Ryder stood near the front — a tall, cocky cadet with a swaggering attitude and too much to prove. His eyes fixed on Billy like a hawk spotting prey. "So this is what passes for talent now?" Ryder shouted across the yard. "You vanish for days, skip half your classes, and get handed a top spot because of pity?" The laughter from a few nearby students stoked the tension instantly. Billy stopped walking. The air around him seemed to still, that subtle mechanical whirr of his arm barely audible. "You want to repeat that?" he asked quietly. Ryder took a step closer, grinning. "I said you don't deserve it, mate. You're a fraud — a one-armed charity case. You couldn't fight your way out of—" He never finished the sentence. Billy moved faster than anyone could follow — a blur of motion, his artificial arm driving forward with a sickening crunch. His fist punched clean through Ryder's chest, the sound echoing across the courtyard like thunder. Gasps erupted all around as Billy withdrew his arm, expression completely unchanged. Ryder collapsed in a heap, lifeless before he hit the ground. For a heartbeat, no one moved. Then Billy simply stepped over the body, brushing the blood from his sleeve with mechanical precision. His voice was low, almost calm. "Anyone else want to try Fuck with me, test how much I've earned it?" The silence was suffocating. Even Max, usually eager to taunt, said nothing — his smirk fading into something closer to awe… or fear. Billy walked away without looking back, the crowd parting silently around him. From the far side of the yard, Sergeant Marek appeared, his expression darkening as he saw the scene unfold. "Get the medics," he barked. "Now!" Elena stood frozen, heart pounding, unable to tear her eyes away from the blood dripping off Billy's metal fist. Scarlett whispered, "Elena… what's happened to him?" Elena swallowed hard, her mind flashing back to the boy who once smiled, who threw himself in front of acid to save her. The same boy now walking calmly away from the body of another cadet. "I don't know," she whispered. "But that's not Billy anymore."
The days after Ryder's death were heavy with silence. The academy halls echoed with marching boots and shouted drills, yet beneath the discipline, unease clung to every whispered word. No one dared speak of what they'd seen — of the way Billy had walked away, calm as still water, from the ruin he'd made.
Officially, it was "an unfortunate training accident." Unofficially, it was legend in the making.
Major Grant had smoothed it all over with disturbing efficiency. Reports were altered, statements sealed, and within a day, Ryder's name was no longer listed on the cadet rosters. Billy returned to training as though nothing had changed — though everyone around him had.
Max felt the shift most of all. His father's approving nods now went to Billy. The glances that once lingered on him in pride were cold and distant. Each compliment Billy received landed like a hammer against Max's pride, splintering it piece by piece.
But Billy didn't bask in attention. He wasn't chasing respect or approval.
Only power.
By week's end, the cadets were summoned to the central hall. Rows of heavy crates lined the floor, humming faintly with energy. Sergeant Smith stood at the front, his usual proud figure flanked by Sergeant Marek and a new face — a tall woman with long golden hair tied neatly at the side. She wore the academy uniform but with a natural ease, as though the fabric bent to her rather than the other way round.
Her eyes were sharp but kind, and at her hip coiled a whip — not of leather, but of living vines woven together, pulsing faintly within the green leaves.