Veyor woke up inside a medical tent.

  At first, he didn’t understand where he was. The canvas ceiling above him sagged slightly, held up by metal frames that creaked whenever someone brushed past them. Dim white lights hung from temporary wiring, swaying faintly as if the air itself was unsteady. The smell hit him before clarity did—antiseptic mixed with sweat, smoke, blood, and something metallic that refused to fade.

  Pain came second.

  Not sharp, not immediate. It arrived like a weight settling into his bones. His chest felt tight. His limbs heavy. Every breath scraped through his lungs as if the air itself resisted him. He tried to move his fingers first. They obeyed, slowly, reluctantly.

  Around him, people lay on narrow cots placed too close together.

  Some were still. Completely still. Their chests rose and fell in shallow rhythms that looked fragile enough to stop at any moment. Others twitched, muttered, or laughed softly to themselves without opening their eyes. A few were awake—eyes wide, unfocused, staring at nothing in particular.

  One man near the far end of the tent kept whispering numbers under his breath, counting and recounting them, restarting whenever he reached a certain point. Another clawed at his own arm repeatedly, as if trying to peel something off that no one else could see.

  Veyor pushed himself up slightly.

  The motion sent a dull ache through his abdomen, but it was manageable. Manageable enough that it surprised him. He remembered the iron rod. The burning house. The feeling of bleeding out. This body should not have been capable of sitting up.

  Yet here he was.

  He scanned the tent for staff.

  There were none.

  No doctors moving between patients. No nurses checking vitals. No monitors beeping. No organized sense of care. Just rows of wounded people placed together under fabric walls, waiting.

  Waiting for what, he couldn’t tell.

  A man stumbled past the end of his cot, dragging one foot behind him. His uniform hung loosely on his frame, stained dark in places that had long since dried. He laughed suddenly, loudly, then stopped just as abruptly, as if someone had cut a wire inside him.

  Veyor swung his legs over the side of the cot.

  The ground beneath his feet was uneven, packed dirt covered with mats that had been thrown down without care. He stood slowly, testing his balance. His head spun for a moment, then steadied. His body felt… different. Stronger in some places. Lighter in others. He didn’t dwell on it.

  He made his way toward the tent flap.

  Each step hurt, but not enough to stop him. That, too, unsettled him. Pain should have been louder. More demanding. Instead, it felt distant, muted, as if his body had decided it was no longer worth prioritizing.

  Outside, the world greeted him with noise.

  Engines idled nearby. Voices overlapped. Orders were shouted, repeated, ignored. Floodlights cast harsh illumination across an open area filled with movement. Trucks lined one side of the field, their backs open, soldiers guiding people toward them with hurried gestures.

  The air smelled cleaner out here, but heavier somehow.

  A nurse rushed past him, her uniform stained and wrinkled, hair pulled back hastily. She was carrying a stack of folded bandages under one arm, already speaking to someone else before Veyor could fully turn toward her.

  “Hey—miss,” Veyor called out, his voice hoarse.

  She stopped only briefly, eyes scanning him in practiced assessment.

  “Hey, mister. You walking? You breathing?” she asked quickly.

  “Yes,” Veyor replied.

  “Then you’re fine. Go stand in that line near the truck,” she said, already turning away. “Don’t wander.”

  Before he could ask another question, she was gone.

  Veyor followed her gesture.

  People were being herded into loose lines, soldiers directing them without explanation. Some walked obediently. Others resisted weakly, confused or frightened. A few had to be physically supported, dragged toward the vehicles by soldiers who looked exhausted beyond words.

  No one explained where they were being taken.

  No one asked.

  Veyor fell into one of the lines.

  As they waited, he tried to speak to the man ahead of him.

  “Hey, sir,” Veyor said quietly. “Do you know where they’re taking us?”

  The man didn’t respond.

  He stared forward, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused. When Veyor repeated the question, the man flinched as if startled by sound itself, then turned away without speaking.

  The line moved.

  They weren’t loaded onto the trucks.

  Instead, they were guided past them, toward a wide open ground beyond the floodlights. The space stretched farther than Veyor expected, flat and barren, as if it had been cleared deliberately. At the far end stood two massive machines.

  They were tall, metallic structures with broad bases and upright frames. Thick cables ran from them into generators humming nearby. Each machine had an opening—wide and circular—like a mouth waiting to swallow something.

  Two lines formed naturally in front of them.

  Soldiers gestured for people to stand in place.

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  Veyor felt a tightening in his chest.

  “They’re examining something,” he thought.

  As the line inched forward, he studied the machines more closely. Small screens flickered on their sides. Sensors glowed faintly. The hum they produced wasn’t loud, but it was constant, vibrating just enough to be felt through the ground.

  He asked a man coming from the machine.

  “What are they doing?” Veyor asked.

  The man smiled immediately—too eagerly.

  “Oh, that?” he said, voice proud. “They’re checking what abilities you got. If you’re special like me, they’ll send you inside the borders. If not—” he laughed softly, “—they throw you outside to the beasts.”

  He puffed out his chest.

  “I got some cool abilities , you want to see?.”

  Veyor didn’t respond.

  The line moved again.

  One by one, people stepped into the machine’s range. The opening glowed faintly as sensors activated. A mechanical voice announced results, flat and emotionless.

  “Basic strength boost.”

  The person was escorted away, neither congratulated nor condemned.

  Another stepped forward.

  “Cognitive enhancement. Intelligence quotient increased.”

  A murmur rippled through the crowd.

  “Enhanced endurance.”

  “Stamina increase.”

  Several similar readings followed. Nothing dramatic. Nothing rare.

  Then—

  “Bone manipulation. A-rank ability.”

  The machine’s tone shifted. Alarms chimed briefly. Soldiers moved immediately, surrounding the individual and guiding him away with urgency. People watched in silence as a military vehicle pulled up to receive him.

  Tension rose.

  Whispers spread.

  Veyor’s turn came slowly.

  When he stepped forward, the machine’s sensors washed over him in cold, invisible passes. He felt a faint pressure in his head, chest, limbs—like being examined by something that could see far more than skin and bone.

  The machine spoke.

  “Heat resistance.”

  “Night vision.”

  “Enhanced strength.”

  “Enhanced endurance.”

  “Efficient breathing.”

  The operator glanced at the screen, unimpressed.

  “Man,” he muttered, loud enough for those nearby to hear, “talk about having so many abilities and all of them useless.”

  He laughed.

  No alarms sounded.

  No soldiers moved toward Veyor.

  He was directed aside, toward a growing group of others with similar results. Muscle-heavy bodies. Survivors with reinforced endurance, strength, resilience—but nothing deemed special.

  As time passed, it became clear.

  Only a handful had truly rare abilities.

  The rest were categorized, divided, and redirected. Those with heightened intelligence were escorted elsewhere. Those with specialized abilities disappeared into vehicles and tents beyond sight.

  Veyor’s group remained.

  They stood in an open field as daylight faded, floodlights flickering on as the sky darkened. No one spoke much. Fatigue pressed down heavily. Confusion lingered, unresolved.

  And then, finally—

  A convoy arrived.

  Engines cut.

  Boots hit the ground in unison.

  A figure stepped forward.

  The military general of Valendor had arrived.

  General Noris Solthane.

  He did not rush forward. He did not scan the crowd nervously or speak to his aides. He stepped into the open space calmly, as though the chaos surrounding them belonged to a different world entirely.

  He was tall, broad-shouldered, his posture rigid without being stiff. His uniform was immaculate—unburned, unstained, pressed so sharply it looked untouched by the collapse that had consumed everything else. Medals lined his chest, not excessively, but enough to make their weight obvious.

  His face was composed.

  Not cold. Not cruel.

  Controlled.

  Veyor felt his breath catch slightly.

  He remembered Noris Solthane well.

  Not personally—but as an image. A figure from broadcasts, from military parades, from speeches played endlessly during the war years. Noris was known as a strategist who did not raise his voice unless necessary, a commander who did not waste lives carelessly, and a man who never promised victories he could not secure.

  He was also known as the brother of Verix Solthane, the President of Valendor.

  Where Verix was political and measured, Noris was direct. Where one negotiated, the other enforced. Together, they represented authority in its two most dangerous forms.

  As Noris stepped forward, something subtle happened.

  Everyone stood straighter.

  Former soldiers snapped into attention without thinking. Civilians followed suit awkwardly, copying the posture as if muscle memory could be borrowed through observation. Even those who had never worn a uniform felt compelled to show respect.

  Noris stopped at the center of the ground.

  He surveyed the crowd slowly.

  Not with suspicion. Not with pity.

  With assessment.

  These were not civilians anymore. They were not soldiers either. They were something in between—survivors who had been filtered by chance and biology rather than training.

  Noris accepted a microphone from an aide.

  When he spoke, his voice carried easily across the field without amplification.

  “Valendor was already bleeding from war,” he began. “Now we suffer a plague far more dangerous than anything we have faced before.”

  He paused, allowing the words to settle.

  “Nearly ninety percent of the world did not survive what happened,” he continued. “And this is only the beginning. If we do nothing, those numbers will fall even further.”

  Murmurs rippled through the crowd.

  Noris raised a hand slightly—not to silence them, but to acknowledge their fear.

  “Beasts roam freely now,” he said. “Creatures that were once animals have grown stronger, smarter, and deadlier. Cities are no longer safe by default. Roads are no longer neutral ground. Nature has reclaimed authority.”

  His gaze hardened slightly.

  “And it will not stop on its own.”

  He stepped forward one pace.

  “You are standing here because you survived,” he said. “Not because you are chosen. Not because you are special in the way stories make heroes special.”

  That line cut deeper than comfort ever could.

  “You cannot throw fireballs. You cannot freeze armies. You cannot bend reality.”

  Some faces tightened. Others lowered their eyes.

  “But you lived,” Noris continued. “And that alone places you ahead of the millions who did not.”

  His voice rose just enough to carry conviction.

  “Survival is not weakness. It is qualification.”

  The crowd quieted completely.

  Noris turned slightly, gesturing toward the direction of the fortified borders beyond the camp.

  “Inside the borders,” he said, “you will be safe—for now. But safety comes at a cost.”

  His tone hardened.

  “You will work. You will obey. You will labor until your body breaks again. You will not question orders. You will not choose your future.”

  “They will make you slaves”

  A ripple of unease moved through the group.

  “You will rebuild cities you may never live in,” Noris said. “You will farm land you may never own. And when your usefulness ends, you will be replaced.”

  A voice rose from the crowd, shaky and bitter.

  “Why do we have to do this? Where is the military?” someone shouted.

  Noris didn’t hesitate. “As we estimated, Ninety percent of the population is gone,” he said. “And the military… was made of people too.”

  Silence followed Noris’s reply.

  “So what choice do we have, General?” someone from the front said.

  Noris turned toward the speaker.

  “You have two,” he said calmly.

  He raised one finger.

  “You go inside the borders.”

  Then another.

  “Or you come with me.”

  Silence.

  “Those who come with me,” Noris continued, “will be sent beyond secured zones. You will fight. You will clear land. You will secure territory. You will face creatures stronger than you, smarter than you, and more adapted to this world than you are.”

  Some people swallowed hard.

  “You will not be protected,” Noris said. “You will not be rescued if you fall. You will not be mourned if you disappear.”

  Then, after a pause:

  “But if you survive… you will return as war heroes.”

  The word landed heavily.

  “You will earn land. Status. Authority. You will reclaim what you lost—and take more.”

  Anger flared suddenly from the crowd.

  “What about those with special abilities?” someone shouted. “Send them instead! They’re stronger!”

  Noris’s expression sharpened.

  “Send them where?” he snapped. “To die without understanding what they can do?”

  His voice rose, sharp and commanding.

  “They are being trained. They are being prepared. Six months from now, they will take over operations. When that happens, you will be relieved.”

  A bitter laugh echoed somewhere.

  “So we’re disposable.”

  Noris did not deny it.

  “Everyone is,” he said flatly. “Especially in hard times.”

  The honesty stung more than comfort ever could.

  A long silence followed.

  No one argued further.

  Because there was nothing left to argue.

  “Fine,” Noris said. “You will be divided into teams of fifteen. Based on compatibility. You will receive targets—locations to secure, routes to clear, zones to reclaim.”

  He lowered the microphone.

  “For tonight, you rest,” he said. “Tomorrow, you will be informed of your assignments.”

  Noris stepped back.

  The speech was over.

  And with it, the illusion of choice.