Three weeks later, I'm sitting in what might be the most aggressively boring room ever constructed by humankind.
The "Tactical Hall," the proctor in charge likes to call it.
I shift in my seat, the hard wood digging into my ass. The 'Tactical Hall" was designed to make you feel small. It was a cavernous, amphitheater-style room built from grey stone and pretension. Flags bearing each House's colors hang high along the walls.
Long, narrow windows run along the far side of the room, letting in cold winter light that washes everything in silver. Rows of desks stretch across the hall in neat, militaristic grids, all bolted into the ground like we're expected to endure earthquakes mid-lecture.
Honestly, I'd prefer the earthquake.
The air smells faintly of chalk, ink, old leather, and desperation the standard scent profile of higher military education.
Around me sits my cohort. Lucian to my right, drooling into the crook of his elbow as he takes the most shameless nap I've ever seen. The rest of House Apophis clusters near us
Across the room, House Luxor sits ramrod straight, acting like the lecture is holy scripture descending from the heavens. They hang off every word of Proctor Dean Abrashi like he's reciting prophecy.
He's not. In fact, he's been rambling for at least forty minutes. And every second feels like the slow suffocation of my soul.
"…and thus, the importance of supply lines cannot be overstated," Proctor Dean Abrashi said, his voice a nasal monotone that scraped against my eardrums.
I rest my chin on my hand, staring down at the lecture pit. Dean Abrashi was a man of House Luxor. Their head Proctor if you will, and you could tell by the way he dressed his pristine white robes with gold trim that cost more than my entire life's earnings so far. And specifically, the way he looked at anyone who was not of noble birth.
His dark blue eyes sweep over the room, lingering on the students of privilege with almost a sort of fondness, before sliding over the "commoners" with barely concealed disdain. When his gaze flicked to the back row,and his eyes meet mine I see that disdain curdled into something else. Fear? Maybe. Disgust? Definitely.
He's an ugly little bald man the voices whisper in the back of my skull, their tone slithering and amused. You should rip his throat out, little God! Just to see if his blood is as blue as his eyes! Lets see if he has the audacity then to look at you like that then.
Shut up, I think, the mental command practiced and weary.
The voices had been louder since the incident with Avraind. More distinct. They had won free again of the faint control I had gained over them and they were once again commentators on my daily life, a chorus of violent sociopaths living rent-free in my head.
Abrashi taps a long pointer against a massive slate map dominating the front wall. The map depicted a jagged mountain range, drawn in meticulous detail.
"Scenario time," Abrashi announces, his voice echoing off the stone walls. "Pay attention brats. This is not a simulation of brute force. This is a test of command."
He slaps the map, sending a bang through the room waking those up who had drifted asleep.
"Here. And here." He marked two large red X's on either side of a narrow, winding valley. "These represent two battalions of the United Federation. Heavy infantry. siege-breakers. They have taken the high ground."
He draws a smaller blue circle in the center of the valley floor.
"This is you. The Imperial 4th Division. You are injured causing you to lose the ability to use your mark of power. The rest of the Elites with you are dead.
I roll my eyes so hard it physically hurt.
Of course, I think bitterly. The classic 'nerf' scenario. He does this every time.
Rye stirs from her place to the left me and mumbles, "Did he take away the ability to breathe too…?
The Proctor loved doing these. He constantly invented magical logistical failures to strip us of our gifts and present us with annoying "challenges" to overcome. It was lazy teaching. In a real war, if your a commander and all the Elites under you are depleted and your surrounded like in this scenario you just die. Such a pointless thoughts exercises he claims teaches us to better under strategy.
"You are trapped," Abrashi continues, enjoying the grimace that rippled through the room. "The valley is a kill box. The villagers have mostly evacuated, but the Federation General has sent an envoy. He claims to hold a local schoolhouse full of children hostage in the upper ridge."
The Proctor pauses for dramatic effect, smoothing the front of his robes.
"He offers terms. Surrender your battalion lay down arms and submit to captivity and he will release the children. However, you have no guarantee he will honor these terms. The Federation is not known for its mercy after all."
Abrashi leaned back against his podium, crossing his arms. "The enemy surrounds you. You cannot fight your way up the slopes without being slaughtered. You cannot use your mark due to the injury you received. Innocents are on the line. How do you respond?"
Silence descended on the hall. It was thick and heavy.
I watched as the students leaned forward, squinting at the map. I could see the gears turning in their heads, trying to find the "heroic" solution. The one where everyone lives. The one where they get a medal.
Children, the voices hissed, mocking them. Soft hearts. Soft heads. And so stupid.
I lean back, stretching my legs. It's obvious none of them want to say the real truth: the scenario is impossible. Intentionally so.
A hand shot up in the front row. House Luxor, naturally. A boy with perfectly coiffed blonde hair.
"Yes, Corvin?" Abrashi nods encouragingly to his own student.
"We could try an assault on the left flank?" Corvin suggested, his voice wavering slightly as he pointed to the map. "Use a small vanguard to distract the main force, then send a guerrilla squad up the scree to evacuate the children while they are distracted?"
Abrashi stared at him with annoyance. "The left flank is a sixty-degree incline. They will shoot your men down before they could even draw weapons.
"We… we could use the cover of night?"
"They are not stupid they would have guards and torches" Abrashi snaps, his patience evaporating. "You try to climb that slope, they shoot you down before you can even draw your weapons. Your squad is dead. The children are executed because you broke the potential of a truce. Then they march in and kill everyone."
Corvin sinks back into his seat, face flushing red.
Another hand. A girl from House Melruth, sitting near the window. Vennka I think was her name.
"Light the valley on fire?" she proposes. "If the wind is blowing north, we could create a smoke screen. Distract them with the chaos, mask our movement—"
"And burn yourself to death in the process, you moron?" Abrashi snorts, cutting her off. "You are in a valley. Heat rises. Fire spreads. You do not have the high ground like I have said. You light a fire down there, you turn your own position into an oven. Congratulations, you've just roasted your own battalion."
The class shifted uncomfortably. The Proctor was in a foul mood today. He was not giving an inch to anyone.
"Anyone else?" Abrashi sneers, his eyes scanning the room. "Or is the future of the Imperial Army's destined to be commanded by incompetents?"
I do not want to answer. I want to sleep. But the sheer incompetence of the suggestions is annoying me. It is an itch I cannot scratch. The problem is simple, but their morality blinds them.
I raise my hand.
Abrashi's gaze snaps to the back of the room. His eyes narrow when he sees who it is. The Monster of the First Years. He looks at me as if he was spotting mold on bread. He holds the stare a beat too long as he hesitates. I see the distaste ripple across his face, but he cannot ignore me. Not in front of the whole class. He nods slowly, his face contorted in an expression of disdain that is nonetheless professional.
"Ayato," he says, the name tasting like vinegar in his mouth. "Enlighten us please."
I do not stand up. I stay slouching, leaning back in my chair, looking at the map with bored eyes.
"Cut around the second army," I say, my voice flat, carrying easily through the room. "Ignore the ridge. Take the battalion and move to the dam upstream on the northern perimeter."
I point a lazy finger toward the top corner of the map.
"Break the dam," I state. "Flood the valley. Let everyone inside drown."
The silence that follows is different from before. It is not the silence of thinking; it is the silence of sheer, unfiltered shock.
I feel the eyes of the room snap toward me. Hundreds of faces, a mix of horror and confusion.
"Everyone?" Abrashi repeats slowly, his eyebrows lifting slightly.
"The enemy battalions are in the valley floor or on the lower slopes," I say, shrugging. "The water pressure from a dam that size scours the valley clean. It wipes out both Federation armies instantly."
"And the hostages?" Abrashi asks, though he seems to know the answer.
"Leave the children," I say, adding it as a cold afterthought. "There is no way to save them."
A boy from House Luxor lets out an incredulous laugh. He turns in his seat to glare at me.
"We are trying to win the simulation, you freak," he spits, the word hanging heavy in the air.
Before I can respond or before the voices can suggest I rip his tongue out Abrashi steps forward. He smacks his pointer against the boy's face.
"Silence!" Abrashi roars. "You speak out of turn! That is not how our discussions are handled."
The boy shrinks back, pale.
Abrashi turns back to me. His expression has changed. The disdain is still there, but it is mixed with something else now. Curiosity. Maybe even a grudging respect for the sheer brutality of the logic. He sees the coldness in my eyes and recognizes the calculus of command.
"Please elaborate, Ayato," he commands, his tone clipped.
I sigh again, shifting my weight. This is so tedious.
"It's not an easy victory," I say, forcing the words out. "The odds are too stacked. We have no magic, we're injured, and we're surrounded. If the costs are so high, I throw all my dice in."
I gesture vaguely at the red X's on the map.
"This way, they all die. We lose our battalion maybe only half of it. But no battle takes place in isolation. So at the end of the day this is just one small move in the grand scheme of a war."
I sit up slightly, locking eyes with the Proctor.
"The numbers you give us indicate these Federation battalions are massive. Standard Federation doctrine suggests a battalion of that size is a heavy investment. Two of them? That is a significant portion of their regional army, save for their Elites who you didn't mention so they must be elsewhere in this simulation. Giving up some of our own broken, mark less soldiers is worth it to wipe that many enemy pieces off the board."
I lean back again. "Also, as you said, we have no guarantees. If we surrender, the soldiers are likely executed or enslaved regardless. The Federation doesn't take heavy infantry prisoners. So, we die either way. I would rather take them with us."
The room is dead quiet. The cold, heartless calculus of war hangs in the air.
"So," Abrashi says softly. "You would rather kill your own people than let the enemy walk away?"
I snort and shrug. "Killing isn't the same as letting die, Proctor."
My eyes drift to the window, watching the grey clouds outside.
"Also you do not let an enemy walk away knowing they will be a threat later on," I state, my voice dropping an octave, becoming harder. "You get rid of them. You obliterate them. No matter what."
"He is talking about decimating entire villages!"
The protest comes from a girl in the middle row, House Luxor again. Her face is flushed with indignation. She stands up, pointing a shaking finger at the map.
"You cannot just break a dam like that!" she shouts, her voice shrill. "They take years to rebuild! The entire river system floods, not just the valley. You are talking about downstream settlements. You are talking about famine for the entire region if the harvest is washed away and we may not have the resources to assist these people!"
I turn my head slowly to look at her. She freezes under my gaze. I do not glare. I just look at her like she is a particularly slow child explaining why she shouldn't have to eat her vegetables.
"Problems that can be solved," I say coldly.
"Solved?" she sputters. "Starvation is a problem you solve?"
"They cannot be solved if the invading army murders everyone anyway as they storm inland," I retort. "If those two battalions survive the valley, they march into our country and they beeline to the capital. They burn the fields anyway. They salt the earth. At least my way, the enemy is dead. We can rebuild a dam. We can import grain. We cannot resurrect a conquered nation if all of our people are slaughtered."
She opens her mouth to argue, but I cut her off with a flick of my hand.
"You want to save the children? Fine. You surrender. The children are maybe released. Then the Federation army marches twenty miles south and burns the next town, killing hundreds of children. Do you win? Do you save anyone? Or do you just make yourself feel better for five minutes?"
She stands there, mouth agape, unable to find the words. The cruelty of the logic is a wall she cannot climb.
"Enough. Enough," Proctor Dean Abrashi commands, waving his hand dismissively at the girl. "Sit down."
She sinks slowly into her chair, shooting a hateful glare in my direction.
Abrashi turns back to the class. He looks at the map, then at me. He looks almost... pleased. In a sick sort of way. His high-born sense of morality battles with his high-born sense of strategy, and strategy wins.
"Ayato wins this one," he announces, his voice carrying a note of finality. "His proposal is… extreme. But it is well thought out. In a scenario of total loss, the objective shifts from survival to maximum damage infliction. You do not hand the enemy a victory. You make them pay for every inch of ground in blood."
He erases the board with a wave of his hand, the chalk dust swirling.
"We are moving on to the next scenario. A naval blockade.."
I stop listening.
I tune him out, letting his voice fade into the background drone of the room. I roll my eyes, feeling a headache pressing behind my temples.
Stupid, I think.
This type of warfare lines on a map, dams, village hostages it is outdated. It is archaic. No one wages war like that anymore. Not really. Not when you have people like us. Not when you have monsters who can level a city with a thought. It is pointless. Most fighting takes place with both armies rushing at each other and Elites trying to keep their mark less men alive.
But I guess the idea is to make us comfortable with death. To strip away the morality and look at the raw numbers. To teach out to think of victory no matter what, no matter the cost.
You are already comfortable with death, the voices purr, wrapping around my mind like a warm blanket. You are an artist of it. You are the logic of the weapon. That's why you are better then all of them.
I sigh, closing my eyes. The next class is with that cunt Evanora. Combat.
I decide I am content with sleeping through the rest of this class. Let the rest of my stupid ass year one class play at being generals. Let them argue about supply lines and flanking maneuvers.
Real battle is not about strategy not really. It is about who is willing to do the things the other side is not.
As I drift off, listening to the rhythmic snoring of Lucian beside me, I wonder if I should have told them about the poison. If I were really in charge of that valley, I would not just break the dam. I would poison the reservoir first. Just to be sure the soldiers who survived the initial flood die when they attempt to scavenge for clean water.