Across Planet Arken, the academies entered the same suspended state.In Thalara, Myrien, Kharadon, and dozens of other military institutions scattered across continents, skies, and orbital rings, students were ordered to assemble within their respective academies. Some stood in ceremonial halls, others in training yards or command amphitheaters, but the atmosphere everywhere was identical—tense, quiet, expectant.The Frontier Examination had ended.What remained was judgment.In Thalara Academy’s central hall, rows of students stood in disciplined formation beneath towering pillars etched with martial runes. The air hummed faintly with magic as personal communication artifacts activated in unison, awaiting sealed directives from the United Ministry of Education of Arken.This was not a graduation.It was a sorting.A wide projection unfolded above them, displaying the sigil of the Ministry—simple, authoritative, indisputable. The voice that followed was calm, devoid of emotion, as if

The Crowne estate was unusually restless that night.Not with panic.With calculation.In a secured council chamber deep within the estate, the elders of House Crowne had gathered—men whose names alone once carried weight across Thalara and beyond.Magnus Crowne stood by the window, arms crossed behind his back, staring out at the city lights. Garrick Crowne sat at the long table, fingers drumming softly against polished stone. Several other senior relatives occupied the remaining seats, their expressions grim.“No precedent,” one of them said flatly. “None.”Magnus turned. “Say it again.”“There has never been a newly graduated cadet placed directly into that sector,” the elder repeated. “Outer Defense Command—Recon and Support Wing. That posting is designed for attrition. For expendables. For officers the system is prepared to lose.”Silence followed.Garrick’s jaw tightened. “It’s a setup.”“It’s worse than that,” Magnus replied. “It’s a message.”They all knew what that message wa

The Outer Defense Station loomed like a scar carved into the edge of civilization.Its metallic hull was darkened by repeated repairs, layers of scorched plating overlapping like old wounds that had never fully healed. Defensive cannons lined the outer ring, some active, some permanently sealed after damage too severe to justify replacement. Beyond the station stretched the void of the frontier—an endless expanse where beast incursions were not a question of if, but when.This was not where glory was earned.This was where mistakes were buried.The transport carrying the newly assigned cadets docked with a heavy mechanical thud. Airlocks hissed open, releasing the smell of cold metal, oil, and recycled air tinged faintly with blood.Ronan Crowne stepped out with the others, his expression calm, posture steady.Almost immediately, eyes turned.Not with curiosity.With judgment.A group of stationed officers stood near the intake platform, uniforms marked with the insignia of the Recon

The Tactical Simulation Hall of the Outer Frontier Recon and Support Wing was designed to intimidate even seasoned officers.The central platform hovered half a meter above the ground, lifted by psionic suspension, rotating slowly like a compass that never stopped recalibrating.A tactical aide from the Ministry of Education initiated the session with a pulse of essence into the floor-crystal, causing the arena to brighten. Holo-projections surged upward in translucent layers, forming a multi-dimensional terrain grid.The model stabilized into the familiar Outer Frontier Grid Delta-Seven, then expanded further outward into a more precise subsection: Outer Frontier Grid Delta-Seven, Sector 19, Ridge Line Stability Overview.At once, the hall filled with drifting whispers—disguised as casual chatter, but sharpened by curiosity and judgment. Delegates from multiple academies across Arken were present, all freshly deployed graduates undergoing internal assessment. Although the Frontier B

Captain Harrow Renfal stood on the raised Meridian Operations dais. His Rank 8 aura was present but restrained, not oppressive, simply declarative. Behind him, a floating holo-panel displayed operational directives and the rotating genius ranking list that had already been public knowledge since yesterday. The list was etched in glowing gold-silver script: Ronan Crowne — Rank 1, Thalara Academy. Lucien Cross followed as Rank 2. The disparity between narrative shock and narrative envy had already begun to form a quiet battlefield of its own.But before Harrow spoke, the officers under him spoke first.Lieutenant Bronn Kiergarde folded his arms and leaned slightly toward Darsen Veylor, not caring whether the target of their conversation could hear or not. “The Crowne heir, Rank 1,” Bronn muttered. “Absurd. The boy had every resource. Of course he shines. Wealth sharpens blades faster than training ever could.”Darsen chuckled, rolling his shoulder. “True. House Crowne practically swims