(Staging Area, 0400 Hours, 3 days later)
The stars hung sharp and indifferent above the staging ground. Cold air bit through fatigues. The only sounds were boots crunching grass and the occasional creak of a rucksack strap pulled too tight.
Each cadet stood silent, spaced two metres apart. Their rucks were full, their rubber training rifles slung, their eyes red. The last words from the briefing the night before echoed like ghosts:
"40km. Multi-day. No teams. No help. No second chances."
A row of tables stood at the front. On each: a compass, a protractor, a sealed envelope, and a fresh pace bead string. Franz stood under a floodlight, clipboard in hand. "Step forward when I call your number. You'll receive your unique map with randomised checkpoint coordinates and departure vector. Fail to reach them? You're out."
"Number 31!"
Ariel stepped forward, snatched the envelope, map, and compass with practiced speed. No words. No nod.
Then she walked into the dark, guided by moonlight, her steps measured.
(Somewhere in the Low Ridge Sector, 0530 Hours)
Ariel knelt behind a rock outcrop, unfolding her map under and reading. Wind howled through the bushes.
"Grid 749/932 to 765/924. That's the next box. 1.8 klicks."
She thumbed the first bead on her string of her and started counting. Pace count wasn't elegant. It was tedious. But it kept her certain. Every left-foot step, another beat closer to the box.
She used a handrail—a dry gulley that ran roughly southeast—to guide her movement without constant compass checks. Easier to follow terrain than float in azimuth drift.
A few hundred metres in, she paused behind a burnt tree and shot her first azimuth: 142°. Magnetic declination had already been accounted for. She adjusted her angle slightly when the ground rose unexpectedly.
"Attack point is that collapsed boulder stack… once I hit that, it's a short 300m leg east-southeast," she thought. She moved like fire through smoke. Quiet. Fluid. Just fast enough.
Soon, she saw her objective.
A single green-glow marker staked in the earth. That was her checkpoint.
She approached it slowly, eyeing it carefully. After what happened last time, she had now the memory self-note to prepare for curveballs thrown by the instructors.
And a curveball there was.
The checkpoint was a simple tent. Inside, a young woman sat on a cot, her face buried in her hands. Her shoulders shook with soft sobs. An empty chair sat across from her. A quiet buzz overhead reminded Ariel there was a drone watching. She felt it like static across her skin.
A voice, low and clear, came from a speaker mounted in the corner:
"Number 31. This is your sister. She's just been dumped by her partner. You have five minutes to comfort her. That's the task. No magic. No threats. No escape. Begin."
Ariel blinked and froze. "What the hell?"
She glanced behind her, half-expecting gunfire, traps, anything but this.
"Uhh...I may break his legs?" suggested Ariel. "Wait screw that."
The woman sniffled. "He said I was… too intense. That I scared him."
Ariel sat stiffly. She looked down at her boots, then up at the sobbing woman.
"Too intense," she whispered. The words hit deeper than expected. A few scenes flashed before her eyes:
It's the monster, run!
Don't play with her, she is dangerous!
And in the middle of it all was her 3-year-old self. Hurt and alone. All because of her Draco nature. She was not just any Draco, but one extremely powerful with Cosmic Energy, to the point it scared everyone that isn't family away.
She cleared her throat. "Listen," she began, awkwardly. "Some people… aren't built for fire. That doesn't mean you're too much. Just means they're not enough."
The woman looked up, eyes rimmed red.
Ariel softened. "You'll find someone who doesn't flinch. Who sees you for you… and doesn't run. Who accepts you even if that means they may get burned."
"You really think so?" the woman said, breaking character just enough for sincerity to flicker.
Ariel smiled—small, but real. She gave the woman a hug. "Because someone did for me, and I am confident someone will do it for you too," she said, gently wiping off her tears, as she thought of a specific Chinese boy from Hong Kong, the one she keeps a framed picture of.
The woman smiled. "Thank you"
Another announcement cut in. "Test complete, Number 31. You may proceed".
"So how is he like?" asked the woman, now reverted back to an instructor.
Ariel blushed. "Made my world pink".
She smiled dreamily as she continued on her way.
(Low Valley Sector, 0610 Hours)
Carl moved like a phantom through the treeline. No wasted motion, no hesitation, just like how his Selladraxian subspecies looked like, ghosts.
The terrain sloped unevenly underfoot, but he adjusted naturally, correcting his drift every few hundred metres without breaking stride.
The dew clung to his boots and legs. He didn't care. His mind ran ahead of him, already plotting his next three moves. He had already cleared his first checkpoint, and is moving on quickly.
Grid to grid, he didn't use pace count beads. He counted mentally, his rhythm precise, calibrated.
His attack point was an abandoned gas station from mankind's petroleum days 300m short of the target. From there, a short 70° azimuth brought him to it exactly.
Soon, he saw checkpoint 2: a SUV parked next to a table of munitions.
Santos was waiting at the checkpoint, sitting in the SUV, drinking coffee nonchalantly. He saw Carl and rolled down the window. "There you are, Number 23, I thought you got eaten by a hippo.
Carl saluted Santos and then saw what was on the table: anti-armour warheads simunation, a HK-416A5 with simunation, and lastly, a freaking RPG simulator.
"What is the task?" asked Carl, taking the munitions and swapping his rubber prop rifle for the HK-416A5.
"Oh, it's simple, blow up that tank," replied Santos, as calmly as if he is ordering McDonald's.
"What tank—" Before Carl can finish his question, a loud vroom is heard. Carl immediately ducked into the bushes. Soon, a M30 "Milley" all terrain main battle tank burst into the clearing. It did not have tracks, rather a set of repulsors that allowed it to hover and self-adapt to any terrain
"Damn…" muttered Carl, realising that he needs to take out this behemoth, which is the backbone of UNSSD armour formations and combined arms brigades, all by himself.
But he soon realised his advantage: the tank had not discovered him, yet. Not only that, it is alone and not flanked by infantry or any other vehicles. Despite having an impressive array of AI augmented sensors, the M30 is still a classic main battle tank whose crew has a constrained vision. This means that when alone, it's extremely vulnerable to ambushes that come close, like now.
Carl seized the opportunity, immediately carrying out what is called "anti-tank gymnastics" in UNSSD elite infantry nomenclature.
He crouched as low as he can, carefully waiting or the tank to pass, and counted pace such that when he runs out, the tank's back mounted engine pack will be in his trajectory.
Once that window appeared, he charged forward with all his might. As he ran, he reached behind, slapped a huge munition on with magnetic clamps, twisted the charge trigger, and pivoted, jumping back into a ditch.
Without hesitation, he aimed the RPG and pulled the trigger.
A huge cloud of yellowish smoke emerged, signalling that the tank has been "disabled", and it promptly stopped moving.
Santos watched from the SUV, with a faint look of approval at Carl.
The hatches open. Carl aimed his HK-416A5 and carefully approached the tank. One after another, the commander, gunner, and driver popped out—torsos visible, arms raised. But that was it. They stayed perched in the hatches, half-emerged, still inside the hull. Their weapons were slung but still present. They did not climb out. They did not move away. They just stayed there, too casual, too slow, too close.
Carl didn't hesitate. His finger slipped to the trigger, firing simunation rounds in succession, and soon, the 3 tank crew members are smoking yellow, signalling they are "KIA".
"Number 23!!" roared Santos, disembarking from the SUV. "Care to explain to me why did you just commit a war crime so casually?!"
"Elaborate?" asked Carl.
"THEY F***ING RAISED THEIR HANDS!" roared Santos.
"Sir, they have not stepped away from the tank, and the tank is still capable of firing, that means that they can still shoot back at me," replied Carl calmly. "I don't think that counts as a proper surrender, in fact, I am justified to suspect that they are faking surrender."
Santos said nothing, just glaring at Carl intently. Finally, he spoke. "Continue with your land nav."
Carl put back the munitions and grabbed his rubber prop gun, continuing on the way.
(Over a cliff, 0615 Hours)
Albert stared at the paper in front of him for the fifth time, reading the question again and again to ensure he is not being duped or there is a trick in the question.
His task upon arriving at this checkpoint is that he must solve 4 simultaneous equations under a 30 minutes timer while being lightly blasted by a fan blowing at him that causes the papers to fly had he not pinned them under his helmet, and loud rock music.
10 minutes passed, and he had not started on a single question, not because he cannot solve them, rather it's because they are too easy. Those questions were secondary school level mathematics.
And for someone like Albert, who has already pre-labelled the instructors as "scammers with too much time and brain cells to spare", his alarm bells are ringing, and he could not help but to feel that there is a hidden trap somewhere.
Hence, he looked around at the environment, then at his gear, then at the instructor sleeping under a tree waiting for him to be done, then at the paper, trying to find any small tell-tale signs that there is a trap or trick, and that the test is more than meets the eye.
He looked at the timer. He had blew through one third of the time just checking for potential traps, which is increasingly looking like a wild goose chase.
"Ok, the questions are all solvable with no tricks...wait, or is there something else I am missing?"
The timer now clicked 15 minutes.
"F*** that, let's just do it and get it over with..." muttered Albert, taking up a pen and a calculator.
Soon he is done and checked his answers twice. He walked up to the instructor and dropped the paper into his hands.
The instructor woke up and checked through the script. "All correct number 74, you may proceed."
Albert nodded. "Next time you can perhaps throw in some calculus."
Observing this from a hidden camera, Franz and Jay discussed Albert.
"Number 74 is smart and cautious, these are traits we want," said Jay. "But he is too cautious, not to mention some trust issues."
(Somewhere in the woods 0641 Hours)
Louis's legs burned. His back ached. The 40km march was already taking its toll—and he wasn't even halfway. Every breath came in ragged bursts through grit-covered teeth.
He checked his map, and confirmed the location: grid 765/924.
There was his second checkpoint—a staked-out tarp shelter with a low antenna array and an equipment case half-buried in the dirt.
He approached cautiously, rifle low, eyes scanning for curveballs.
The note clipped to the crate read:
"You are to assemble the Model QNTR-7 Portable Quantum Field Transmitter. Align the resonance grid, sync to orbital relay, and transmit message packet 9A to base. If not completed in 15 minutes: mission fail. If that happens, you need to lug whatever you assembled with you for the rest of the land-nav"
Louis blinked. "Quantum field radio? You gotta be kidding me."
He dropped to one knee, opening the crate. Inside was a compact lattice of strange, matte-black components. Many unmarked, some slightly humming, all futuristic but plausible. The core looked like a miniature Higgs lens wrapped in phase wire, and the whole setup reeked of cutting-edge special operations gear. The kind that his tenor as a Recon Marine in Division Recon did not prepare him for.
"Well, this ain't Marine stuff, but it should work similarly," he muttered, recounting the long-range portable quantum radios he had used back with the US Marines as a communication specialist.
He recognized a few core parts:
A tripod-mounted resonance emitter, folded like a collapsed satellite dish. A quantum-phase modulator—a fist-sized chrome capsule with gyro-stabilizers. And a Q-bit pattern encoder—flat and translucent, like a mini yoga board fused with a touchpad.
At the base was the core unit: the entanglement node interface. Shaped like a chunky hard drive, but humming with latent energy. Lastly was a walkie talkie that can be wired in.
"So, this is a stationary one meant for things like outposts," Louis said, getting to work.
Quantum radios didn't send out normal radio waves. Instead, they used entangled particles—particles created together in a lab, then split. Some up in space in orbit. The others? In contraptions like Louis is trying to assemble. This is the advantage of quantum radios. It brings an instant signal. No waiting. No signal traces.
But there was a catch. Entanglement was delicate. Everything had to be isolated from electromagnetic noise and phase-aligned with the orbital node, and carefully modulated.
Louis snapped the resonance emitter into place and adjusted its pitch using a magnetic dial. He aligned it to 184.3° azimuth, 47.2° elevation, using calculations based on built-in satellite orbit tables.
Next, after checking that the tripod legs were stabilized, he assembled the entanglement node, and connected to Q-bit encoder pad. Afterwards was the phase modulator, which clicked into its slot, humming faintly.
He powered up the core. A faint ping was followed by the smell of ozone. The screen turned green:
[ENTANGLEMENT STABLE]
[ENTER TRANSMISSION CODE]
Louis flipped over the card pasted to the box, finding a transmission code labelled 9A, with a message to transmit:
"LZ secured, moving to phase 2"
He entered it in, and the radio was live. He grabbed the walkie-talkie and wired it in, checking that the reception is well.
"LZ secured, moving to phase 2, over," he said.
Soon Nanami's voice came from the other side, sultry as ever.
"Copy that Number 42. Now please be a good boy and proceed with land-nav. Over."
Louis exhaled.
Not dramatically. Just... relieved.
He slumped onto a nearby rock, wiped his hands on his pants, and gave the setup one last look of pride and some yearning for, as he carried on with the course.
Back in command, Nanami and James are observing this through a hidden camera earnestly.
"Well, well, well," laughed James. "I think we just found out what Number 42 does well?"