Sergeant Henry had woken up as early as 4 a.m., as he did every morning without fail. Discipline had long since beco second nature to him, carved deep into his bones from years of relentless service. As soon as he opened his eyes, he swung his legs out of bed and rose with chanical precision. No hesitation. No drowsy monts. His body moved before his thoughts could catch up.
He dove straight into his morning exercise routine. Two hundred push-ups without pause, followed by an intense series of squats and burpees. Sweat dripped freely down his face, yet his focus remained unbroken. To him, each movent was more than fitness—it was preparation. Battle conditioning. After all, complacency was a poison that had no place in war.
Once his workout was complete, he brewed a cup of black coffee. No sugar. No cream. The bitterness was a reminder of the world he lived in. As the steam rose into the cold morning air, he went over his agenda for the day. The military generals had summoned him just the day before, issuing a direct order to instruct a class.
Despite the fact that many of the students were still recovering—both physically and ntally—from the tragedy that befell Pascoloid, the order was clear. There would be no delay. The topics had already been given to him, and among them was one key ssage that still echoed in his mind with haunting clarity.
It was a warning: the suspects responsible for the destruction of planet Pascoloid were none other than the aliens.
The implications of that ssage were too severe to ignore. If it was war, then humanity had to be ready. No hesitation. No forgiveness.
As soon as his preparations were complete, Sergeant Henry slipped on his crisp uniform, adjusted the buttons of his coat, and marched out of his large, luxurious quarters toward the first-years’ building.
When he arrived at the classroom, he pushed the door open and stepped inside. A wave of murmurs and noise greeted him. Students were restless, rowdy, scattered across their seats. The casualties from Pascoloid still cast a shadow over the academy, and it was evident in their numbers. So many had died. Others had vanished before the evacuation. All in all, the surviving students had dropped to less than a hundred.
Kairos sat among his friends, quiet and observant. His eyes followed Sergeant Henry as he entered the room. There was sothing different today. Henry’s usual serious deanor seed even colder—like stone, like war.
"I see our class has taken a mighty hit from the hunt," Sergeant Henry began, his voice sharp and emotionless. "But no matter. I am not here to sympathize with the dead. I am here to deliver a teaching your ears must never forget, so listen closely."
He paused, scanning the room.
"Why does death happen?" he asked, eyes narrowing. "It happens because of weakness. That is why many perished on Pascoloid. They were weak."
The silence that followed was heavy. Though few dared to speak up, the room filled with suppressed tension. The students clenched their fists, their jaws tightened. To them, it hadn’t been weakness that caused the deaths—it had been chaos, betrayal, and overwhelming odds.
"How would you know?" soone muttered under their breath.
"Yeah, keep telling us that."
"What does he take us for—machines?"
Murmuring spread like wildfire. Though they tried to keep it quiet, the emotions were raw and close to the surface.
But Sergeant Henry remained unmoved. He stood firm, as though he hadn’t heard a single word. "This disgrace will not repeat itself. Most students goof off, play around, and slack because there’s no iron grip keeping them in check. You all forget what you’re here for. Is it the free als? The money? Should I remind you that humans are still at war—and what happened on Pascoloid has been classified as an alien attack?"
Kairos swallowed hard.
’So it really was the aliens. That ans the peace treaty won’t last much longer... Is that why this class is being held?’
Sergeant Henry took another step forward.
"Now I will explain a few crucial things about war—and about summons—that you must learn if you ever hope to survive a repeat of Pascoloid."
"Your summons are tools," he declared. "Not just for battle, but for strategy. Use them as shields. Use them as battering rams. Do not rely on your integration unless you have a clear shot at the enemy. Your summon has better regenerative ability than you do. Use that to your advantage."
As his words rang out, Sergeant Henry could almost feel the disgust radiating from his students. Their expressions twisted. Their eyes scread disapproval.
To them, using a summon as a tool, a shield, a disposable pawn—it was inhumane.
Yet the truth remained. A brutal, undeniable truth.
Kairos clenched his fists beneath his desk.
’Friends...’ he recalled Kaela’s words, the warmth in her voice, her belief in their bonds. ’Is that all a summon is supposed to be? A weapon?’
He shook the thought away, but the inner conflict remained.
"It’s a brutal thod—to use your summon like that," Carlos whispered beside him. "But this is what separates the military from the factions. The military doesn’t care. They just want to win, no matter the cost. But the factions... we treat our summons like partners. Like people."
Kairos gave a slow nod.
’And this is exactly why I could never accept the military’s invitation.’
Sergeant Henry pressed on. He raised the stakes.
"In many battles against the Nyxaris, humanity lost—outnumbered, outmatched, with low-grade summons. So, the military developed a last-resort tactic. We call it Suicide Summoning."
The entire room fell into deeper silence.
"It’s a thod to push your summon ten tis beyond its limit. You initiate it when you are at death’s door. You pour your hate, your will to fight, and your last ounce of life into the summoning. What you create... is a monster. A rampaging force powerful enough to decimate Nyxaris in droves."
He stopped. The reaction in the room was imdiate. Faces fell. Eyes drifted downward. So stared blankly at the ceiling. The weight of his words had crushed whatever spirit remained.
The word ’suicide’ left a bitter taste in their mouths. This wasn’t a lesson anymore—it was a glimpse into a future none of them wanted to face.
Even Rayla, usually quick with questions and challenges, said nothing. Her head remained buried in her arms, lost in her own thoughts.
Still, Henry continued his lesson, delivering information like bullets, rapid and cold. He didn’t slow, didn’t sugarcoat. When he was finally done, he dismissed the class, and the students left faster than they ever had before.
But not Kairos. His group stayed, waiting for the crowd to thin. They lingered in the silence.
Kairos’s mind spun with everything he had heard. And soon, the next challenge crept into his thoughts—Summoner’s Battle Class. He would have to face Lloyd... and pay for destroying his weapon.
Just as he turned to leave, a cold voice echoed from across the room.
"Kairos, please co here."
Sergeant Henry’s call stopped all three boys in their tracks.
Shock passed through them. It was the first ti—ever—that Sergeant Henry had called a student by na. And it was Kairos. The most unnoticed student in the room.
Slowly, Kairos walked toward him, doing his best to keep his expression blank.
Sergeant Henry didn’t speak. He simply reached into his coat pocket and handed Kairos a white envelope. The seal shimred slightly.
Kairos took it, eyeing the front. Etched in bold black ink were the words:
Letter From Albert.
’Albert? Who’s that?’ Kairos thought, glancing up to ask.
But Sergeant Henry was already walking away, his boots echoing down the hallway, leaving Kairos standing there with only the envelope—and a rising sense of dread.
Whatever this ssage was, it wasn’t just another letter.
And sothing deep inside told him... this letter did not bode well
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