Morning comes with the hiss of pipes and the soft clang of someone dropping soap.

  Jun-Tao is already awake when Wei swings his legs off the bunk. The others follow in uneven sequence, drawn toward the shower room by habit more than love of hygiene.

  For a moment he wants to talk with one of the other boys, maybe about something inane like the clock he had back at Tikograd that played the jingles his father helped him add to its programming.

  He suppresses this instinct.

  Inside, the tiled walls glow pale under overhead strips, and water begins running in short bursts.

  Han claims the far stall without looking back, moving as though the space belongs to him by default. The boy who laughed loudest yesterday—Qin, if Jun-Tao remembers correctly—falls in beside him immediately. Others drift into place in a loose pattern that feels deliberate.

  Wei cuts off one of the other boys and chooses a stall closer to the center.

  Jun-Tao notices the difference instantly, recognizing that something will happen now. So does the other boy, because he lets it pass without saying anything.

  Steam thickens. Conversations begin in fragments.

  "Yangtze placements are competitive," Han says through the thin partition. His tone carries easily. "My uncle says technical tracks are already half filled before the tests." This isn't the first time he has mentioned his uncle.

  Qin answers quickly. "You'll be fine."

  Wei's voice cuts across from two stalls down.

  "Placements aren't decided by uncles."

  A pause. Water continues to strike metal trays in steady rhythm.

  Han's reply is light, almost amused. "Of course not. They're decided by performance."

  Did the teenager just deescalate? Jun-Tao nearly lets the soap drop.

  "Good," Wei says. "Then we'll see."

  The exchange is mild on its surface.

  Han tries again, tone sharpening by a fraction. "Performance matters more when someone doesn't already have expectations attached."

  "That sounds useful," Wei answers. "Less pressure."

  A soft snort from Qin.

  Han turns his head slightly; Jun-Tao can picture the movement without seeing it. "Pressure makes not only diamonds but also cracks."

  "Some of us are already diamonds," Wei replies.

  They sound like telenovela actors, Jun-Tao thinks, pausing between lines so the invisible audience can lean forward. Each sentence arrives polished, weighted, delivered as if someone offstage is judging diction and posture. Pressure makes diamonds. Or cracks. The rhythm is almost theatrical. He half expects dramatic music to rise from the drains.

  This is what the Confederation's schools produce.

  Speak only when you have something worth hearing, they say. In practice, that means praise directed upward, or statements trimmed so carefully that no one can seize them and twist them. And when conflict finally surfaces, it follows this same pattern—short, measured lines sharpened for public consumption. The few fights he saw in elementary school were never loud, he realizes. They were like this. Controlled. Formal. Brutal in their precision. He thinks back to when a boy got his finger bitten off. Very brutal.

  A few seconds pass as the steam thickens.

  Jun-Tao admires the structure forming in real time. Han holds a visible leadership position. Wei circumvents him by building sideways, not upward. He asks questions, answers without flinching, and doesn't accept the common narrative.

  The others begin waiting for Wei as if he is in the same role as Han.

  There can be only one, Jun-Tao thinks, and quietly snorts.

  That is the shift.

  Han notices someone snorting but apparently either doesn't know who it was or thinks using a faceless nobody is better than calling Jun-Tao out.

  "Some of us," Han continues, "don't need to impress everyone. Some of us are already positioned."

  Wei rinses shampoo from his hair. "Positioned where?"

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  A beat.

  "Higher," Qin supplies for Han, thereby cementing his place.

  Wei's tone does not change. "Higher than who?"

  No one answers immediately. Saying something against the Collective would be incredibly dumb; even the Chancellor is 'part' of it, after all.

  Han steps out of his stall first. Water drips from his shoulders. He does not reach for his towel immediately.

  "Be careful," Han says to Wei, his voice no longer playful. "You talk like someone who thinks he belongs at the top."

  Wei steps out as well, slower. He wraps a towel around his waist with deliberate care.

  "I talk like someone who plans to work," he says.

  "Work doesn't outrank blood," Qin mutters.

  Wei looks at him then, not at Han. "We're not on Liao yet."

  The words hang.

  Jun-Tao feels the mood change in the room.

  Han takes one step forward.

  Not enough to touch. Enough to establish space.

  "You're playing stupid games," Han says quietly. "You think I don't see it?"

  Wei's shoulders remain relaxed. "I'm talking."

  "About what?" Han asks.

  "About lessons. About Yangtze. About what comes next."

  "With them?" Han gestures faintly toward the others. "You think they care about words?"

  The quiet boy at the sinks straightens slightly.

  Wei answers without raising his voice. "We're all in the same room."

  Another step.

  This time it is not subtle.

  Jun-Tao studies the geometry of the space. Han has height and reach. Wei is too relaxed to react quickly if he swings. Qin shifts as if ready to intervene on Han's behalf by 'stopping him from punching more than once.'

  The door slides open.

  Caretaker Luo does not raise his voice.

  "Enough," he says.

  Han steps back first.

  Wei follows a fraction of a second later.

  The dog does not disobey the master.

  Luo surveys them without expression. "You will have ample opportunity to test yourselves today."

  His gaze lingers on Han, then on Wei.

  "In lessons," he adds.

  The implication is clear.

  If you must compete, do so where it can be measured.

  Silence returns, not comfortable but contained.

  "Five minutes," Luo says. "Dress."

  Water shuts off in quick succession.

  Han retrieves his towel without further comment. Wei avoids eye contact but does not lower his chin.

  The other boys pretend to focus on soap and lockers, yet every movement slows by a fraction. No one speaks.

  Han seeks dominance by relying on visible structure. Wei builds through conversation and refusal to yield. He uses the natural inclination of every Capellan to ensure that the person on top keeps being challenged, so the focus remains on one and not all of them.

  Both are rational and dangerous in different ways.

  Truly the products of the society they grew up in, Jun-Tao thinks, and tries to stay inconspicuous. There is no advantage in choosing sides prematurely, or at all.

  They dress in issued clothes, just like yesterday.

  As they file toward a different room than yesterday, Han moves first again. Wei does not rush to follow.

  Caretaker Luo walks in front of them.

  The room has no windows. The walls are bare composite, scuffed at shoulder height. Mats cover the floor in interlocking squares, their surfaces worn smooth by years of impact. Along the borders of several mats, the stylized crest of House Liao has been pressed into the material in dark green—subtle, but unmistakable.

  Instructor Liao stands at the center as if the room were arranged for him. It probably was.

  A soldier flanks him, naval infantry by the cut of his uniform. Sleeves rolled up and hands clasped behind his back.

  Liao surveys the boys before speaking.

  "Caretaker Luo has informed me," he says evenly, "that you possess more energy this morning than is productive for written evaluation."

  A faint pause.

  "We will therefore continue your academic assessments after physical instruction."

  No one reacts outwardly, but Han's shoulders settle with quiet satisfaction. Wei's gaze sharpens, calculating.

  Liao folds his hands behind his back.

  "You will remove your shoes before stepping onto the mats. Dirt remains outside. Discipline begins with small acts."

  The boys comply immediately.

  Shoes line the wall in uneven rows. Han places his pair with careful precision, as does Wei. Jun-Tao aligns his neatly, toes toward the door.

  "The mat," Liao continues, "is a place of Martial Excellence. You step onto it with respect and leave it improved."

  They step forward barefoot.

  The crest of House Liao presses faintly beneath their soles.

  "Line up."

  They form a row at the edge of the training area.

  "Bow."

  They bow toward the center, then toward Instructor Liao.

  "This is assessment," Liao says. "Not performance. You will demonstrate coordination, balance, reaction time, and endurance."

  The soldier moves forward.

  Han steps first.

  His stance is practiced. Strikes are straight, transitions deliberate. When the soldier tests his guard, Han absorbs the motion without losing posture.

  "Good foundation," Liao remarks. "Your family invested wisely."

  Han's chin lifts a fraction.

  Wei follows.

  His movements lack Han's polish but contain fluidity. When the soldier feints unexpectedly, Wei adapts quickly, shifting weight instead of freezing.

  "Adaptability," Liao says. "But refinement must follow."

  Wei nods once.

  The others cycle through.

  One boy relies on strength and finds himself redirected cleanly to the mat.

  "Force without structure is wasteful," Liao observes.

  Jun-Tao is called last.

  He bows and steps forward, feeling the faint give of the mat beneath him.

  He mirrors the sequence he observed.

  It lacks fluidity, and he hesitates to follow up when the soldier leaves himself clearly open.

  "Commit," the soldier instructs.

  Jun-Tao increases force. His center tilts too far forward. The soldier steps inside his guard and shifts him off balance. Jun-Tao stumbles, regains footing, continues.

  Again.

  The pace increases. His breath shortens. His arms grow heavy sooner than expected. A final redirection sends him briefly to one knee.

  He rises immediately and returns to the stance.

  Instructor Liao approaches.

  "You lack conditioning," he says without disdain. "This is correctable. Discipline applied daily alters the body."

  "Yes, Instructor."

  "Strength without thought is crude," Liao continues. "Thought without strength is wasteful. The Confederation requires both."

  Jun-Tao inclines his head.

  Paired drills follow. Jun-Tao is matched with the quiet boy from the sinks. Height and stamina favor the other. Jun-Tao compensates with angle and leverage. It works once because the other boy didn't expect it.

  Sweat darkens identical shirts.

  At the end, Liao raises his hand.

  "Shoes."

  They step off the mats before retrieving them.

  "We will return to the written assessment," he says. "Energy should now be appropriately directed."

  His gaze flicks briefly over all the boys.

  "Remember," he adds, "Martial Excellence requieres discipline. Without discipline, ambition consumes itself."