Afternoon brought psychological evaluation, individual sessions with academy counselors trained to identify instability, trauma responses, and psychological contraindications to neural bonding. Valoris sat in an uncomfortable chair across from Dr. Meris (gentle voice, sharp eyes, the kind of person who noticed everything and revealed nothing) and answered questions designed to probe her mental stability.

  "How do you feel about the possibility of failure?"

  Terrified. Crushed by it. Five generations of success and I could be the one who breaks the line.

  "Concerned but prepared," Valoris said. "Failure is a possibility I've accepted as part of this commitment."

  "And if you succeed? If you summon and bond and deploy… how do you feel about killing entities?"

  I don't know. No one knows until they've done it. My grandmother says the first one changes you permanently.

  "I understand it's necessary. Part of the role. Something I'm prepared to do if required."

  "But not something you're eager to do."

  Valoris met her eyes directly. "Should I be eager to kill things?"

  Dr. Meris made notes without answering. "Tell me about your family. Your relationship with the Kade legacy."

  And there it was, the real assessment. Not whether Valoris was stable, but whether she was stable enough given the weight she carried.

  "My family expects excellence," Valoris said carefully. "Five generations of successful pilots. I'm... aware of that expectation."

  "And how does that awareness affect your mental state?"

  It crushes me. It defines me. It makes me question everything I do because nothing feels like my own choice.

  "It provides motivation," Valoris said. "And context for understanding what's required."

  "Do you want to be here, Valoris? Or do you want to meet expectations?"

  The question landed like a physical blow. Valoris felt her throat tighten, her carefully maintained composure fracturing under gentle pressure.

  "I..." She stopped. Started again. "I chose to come here. That matters."

  "Does it? Did you really have a choice, or did you just make the only decision that felt possible given your circumstances?"

  Valoris didn't answer. Couldn't answer. Because the question had teeth, and its bite drew blood from assumptions she hadn't examined closely enough.

  Dr. Meris made more notes. "You're cleared for continued training. But Valoris…" She looked up, expression softer now. "Pay attention to why you're doing this. Not what your family expects. Not what the academy requires. Why you're here. Because if you don't know, the training will break you trying to find out."

  Dismissed.

  Valoris walked back to the barracks in a daze, Dr. Meris's question echoing in her skull. Did you really have a choice?

  She'd thought she did. Standing in the hall of mechs, telling her grandmother she was choosing this on her own terms. But was that truth or just a story she'd told herself to make the inevitable feel like agency?

  Pay attention to why you're doing this.

  She would. Later. When she had time to think about anything beyond surviving the next assessment.

  Dimensional sensitivity testing came last, and it broke people in ways the physical assessments hadn't.

  They filed into meditation chambers; small rooms, padded walls, adjustable lighting. Twenty students at a time, instructors monitoring through observation windows, safety protocols active in case anyone's consciousness went somewhere it couldn't return from.

  "Sit," Instructor Davis said over the intercom. "Center yourselves. When ready, reach for the dimensional boundary. Don't try to cross. Just touch it. Feel its presence. Maintain contact for sixty seconds. If you can't find the boundary or can't maintain contact, you'll be dismissed for insufficient sensitivity. Begin."

  Valoris had done this during intake. She knew what to expect; the vast cold presence, the sense of something infinite pressing against reality from impossible angles. She could do this.

  She closed her eyes. Breathed. Centered.

  Reached.

  There.

  The boundary responded to her attention, orienting toward her consciousness like a predator tracking movement. Not hostile. Not friendly. Just aware that something had touched it.

  She held contact. Let the boundary know she was present. Felt the infinite weight of it pressing back against her awareness.

  Sixty seconds. She could–

  Screaming erupted from somewhere to her left.

  Valoris's concentration fractured. She pulled back instinctively, consciousness snapping back to her body. Eyes open, heart racing, looking for the source–

  A boy two chambers down was thrashing in his seat, hands pressed to his head, sounds tearing from his throat that weren't quite words. Instructors flooded into his chamber immediately, medical staff appearing with the same practiced efficiency they'd brought to the running casualties.

  "Consciousness breach. Extraction required. Sedate and transport to medical."

  They pulled him out still screaming. His eyes had gone distant, looking at something no one else could see. Looking at something that shouldn't be looked at.

  The remaining students sat frozen, meditation shattered, all of them processing the same thought: That could have been me.

  "Continue," Davis said over the intercom, voice unchanged. "You have fifty seconds remaining. Those who cannot maintain contact after witnessing disturbance lack the psychological resilience required for bonding."

  Cold. Clinical. True.

  Valoris closed her eyes again, tried to recapture the meditative state, reached for the boundary with hands that shook slightly…

  There. Still there. Still waiting.

  She touched it. Held contact. Let the screaming fade into background noise. This was what pilots did: maintained focus when everything around them was chaos, held their consciousness together when other people were shattering.

  Sixty seconds passed. The boundary released her without resistance.

  "Acceptable performance," Davis said. "Maintain current sensitivity levels through regular practice. Dismissed."

  Valoris emerged from her chamber to find other students doing the same; some steady, some shaking, all of them marked by having witnessed someone's mind break from touching something it couldn't comprehend.

  Quinn was last out, moving with their characteristic precision. They'd maintained contact perfectly, Valoris realized. No visible struggle, no disturbance, just clean execution.

  "How many?" someone asked as they filed toward the exit.

  "From our session?" Davis consulted his tablet. "Three failed to find the boundary. Two couldn't maintain contact. One suffered consciousness breach. Six of twenty dismissed."

  Thirty percent. Thirty percent from a single meditation session.

  The numbers were adding up.

  By 18:00, when they assembled for evening formation, Pod K had lost six students from the original twenty.

  Chen Mei: physical inadequacy. Marcus Webb: physical inadequacy. Tatiana Chekov: academic failure (couldn't meet minimum score requirements). Daniel Reeves: combat assessment failure. Sarah Kim: insufficient dimensional sensitivity. James O’Reilly: consciousness breach during meditation.

  Fourteen remained. Fourteen people who'd survived the first cull, who'd demonstrated sufficient capability across multiple vectors, who would wake tomorrow and do it all again.

  They stood in formation outside the barracks, exhausted and marked by the day's assessments. Bruises from combat training. Trembling legs from the morning run. Minds still processing what they'd seen during meditation. But standing. Together. Still here.

  You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

  The evening sky showed the dimensional rift's glow, a constant reminder of why they were here, why this mattered, why inadequacy meant dismissal. Above them, a display screen showed the day's statistics: DAY ONE COMPLETE. 523 CANDIDATES BEGAN. 488 REMAIN. YOU ARE THE DEFENDERS. YOU ARE THE FUTURE. YOU ARE HUMANITY'S SHIELD.

  Instructor Davis reviewed daily performance metrics. "Acceptable first-day attrition. Physical conditioning, combat fundamentals, academic assessment, psychological evaluation, and dimensional sensitivity testing complete. Pod K current composition: fourteen active students. Tomorrow you begin actual training. Today was merely baseline establishment."

  Merely baseline. Six people gone and it was merely baseline.

  "You are dismissed to barracks. Lights out at 22:00. Reveille at 05:00. Questions?"

  No one had questions. They were too tired for questions.

  "Dismissed."

  They filed into the barracks that now felt different; emptier, quieter, marked by absence. Six bunks would remain empty tonight. Six people who'd arrived yesterday morning full of hope or fear or determination, now processing dismissal paperwork and trying to figure out what came next.

  Valoris claimed her bunk and lay there without bothering to change, too exhausted to care about regulation sleep attire. Around her, Pod K moved through evening routines with mechanical efficiency; some changing, some just collapsing onto their bunks still dressed, all of them processing the day in their own ways.

  The evening message played softly through mounted speakers: "You survived today. Tomorrow, you'll survive again. Each day you endure, humanity grows stronger. Sleep well, future defenders. The rift never sleeps, but you must."

  Kaito and his remaining core group (down from four to three) talked quietly near the windows. Making sense of losses, probably. Trying to understand why some people had washed out and others hadn't.

  The scholarship students (down from three to two) sat together at the central table, sharing protein bars and comparing notes on the day's assessments. The girl who'd been crying during academic testing was gone. The remaining two had that hard-eyed look that came from watching someone fail and being grimly relieved it wasn't you.

  Quinn stood in the center of the common area, counting something silently. They'd changed into sleep clothes at some point, but the counting apparently took priority over actual sleep.

  Zee emerged from the bathroom and paused, surveying the depleted barracks with professional assessment. Her eyes found Valoris's across the space. Some unspoken communication passed between them: acknowledgment of survival, maybe, or recognition that they'd both performed adequately enough to last another day.

  "Brutal day," someone said finally. One of the scholarship students. "Lost Chen Mei on the run. Thought she had it."

  "Should have trained harder," his companion said flatly. "No one makes it on sympathy."

  "She was crying when they pulled her. Said she'd promised her family she'd make it."

  "Promises don't mean shit if your body gives out."

  Harsh. True. The kind of cold calculation that kept you focused on surviving rather than grieving.

  Near the windows, one of Kaito's group – Sable Vex – spoke quietly. "James is in medical. They're saying consciousness breach. That he touched something during meditation and couldn't pull back. That he's still... somewhere else. Partially."

  "They can fix that, right?" Kaito's voice carried concern that sounded genuine. "Pull him back, reverse the contamination?"

  "I don't know. Maybe. If he's lucky."

  If he was lucky. If his consciousness hadn't been damaged too badly by brushing against something vast and incomprehensible. If the dimensional contamination could be reversed. If, if, if.

  "Six gone," Zee said from near the door, addressing the barracks as a whole. "Day one. Forty percent washout rate means we'll lose maybe two hundred and ten students total over four years. We lost six today. Pod K's attrition is right on schedule."

  "Thanks for the encouraging mathematics," someone muttered.

  "You want encouragement, watch propaganda vids. You want survival, pay attention to numbers." Zee's tone carried no malice, just matter-of-fact assessment. "Six gone means fourteen of us made it. That's not nothing. That's us being good enough to last another day."

  Silence settled over the barracks, not comfortable, just everyone processing the day through their own frameworks.

  Finally, Valoris sat up. "We should eat something. I know mess hall closed at 19:00, but there's emergency rations in the common area storage. Basic nutrition. We burned a lot of calories today."

  "The legacy kid's right," one of the scholarship students said. "Can't train on empty stomachs."

  They gathered near the central table in ones and twos, not everyone, but most. The ones who recognized that Pod K had become something different today. Not friends. Not squad-mates yet. But survivors who'd endured the same gauntlet and come through bloodied but standing.

  Emergency rations were precisely as appetizing as expected. Protein bars that tasted like cardboard, electrolyte powder that mixed into something allegedly drinkable, supplements designed for efficiency rather than pleasure. They ate mechanically, refueling bodies that had been pushed past comfortable limits.

  "Combat training was humiliating," Kaito said through a mouthful of protein bar. "Got thrown on my ass six times in five minutes. My ego's more bruised than my back."

  "Your back is very bruised," Sable observed quietly. "Saw you wince when you sat down."

  "My ego is more bruised. I'm prioritizing injuries correctly."

  Someone laughed, brief, exhausted, but genuine. The tension broke slightly.

  "I thought academic testing was going to be the hard part," one of the scholarship students said. "Figured I'd struggle there, do well physically. Turned out backward. Aced academics, nearly died on the run."

  "What's your background?" Valoris asked.

  "Mining colony. Outer territories. Spent my childhood in processing plants and textbook study groups. Got real good at memorizing material and real bad at cardiovascular endurance." He shrugged. "Turns out piloting requires both."

  "We'll balance each other," Zee said. "Those of us who struggle physically can improve with training. Those who struggle academically can study together. That's what pods are for, covering each other's weaknesses until individual capability improves."

  "Pods are temporary," someone pointed out. "Two weeks until permanent squad assignments."

  "Two weeks is enough time to not die of stupidity." Zee's tone suggested this was obvious. "After that, permanent squads continue covering weaknesses. Just with different people."

  It made sense. Cold tactical sense; forming temporary alliances based on mutual benefit, sharing resources until the academy sorted them into permanent configurations. Not friendship. Survival strategy.

  But sitting there together, eating terrible food and sharing the day's horrors, Valoris felt something shifting. Not bond, exactly. But recognition. These thirteen people (plus herself, fourteen total) had survived what six others hadn't. They'd endured the first cull together. That meant something, even if she couldn't articulate what.

  Quinn approached the table cautiously, holding an unopened protein bar and looking uncertain about joining. Zee gestured to an empty chair without ceremony.

  "Sit. Eat. You earned it."

  Quinn sat with precise movements, opened the protein bar with geometric efficiency, and consumed exactly one-third before pausing. "We lost thirty percent. Academy average was under six. Either we're worse than other pods, or they made our assessments harder."

  "Or we just had bad luck," Kaito said.

  "Maybe." Quinn didn't sound convinced. "Hard to know without more data."

  More laughter. Exhausted but present.

  They talked for another thirty minutes, not about anything significant, just processing the day through shared experience. Who'd struggled where. What tomorrow might bring. Whether the combat training would get worse (unanimous consensus: yes) or whether they'd adapt quickly enough to avoid complete humiliation (opinions varied).

  At 21:30, Zee stood. "Lights out in thirty minutes. We should sleep."

  "Should," someone agreed. "Probably won't."

  But they dispersed anyway, moving back to individual bunks, preparing for sleep that would come grudgingly if it came at all.

  Valoris changed into regulation sleep clothes, checked her alarm (triple-checked, paranoid about missing wake-up), and lay in her bunk staring at the ceiling. Her body hurt everywhere. Her mind wouldn't quiet. And somewhere in the complex web of assessment metrics and performance data, the academy was calculating whether she was good enough.

  Physical conditioning: adequate but not exceptional. She'd finished the run within tolerance but struggled. Could improve with training.

  Combat fundamentals: weak. She'd been thrown repeatedly, failed to adapt, demonstrated theoretical knowledge without practical application. Needed significant improvement.

  Academic assessment: strong. Top five percent of her testing group. Family preparation paying dividends.

  Psychological evaluation: cleared but flagged. Dr. Meris had noted something – pay attention to why you're doing this – that suggested concerns about motivation or stability or something Valoris couldn't quite name.

  Dimensional sensitivity: adequate. She'd maintained contact, demonstrated baseline capability, survived witnessing someone else's consciousness break. Good enough to continue.

  Overall assessment: marginal. She was surviving, but not thriving. Good at some things, struggling at others. The kind of candidate who might make it or might wash out depending on how quickly she improved in her weak areas.

  Forty percent won't make it.

  She'd survived day one. Tomorrow would be day two. Then three. Then four. Then week two, three, four. Then summoning day at the end of year two, if she lasted that long.

  So many opportunities to fail.

  So many chances to become another empty bunk, another casualty report, another name that other students would reference when calculating their own odds.

  But she'd made it through day one. That counted for something.

  Across the barracks, fourteen students settled into restless sleep. Fourteen people who'd proven they could survive baseline assessment. Who'd watched others fail and been grimly grateful it wasn't them. Who'd formed the beginnings of something that might become Pod K solidarity if they survived long enough.

  The final evening message played softly, almost subliminal: "You are defenders. You are protectors. You are the shield between humanity and extinction. Sleep knowing your sacrifice matters. Sleep knowing you serve with purpose. Sleep knowing you are enough."

  Outside, the dimensional rift pulsed with the kind of energy that made Valoris's teeth ache even through reinforced walls. Reality bending. Entities pressing against the boundary from the other side. The eternal pressure that justified everything the academy did, everything pilots became, everything the next four years would cost.

  Someone has to, her grandmother had said. Because if we don't, billions die.

  Valoris closed her eyes and tried not to think about Chen Mei crying as instructors dismissed her, or James O’Reilly’s distant eyes as they extracted him from the meditation chamber, or the other four who'd washed out for various inadequacies.

  She tried to think about surviving tomorrow.

  About the thirteen other people in this barracks who were trying to do the same thing.

  About becoming good enough to last another day, and another, and another, until the days added up to weeks and the weeks to years and she became what the academy needed her to be.

  If she survived that long.

  If.

  Sleep came slowly, reluctantly, and brought dreams of running endless distances while reality bent around her, of touching something infinite that looked back and found her wanting, of standing in empty mech bays while forty-two feet of cobalt and silver judged her across the space.

  She woke at 04:45 to her alarm's scream and the pre-dawn message: "Another day begins. Another chance to prove yourself worthy. Rise, future defender. Humanity needs you."

  Day two began.