quarters spartan and devoid of any comfort. Metal bunks with thin, scratchy blankets lined the walls, and a single dim bulb hung from the ceiling, casting harsh shadows across the room.
The mornings began with a blaring siren that jolted them from sleep. They had exactly five minutes to dress in their issued uniforms—plain gray jumpsuits—and assemble in the courtyard. Any delay was met with punishment, ranging from extra drills to public humiliation.
The training itself was relentless. Physical endurance was emphasized above all else; they ran laps around the compound until their legs gave out, lifted weights far too heavy for their small frames, and sparred with each other under the watchful eyes of their instructors.
"You are weak now," one instructor barked during a session. "But we will make you strong. Pain is your ally, exhaustion your teacher."
Seventeen excelled in the physical drills. His small stature and wiry frame gave him an edge in agility, and his sharp instincts helped him anticipate his opponent's moves during sparring sessions. The instructors took note of him, their comments clipped but approving.
"Seventeen, faster," one shouted during a run. And he obeyed, pushing himself harder, even as his lungs burned and his legs threatened to collapse.
But physical training was only one aspect of life in the Forge. The children were also subjected to rigorous academic lessons, their young minds crammed with knowledge of military strategy, weaponry, and empire history. They learned about the hierarchy of the military, the glory of serving the empire, and the shame of failure.
"Loyalty is your creed," a lecturer intoned during one session. "The empire is your family. Betrayal is death."
The boy listened carefully, absorbing every word. He had no family, no ties to the world outside these walls. If the empire was to be his new family, so be it.
The most harrowing lessons, however, were psychological. The instructors sought to break their spirits, to strip away any remnants of individuality or rebellion. They were subjected to hours of interrogation drills, forced to withstand simulated torture and manipulation.
"Pain is temporary," one instructor said as Seventeen endured a particularly brutal session. "Fear is an illusion. Overcome them, and you will be unstoppable."
Seventeen gritted his teeth and endured, his green eyes burning with a quiet determination.
Despite the harsh conditions, bonds began to form among the cadets. Seventeen found himself drawn to a girl named Twenty-One, a wiry, sharp-tongued girl with an uncanny ability to outthink their instructors during strategy drills.
"You're too quiet," she said one evening as they sat together after a grueling day.
"And you're too loud," Seventeen replied, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.
She grinned. "We'll make a good team, then."
Their friendship was a rare solace in the unforgiving environment of the Forge. But not all interactions were friendly. Seventeen quickly earned the ire of a boy named Nine, a burly, aggressive cadet who viewed him as a threat.
"You think you're better than me, Seventeen?" Nine sneered after losing a sparring match to him.
"I don't think about you at all," Seventeen replied coolly, earning himself a punch to the gut.