The graduation ceremony of the Royal Orbiton Pilot Academy was held beneath an open Terrian sky, formal, immaculate, and heavy with significance. The base grounds had been transformed overnight—what was usually a vast expanse of reinforced landing concrete now bore banners of royal blue and imperial gold, each emblazoned with the sigil of the Terrian Empire. A temporary podium had been erected at the center, elevated just enough to command attention without arrogance. Rows of uniformed officers, instructors, and graduating recruits stood in perfect formation before it, their posture rigid, their expressions solemn.
General Varos and Director Presley stood at the podium, their uniforms pristine, medals glinting beneath the morning sun. Behind them, the Terrian flag and the banner of the Royal Army stirred gently in the wind. The air itself felt charged—thick with pride, expectation, and the unspoken weight of what lay ahead.
Presley stepped forward, his voice carried clearly through the amplifiers.
"Today," he began, "we honor those who endured the crucible of the Royal Orbiton Pilot Academy. Those who stood where many fell. Those who proved not only skill, but resolve."
One by one, names were called.
Recruits who had survived to the final phase stepped forward, receiving recognition for their efforts—each awarded their wings, their commissions, their place in the Terrian military. They were applauded, saluted, and dismissed with honor. Though they would not ascend further, they had earned their right to serve.
Then Presley paused.
The atmosphere shifted.
"And now," he said, "we recognize the top three graduates of this class."
A hush fell over the grounds.
Presley glanced down at his datapad, then lifted his gaze.
"Kess Pert."
Kess stepped forward from the ranks, his stride confident but controlled. He climbed the steps to the podium, boots striking metal with crisp precision. Presley turned toward him and saluted sharply, Varos following suit. Presley then placed the medal over Kess's neck—the insignia of distinction resting against his chest.
"Good job, recruit," Presley said, his voice firm but warm. "May you serve this empire with grace and dignity."
Kess returned the salute, eyes forward, pride restrained but unmistakable. He turned and descended the podium, rejoining the formation without a word.
Presley returned to the microphone.
"Adin Roe."
Adin stepped forward next. Though faint bruises still marked his face from the final trial, he held his head high. There was no bitterness in his expression—only determination, sharpened by hardship. He mounted the podium, saluted, and received his medal in silence.
"May you serve this empire with grace and dignity," Presley repeated.
Adin saluted both men, then turned and walked back down, shoulders squared.
Then came the final name.
Presley's voice slowed, deliberate.
"Youri Kronos."
For a brief moment, the world seemed to narrow.
Youri stepped out of formation and began walking toward the podium. Each step felt heavier than the last, not from exhaustion, but from memory. Five months of relentless training replayed in his mind—sleepless nights, fractured simulations, neural overloads, failure, pain, and perseverance. He remembered the first day he had walked into the academy unsure if he even belonged there.
Now he stood here.
He glanced sideways at his fellow recruits as he walked past them—faces he had trained with, competed against, suffered alongside. Some smiled. Others nodded. He felt an unexpected warmth in his chest.
This had never been the path he imagined for himself.
Yet fate had placed it in his hands all the same.
And beyond this ceremony lay Volar.
His friends.
His reason.
Youri reached the podium and stood before Presley and Varos. Both men saluted him in unison. Presley stepped forward and placed the medal over Youri's neck, the cool metal settling against his uniform.
Presley leaned in slightly.
"I knew you would make it, kid," he said quietly. "May you serve this empire with grace and dignity."
Youri returned the salute, steady and precise. As he turned and walked back down the podium, applause broke across the formation—measured, respectful, earned.
Presley returned to the microphone one final time.
"Recruits," he said, his voice carrying authority, "this will be the last time I address you by that title."
The graduates stood straighter.
"From this moment forward, you are soldiers of the Terrian Empire. You wear its insignia not by birthright, but by merit. Fight for it. Defend it. Make our Emperor proud—no matter the cost."
He paused.
"Wear your rank with pride. You earned it."
A unified salute rose from the formation.
"Yes, sir!" they shouted in unison.
The ceremony concluded with that—formal, resolute, final.
The base quieted quickly once the ceremony ended. Most of the graduates were granted a week of leave before their first assignments, and the hangars slowly emptied as pilots prepared to depart.
Inside one of the academy hangars, Youri packed his belongings in silence. His duffel lay open on the bed, folded uniforms stacked neatly inside. The room felt smaller than it once had—emptier.
A soft knock sounded at the doorframe.
Youri turned.
Barnaby leaned casually against the entrance, arms crossed, his usual composed expression tinged with something unreadable.
"It's been six long months, huh?" Barnaby said.
Youri nodded. "Yeah. But I managed to graduate."
Barnaby smirked faintly. "Top of the class, no less."
Youri shrugged. "Guess I proved you wrong."
"So," Barnaby continued, stepping inside, "you landed yourself a seat in the top unit."
"I did," Youri replied.
Barnaby's expression shifted then—subtle, but unmistakable. He inhaled slowly.
"This might be fate, kid," Barnaby said, "but I've got some bad news for you."
Youri paused mid-pack. "What is it?"
Barnaby met his eyes. "Two days ago, an imperial order was issued."
Youri straightened. "What kind of order?"
Barnaby didn't hesitate.
"Total inhalation of Volar."
The words hit like a physical blow.
Youri froze. "What do you mean by that?"
Barnaby's voice was steady, unforgiving. "Volar will cease to exist."
Youri's breath caught. "That's not— They can't—"
"They will," Barnaby interrupted. "They're deploying a God Unit. One burst from its cannon will collapse the planet's core."
Youri's mind reeled. "Which unit?"
Barnaby hesitated for the first time.
"The god unit."
The name echoed in Youri's skull.
Only the God Units possess that level of destructive capacity.
Youri's hands clenched into fists.
"And when?" he asked quietly.
Barnaby looked away.
"Soon."