- Oliver -
"The staircases open at 0600 hours sharp," Darius explained. "All training sessions start at 0800. If you don't reach the first floor before classes begin, they consider you unfit to train."
As Darius finished explaining, he quickened his pace, taking the stairs two at a ti. Oliver hurried to keep up, their footsteps echoing against the tallic steps of the colossal spiral staircase. At first, they remained close, matching each other's strides, but with each new floor they ascended, the gap between them widened.
By the ti Darius reached the fifteenth floor, Oliver was still struggling on the tenth. The augnted gravity was taking its toll. Although the gravitational increase was only 40%, the constant upward climb amplified the strain. This was different from sprinting across flat terrain; every step ant lifting his entire body weight repeatedly, his muscles protesting under the relentless demand.
Pausing to catch his breath, Oliver gripped one of the handrails and glanced downward. The view was dizzying—a tal spiral descending into the depths of the fortress. The sheer scale of the Silo beca oppressively clear. Below, he could see other trainees struggling in the climb—so re children, perhaps half his age, valiantly attempting to ascend just one more floor. Their small figures were weighed down not just by gravity but by the monuntal challenge ahead.
‘If I hadn't evolved multiple tis, I don't know if I'd be able to climb all this without a Ranger Armor,’ Oliver thought, wiping the sweat from his brow. ‘Even an artificial one would help reduce the burden.’
Turning his gaze upward, he surveyed the winding staircase above. His fellow ‘colleagues’ were scattered along the ascent, each grappling with the sa arduous conditions. Kyle was about five floors ahead, his movents slow and labored. Damian was slightly further, his silhouette barely visible. But it was the two girls he hadn't yet t who caught his attention—they were the furthest ahead, ascending with a determination that intrigued him.
A few steps ahead of Damian climbed the girl from the Yellow Division. Her attire matched the standard uniform, save for a distinctive yellow brooch pinned over her heart. Despite the fatigue evident in her posture—the subtle droop of her shoulders, the asured breaths—her eyes remained fixed and resolute. Every movent was deliberate, each step seemingly calculated. There was a fluidity to her climb, a rhythm that belied the increasing gravitational pull.
Her black hair was tied back in a tight braid, though Oliver recalled seeing it cascade freely during their initial assembly. Her skin bore a warm, sun-kissed hue, and her almond-shaped eyes conveyed both focus and depth. There was sothing else—an air of otherness. Perhaps it was her features or the confident way she moved, but she didn't quite fit the mold.
Further ahead, nearly three flights above the Yellow Ranger was the other girl. Her face was completely drenched in sweat, and her breaths ca in ragged gasps. Unlike everyone else there, her eyes blazed with fury, as if she wanted to demolish the very staircase beneath her feet. Her features were delicate, marred only by a few small scars that seed resistant to healing.
She appeared to channel every ounce of strength into pulling her legs up to the next step, climbing step after relentless step.
As Oliver finished observing the imnse challenge each of them was facing, he turned his attention back to his own predicant. ‘I need to speed up if I don't want to fall behind,’ he thought, steeling himself.
With each passing floor, the difficulty intensified. It was upon reaching the twentieth level that the ascent beca almost insurmountable. "T-This is more than double my weight," Oliver muttered to himself, his legs quivering under the strain. "But it feels like so much more because of the exhaustion." He tried to rally his spirit, coaxing himself to take the next step.
The gap between him and his rivals had narrowed even further; now, there was barely a floor's difference between each of them, except for the Pink Ranger, who had already reached the thirtieth floor.
It took nearly another half hour for all the Rangers to finally reach the top floor. None of them arrived late. Yet, as Oliver stepped onto the final platform, he didn't feel any pride in overcoming this trial. On the contrary, he felt weak. Before him stood dozens of others, younger or seemingly less robust, who had reached the summit more quickly.
‘I have a lot of training ahead of !’ Oliver vowed internally. But for now, his mission was different. Unlike the other cadets of the Sixth Division, he and the other five Rangers were headed for specialized training ant exclusively for them.
One of the first rooms on the thirtieth floor was an unassuming classroom. Rows of chairs were arranged in a semi-circle facing a modest, raised platform at the center. The sterile walls were devoid of decoration.
Standing on the platform was an officer clad in the crisp, dark uniform of the Sixth Division. His posture was relaxed yet authoritative; hands clasped loosely behind his back as he awaited their arrival. Oliver recognized him imdiately—it was the sa officer who had guided him through the labyrinthine corridors of the fortress the day before.
Exhausted from the grueling ascent up the Silo's spiral staircase, Oliver pulled out one of the nearest chairs and collapsed into it, barely controlling his descent. His muscles ached, and beads of sweat traced rivulets down his face, dripping onto his uniform. His breath ca in heavy gulps, heart still pounding from the exertion.
"Welco, everyone," the instructor began, his voice carrying effortlessly across the room. "I am Ranger Dante. I am responsible for infiltration missions within the Sixth Division and will be your instructor."
He paused, his sharp gaze sweeping over the assembled Rangers. "My role is to train you in surveillance and counter-surveillance. Any questions?"
Silence hung in the air. The Rangers exchanged brief glances but offered no imdiate response.
"Very well," Dante continued. "Our mornings will be dedicated to theoretical studies. We'll begin with surveillance thods—mobile, fixed, and electronic. It's imperative that you acquire the skills to gather all possible information once you've infiltrated your target environnts."
He began to pace slowly across the platform, hands clasped behind his back. "In the afternoons, we'll shift to practical exercises in counter-surveillance. This will be a primary focus. Being discovered is often worse than failing to obtain information. You'll learn techniques to evade detection, employ disguises, and identify when you're being watched."
As Dante spoke, Oliver felt his earlier fatigue begin to fade, replaced by a growing interest in the curriculum. The room remained quiet until a hand was raised from a few seats over. Oliver turned to see Damian lowering his arm after catching the instructor's attention.
"Sir," Damian spoke up, his tone respectful but tinged with concern. "I have a question. How are we supposed to infiltrate if so of us are already well-known figures?"
Oliver's curiosity was piqued. It was a valid point. Both he and Damian had notable profiles—Damian as a mber of the Great House Nemo, and Oliver as the recent recipient of an imperial dal. Their faces were hardly anonymous.
"An excellent question," Dante replied, a faint smile crossing his features. "This topic we'll cover extensively when we delve into infiltration techniques and constructing your disguises. But to give you a glimpse..."
He stepped down from the platform and approached the front row of chairs. Raising his right hand, he touched just beneath his chin. Instantly, his face shimred, the features distorting as if viewed through a heat haze. The transformation was seamless yet surreal, like watching a hologram recalibrate.
The man who now stood before them bore little resemblance to the one from monts before. Gone were the commonplace features—dark hair, stubbled beard, and a crooked nose hinting at past fractures. In their place was a face with a fair complexion, fiery red hair, and a neatly trimd beard. His cheekbones were higher, his chin more recessed, and his eyes a vivid shade of green. He looked distinctly Celtic, perhaps hailing from one of the Outer Colonies known for their Irish heritage.
"You will possess a thousand faces by the ti you complete your training," Dante explained, his voice unchanged despite the altered appearance. "With the skills and technology we'll provide, none of your opponents—and perhaps not even your allies—will recognize you."
A ripple of murmurs swept through the room. The demonstration was impressive, and the implications were profound. Oliver raised his hand, prompted by both curiosity and a nagging skepticism.
"Sir," he began when Dante acknowledged him, "if you're capable of altering your appearance so completely and clearly have more experience than us, why aren't you the one going on this mission?"
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