The rhythmic echo of military boots striking the cold granite floor was the only lody that filled the corridors of Alpha Building that morning. If yesterday the South Paddock was a place where muscle and raw instinct were pitted against magical winds, today, within one of the grand auditoriums of the Sudrath Tech Research Center, the atmosphere had shifted into a suffocating, intellectual silence.
Forty young n sat rigidly in hard wooden chairs. Each faced a desk upon which lay a thick manual bound in black leather—a to that contained the secrets of the sky. In every corner of the room, infantry soldiers stood like statues. Their hands gripped the Sudrath Spear—the latest automatic rifles that had beco the symbol of House Sudrath’s burgeoning power. The dark muzzles of the rifles seed to watch every movent of the cadets, ensuring that not a single whisper, let alone a thought of rebellion, dared to surface.
"Welco to the real hell," a voice spoke. It wasn’t loud, yet it resonated with an authority that left no room for dissent.
Rianor Sudrath stood behind the podium. He did not wear the ornate robes of a high noble, but a practical suit that resembled a chanic’s uniform—refined, yet strictly functional. Behind him, a massive crystal display—the latest innovation from the optical departnt—flickered to life, showing the intricate technical schematics of the Sudrath Sky-Hunter.
However, what truly made the cadets’ skin crawl wasn’t the presence of the infantry’s rifles, but the woman standing in the shadows of the stage, right beside Rianor.
Lady Rhea Sudrath. Master Assassin and the supre commander of the Nightshade Sentinels.
Rhea stood with her arms crossed, her face as cold as the northern ice. Her eyes scanned the rows of cadets as if she could see through their skulls, searching for any flicker of deceit. Her presence made Rianor clear his throat awkwardly. To be honest, he felt a familiar pressure. Rhea was too protective and too intimidating. It felt as if he were delivering a thesis defense while being monitored by the most ruthless executioner on the Aethel-Terra continent.
"Yesterday, you managed to survive being tossed in the air. Today, I will ensure you understand exactly why you were able to stay up there," Rianor said, tapping a small wooden stick against the crystal screen. "You might think flying is a matter of magic. I am here to tell you that magic is rely the fuel. What keeps you alive is logic."
A young knight in the middle row frowned slightly. He had been raised on the philosophy that mana capacity was the beginning and end of all power. But seeing Rianor at the front and Rhea at his side, he could only swallow his pride and bury his ego. In this room, minor noble titles or past military accolades were worthless currency.
"Imagine you are in a river with a very fast current," Rianor continued, beginning his analogy. "You stick your palm into the water. If you tilt your hand, the water pushes your hand up or down, doesn’t it? That is the fundantal principle of this vehicle’s wings. Air is just invisible water. The blades above your head are not just fans; they are wings spinning at incredible speeds to ’climb’ the air."
Rianor stepped down from the podium, walking slowly between the rows of desks. He stopped directly in front of Thamrin.
The boy looked different from the others. His eyes didn’t show the typical glazed look of fear or confusion. Instead, they burned with a focused intensity. His hand moved constantly, scribbling notes in a small ledger, never missing a single word of Rianor’s lecture.
"Cadet," Rianor called out flatly.
"Sir!" Thamrin snapped to attention, performing a crisp military salute.
"Why are you so desperate to learn to fly? Do you even grasp the risk? If this mana-steam engine explodes at an altitude of a hundred ters, there isn’t enough magic in all of Northreach to piece your body back together."
Thamrin was silent for a mont. His jaw tightened until it looked like stone. "I am the remnants of Northveil, Sir. I saw my family destroyed because the enemy struck from places we couldn’t defend. I want to be the one who controls the sky, so that such a sight never happens again in Northreach."
Rianor stared into Thamrin’s eyes for several seconds. He saw a deep, simring vengeance, but it was a controlled vengeance—the best kind of fuel for a pilot.
"Sit," Rianor ordered. "Keep your vengeance. In here, use your brain."
Rianor returned to the front. "Your salary is two gold coins per year. That is twice the pay of the regular infantry. And your rations... are identical to theirs. No special ats, no fine wines. Why? Because in the sky, fat only makes you slow and dull. If you feel this large salary is an insult because you have to learn physics, feel free to leave now. The infantry in the corners will be happy to escort you to the exit—or to the dungeons if you intend to leak what you’ve seen here."
Predictably, no one moved.
Rhea suddenly took a single step forward, causing Rianor to flinch almost imperceptibly. Rhea didn’t speak, but her hand touched a small crystal device on the instructor’s table. It was the control unit for the Crystal-Eye Surveillance, a network of hidden caras installed in every corner of the auditorium.
Rhea tilted her head slightly, her gaze locking onto a cadet in the back row—Candidate 42.
Behind a mask of diligent note-taking, Candidate 42 was concentrating with everything he had. He wasn’t actually taking notes. Within his mind, he was weaving a very fine mana frequency—a Telepathic Ripple spell used to transmit information directly to a receiver outside the building.
...Engine utilizes wing rotation principles... Logic of water in air... Priority target identified: Rianor Sudrath...
Suddenly, a sensation of piercing ice stabbed through Candidate 42’s spine. He looked up and t Rhea’s eyes. A faint, almost invisible smile curled the corners of Lady Rhea’s lips.
"Rianor," Rhea’s voice sounded like the shearing of silk over a blade. "Pause your lecture for a mont. There is a fly trying to whisper in this room."
The atmosphere in the class turned lethal in an instant. The infantry soldiers cocked their rifles in a synchronized, tallic symphony. The sound of fifty rifles being readied made several cadets nearly jump out of their skins.
"Candidate 42," Rhea called out, her steps slow, rhythmic, and deadly. "You know, sending a telepathic ssage in front of is an exercise in futility."
Candidate 42’s face turned ashen. He tried to stand, his hand reaching into his vest—likely searching for a dagger or a self-destruction crystal.
BANG!
A warning shot from an infantryman struck the floor inches from Candidate 42’s feet. Granite dust puffed into the air.
"Don’t be a fool," Rianor said coldly, though he was visibly annoyed that his lecture had been interrupted.
"Take him. And take Candidate 87 as well. He is the receiving anchor in this room," Rhea commanded.
The four infantryn guarding the rear row moved with surgical precision, pinning Candidate 42 and his accomplice before they could even draw a breath. Both were dragged out of the room without rcy, their heels scraping against the stone floor.
Rianor let out a long breath, trying to steady his heart rate. He glanced at Rhea, who had returned to her position, looking satisfied now that the "garbage" had been cleared.
"Now," Rianor tapped his stick against the screen again as if nothing had happened. "Where were we? Ah, yes. Bernoulli’s Principle. Let’s discuss why the air pressure above the blades must be lower than beneath them, unless you wish to fall like a stone."
The cadets, including Thamrin, now sat with even straighter backs. That arrest was the first and most valuable lesson of the day: Under House Sudrath, treason was discovered in seconds, and knowledge was the only path to survival.
The lecture continued for six grueling hours without a break. Rianor showed no rcy. He force-fed them with weight calculations, mana-steam fuel managent, and ergency protocols. Thamrin continued to write, his hand trembling from exhaustion, yet his eyes remained fixed on the engine diagrams. To Thamrin, every row of numbers Rianor taught was a bullet he would one day fire into the heart of the Iron Empire.
At the end of the session, Rianor closed his book with a loud, final thud.
"Tomorrow, we will not be in this room. We will head to the workshop for ’Dry Drills.’ You will sit in a dead cockpit for ten hours just to morize the position of every lever. If anyone reaches for the wrong control in the darkness, you are disqualified."
Rianor left the podium, followed by Rhea. Once they stepped out of the auditorium and into a quiet hallway, Rianor finally exhaled the tension he had been holding.
"Rhea, you nearly gave a heart attack with that interruption," Rianor protested quietly.
"You focus too much on theory," Rhea replied without looking at him. "You forgot that among your cadets, there were spies who—for whatever reason—thought they were invisible."
"What will you do with them?"
Rhea stopped walking, turning to Rianor with a look that made him regret asking. "Interrogation. I want to know who their contacts are inside Iron Hearth. Ember has already prepared the ’special chair.’ Don’t worry, Rianor. Focus on your flying toys. Let handle the filth."
Rianor could only nod in resignation. He knew that behind the technological progress he led, there was a shadow war led by his sister to ensure Sudrath’s foundation never cracked.
anwhile, in the emptying auditorium, Thamrin still sat in his chair. He stared at his own palms, imagining he was gripping the Cyclic lever. He whispered a quiet promise to himself and his family in Northveil.
"I will fly. And I will be the storm that breaks them all."
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