Chapter 137: Chapter 137
Vaeliyan’s voice cut through the haze of sawdust and sweat, sharp as a blade, steady as iron. “This is just the base structure. Move fast. Everyone remembers their tasks. The faster it’s done, the harder we are to kill. Don’t waste a breath.”
Sixteen cadets snapped into motion as if he had pulled their strings. Each one hauled out the strange little devices Vaeliyan had shoved into their cases before the match. On their own, they looked like scavenged junk, second-hand tools, and salvaged hardware-store scraps. But in his hands, and in their hands now, they were pieces of something impossible. What had looked like clutter was about to become the spine of a fortress.
Wesley staggered forward with two heavy buckets of pitch, sloshing the black tar against the palisade in thick dripping sheets. The sticky substance oozed down the green logs, staining them black and shining wet in the light. It was a reckless idea, pitch turned wood into torches, and even green timber would burn like tinder. But there was method behind the madness. Right behind him Elian moved with the ugly industrial sprayer Vaeliyan had thrust into his arms, an aerosol rig bolted together from scrap parts and jury-rigged nozzles. It spat a roiling mist of foaming kalacrete, coating the inner walls until they gleamed pale gray. The hardware-store mix hardened on contact, layering in uneven patches until the wall became a living contradiction: a barrier that would burn without breaking, as if it could burn and yet remain intact, the outside coated while the inside calcified into stone.
At the base of the wall, Varnai crouched low, hurriedly unspooling ducting and cables from a compact air purifier. Her hands shook as she wired it into a junction box. She knew what was coming: smoke, thick and choking, heavy enough to suffocate them if the fortress burned uncontrolled. But with her purifier running, Class One would breathe clean while their enemies coughed themselves blind. A few feet away, Ramis grunted as he shoved an industrial portable AC unit into position, metal groaning under his weight. He braced his shoulder against the palisade and forced the machine into its place. When the fortress became a furnace, the AC would keep air moving, pulling heat off the cadets’ backs even as the outside world boiled. As soon as it was secure he started running the vent hoses everywhere he could reach, Rokhan and Torman moving alongside him to string the ducts through every corner of the fortress until the interior breathed like a cooled lung.
Sylen was everywhere, dragging lengths of pipe and scrap tubing up against the walls, hammering them into place with manic energy. She laughed as she worked, rigging crude funnels that would vent the worst of the smoke away from their positions and channel it outward through jagged slits. Where others might have choked, she made sure the fortress could breathe through fire, creating sightlines in chaos.
On the ramparts, Roan moved quick and efficient, his arms streaked with sweat and dust. He spread more kalacrete along the tops, smoothing rough edges into hard lines, paving the firing lanes where veterans expected only splinters and bark. Every strip of foam became a path for boots and a brace for lances. Above him, in the central tower, Fenn had already laid himself flat, lance resting in the crook of his arms. Vaeliyan crouched beside him, his stinger lance at the ready, eyes sweeping the canopy with predatory focus. He tracked every shift of motion with precision, eyes sweeping ceaselessly through the canopy.
Jurpat filled the west tower like a siege engine waiting to wake, his broad frame wedged against the beams until the wood creaked. In the north tower, Lessa braced her cannon arms against the rampart. Hydraulic hiss rolled down the line as she locked into place. South and east, the twins readied their stations, their overlapping voices rising in eerie synchronicity, calling out charges, sight checks, and corrections before anyone else could open their mouths.
And then Varnai froze. She had reached the recessed button on the plate, the heart of the base machine. Her hands shook as her eyes locked on it. The rest of the class worked around her, the fortress alive with hammering and the hiss of foam, but her gut twisted with dread. Vaeliyan had told her what it would do, but hearing it and seeing it were different beasts.
She pressed it anyway.
The plate screamed as it collapsed inward, iron grinding on iron. The ground bucked beneath them, dirt spraying upward in wet clods. The earth itself groaned and split as arms punched downward, tearing into soil. The fortress shuddered like a beast birthing itself, timbers rattling, nails squealing in their seats. Dust rained down from the ramparts as though the whole structure was trying to shake itself apart. For a heartbeat it felt like the earth might swallow them whole.
“Keep working!” Vaeliyan’s voice roared across comms, unshaken, absolute. “It’s the second phase. The constructor’s digging us a basement. Reinforcing from below. No sappers today. No surprises.”
The earth trembled again as the bot chewed deeper, tearing tunnels, compacting walls, and driving supports into the ground like iron bones. The palisade steadied. The walls didn’t just stand, they rooted. The whole fortress braced like it was settling its stance for a fight, a beast lowering itself before the charge.
Vaeliyan’s orders followed without pause, crisp and sharp. “Elian, Torman, foam it, seal it tight. Ramis, once it’s sealed, it’s yours. Make it a nightmare. Let them think twice before they ever try digging under us.”
A ripple of uneasy laughter filled the comms. No one asked what Ramis planned to do. They didn’t need to. The dragging scrape of his gear down into the hatch said enough. The sound was ugly, metallic, hungry. The kind of sound that promised that if the fourth-years ever thought about crawling under the walls, they’d regret it before their first breath of smoke. The cadets worked on, sweat dripping, the realization sinking in: the fortress wasn’t just wood and nails anymore. It was alive, and it was waiting.
They were almost done with the basement when Vexa’s voice cracked over the comms, sharp and urgent, cutting through the grind of tools and the hiss of kalacrete. “Movement in the brush. South side. I think it’s time to light up the jungle.”
“Roger, ” Vaeliyan answered without hesitation, his tone calm but edged with anticipation. He didn’t need to shout, every ear in Class One leaned in instinctively when he spoke. The words carried a weight that made even the sound of the earthmover below seem to pause.
Wesley crouched at the base of the wall, a single match trembling between his fingers. The fortress around him was alive with motion: the purifier humming, the vents rattling as Ramis forced air through. Sweat dripped down Wesley’s neck, mixing with tar smears on his gauntlets. He struck the match, the tiny flame flaring to life and reflecting in his visor, turning his face into a mask of flickering orange. For a heartbeat he just watched it dance, the light licking the air as if daring him forward, as if it knew the hunger waiting in the pitch-soaked walls.
“This is an awesome plan, ” he muttered to himself, a grin tugging at his mouth despite the fear tight in his chest. “Even if I die, I’m following that man into the hells.”
He held the flame for a breath longer, savoring the moment, then let it fall from his fingers.
The match landed with a hiss and vanished in tar. A second of silence stretched, almost enough to make him wonder if it would fail. And then the outer wall erupted with a massive whump, fire exploding outward in a hungry breath that sucked the air from Wesley’s lungs. The pitch ignited in a wave, flames racing up the wood in an instant, crawling over the fortress in jagged streaks. Heat rolled over them like the opening of an oven door, fierce and sudden, before the vents kicked and drew the worst of it away.
Flames roared skyward, thick smoke curling into the canopy in towering sheets. The jungle lit like a pyre, the undergrowth crackling, the light searing into the brush where the veterans had thought themselves hidden. The entire treeline became a stage lit in fire. From within the walls, through the gaps Sylen had shaped, Class One had clean sightlines. Outside, nothing but shifting shadow and smoke-choked flame.
The fortress came alive, not collapsing under fire but reveling in it, a burning bastion that dared the fourth-years to step closer. For the first time in legion history, the jungle didn’t consume the cadets. It burned for them.
Lessa’s voice cracked through the comms, sharp and tense, slicing through the chaos of hammering tools and the hum of purifiers. “Multiple contacts on my side, they’re trying to flank!” Her cannons boomed a second later, the recoil thundering through her tower with bone-deep vibrations. Concussive blasts of force ripped outward, hammering into the brush with sonic fury. The shockwaves tore through foliage, branches snapping and whipping in the sudden gale, scattering shadows like paper in the wind. Smoke twisted violently under the pressure, obscuring vision for the veterans trying to crawl closer. Still, more silhouettes kept pushing, relentless, darting in and out of the firelit haze.
From the central tower, Vaeliyan and Fenn opened up at once. The two worked in ruthless rhythm, their lances hammering in unison. Fenn’s shots were precise, quick bursts cracking through the smoke, while Vaeliyan’s fire lanced through gaps Sylen had crafted, sweeping arcs that punished anything foolish enough to advance. Bright flares lit the slits in the tower; each report a brutal punctuation mark. They raked the treeline, cutting down advancing squads and forcing the rest to dive for cover. The fortress’s core became a reaper’s nest, its killing fields alive with light and thunder.
Then Leron shouted over the comms, voice clipped with urgency. “I’ve got four on my side, Roan, I need you now!”
Roan didn’t hesitate. His armored bulk pounded across the ramparts, the kalacrete underfoot vibrating with each impact but holding fast as he surged forward. He vaulted into position beside Leron, movements thunderous and unrelenting. His lance barked sharp bursts of flechettes, chewing through the undergrowth and driving veterans into the open. Varnai scrambled up behind him, half-hauling her gear into position. Her fingers were quick despite the panic in her breath, her voice ragged but steady as she marked angles, calling her own shots to back the line. Together the three of them stitched a wall of force into the south, slowing the flank before it could wrap around.
This story originates from NovelHub. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.
Jurpat’s deep voice came calm and even from the west tower, utterly unbothered. “Still nothing on my side.”
“Keep watch, ” Vaeliyan ordered, his tone hard as steel and absolute. “It’s unlikely they don’t have someone there. Stay ready.”
The words had barely left him when the ground beneath Jurpat’s tower shuddered with sudden violence. Soil bulged upward, timbers groaned, and dust cascaded down the inside walls as unseen claws tore at the foundation. The fortress shook in a way that made cadets grip their lances tighter, nerves flaring.
“Never mind, I’m on them, ” Ramis cut in over the comms, his voice low, dark, and heavy with grim satisfaction. “They’re trying to come in from under. Fun times for them. Pretty sure I killed two just now in that attack.”
There was a pause, punctuated by the wet grind of stone twisting and shifting beneath the fortress. A muffled crack followed, then silence. The implication was clear enough.
“Being boiled alive in stone will do that to you, ” Fenn muttered with a grim chuckle, his finger tightening on the trigger as he fired again into the brush.
A ripple of laughter rolled across the comms, sharp and uneasy but binding them tighter. They all knew Ramis’s Soul Skill was no joke. Boiling mud so hot it cooked flesh in seconds, thick enough to glue armor to the ground and heavy enough to swallow squads whole. It wasn’t quite lava, but it was close enough, close enough that the fourth years under the wall would never crawl back out. No one ever saw it coming, and in that moment, with the fortress burning above and death waiting below, Class One realized they weren’t just holding ground. They were turning Nespói into a grave.
The fortress was alive now, every tower speaking in thunder that shook the earth beneath their feet. Lessa’s cannons beat like war drums, the concussive blasts slamming through the canopy with relentless rhythm. Each force wave snapped branches like bones, hurled dirt into the air, and tore fourth-years out of cover with bone-crushing impact. Smoke funneled through Sylen’s rigged piping, curling into jagged controlled streams that poured outward like serpents. Outside the walls, the fourth-years stumbled through blinding sheets of smoke and flame. Inside, the 93rd saw everything: clear lines, clean targets, an enemy reduced to silhouettes moving across a stage of fire.
“Target down!” Fenn’s voice cracked across the comms as his lance spat bright fire. Through the haze, a fourth-year dropped like a puppet with its strings cut, armor splitting under the force, helmet snapping sideways as the body hit the ground with a hollow thud. The sound was faint under the roar of the fortress, but every cadet in the 93rd heard it.
Vaeliyan’s voice followed without hesitation, cold, sharp, and certain. “Keep pressure. Don’t give them space. Every one that falls makes the next hesitate. Break them here before they find their footing.” His tone carried no doubt, no strain, only command. The cadets moved as though his words were orders they had trained under for years, not days.
Sylen cackled from her perch as the funnels of smoke bent outward at her direction, blinding another squad attempting to circle wide. “Run through the fire, you bastards! Come on, let’s see you trip over yourselves!” Her laugh cut through the comms like a blade, reckless and wild, but it bought them another breath of control as fourth-years staggered into one another, coughing and shouting.
Roan and Leron fired in brutal tandem, the kalacrete underfoot vibrating with the rhythm of their shots. Each time Leron called a target, Roan answered, his heavy bursts driving enemies out of cover and into Varnai’s line of fire. Varnai steadied her breathing and marked angles, squeezing off shots with deadly focus. One fourth-year staggered with a scream as her bolt cut into their side, and Roan finished the job, slamming the figure to the ground with an unrelenting blast.
The fortress was no longer a shell of wood and pitch; it was a beast of iron lungs and burning eyes, spitting fire and force in every direction. The cadets felt it in their bones: they weren’t prey huddled behind walls anymore. They were predators behind fire, carving the jungle into killing grounds with every trigger pulled and every shadow brought down.
For the first time, it was the fourth-years who faltered. Their confidence broke in the blaze; their lines staggered under the storm. What was meant to be a hunt had become a siege, and the 93rd pressed harder, knowing momentum was theirs. The fire roared higher, the smoke thickened, and the fortress’s voice thundered across Nespói like a promise of death.
The counterattack came hard, and this time it was different. Deic’s squad had stopped holding back. The first wave of their heavy hitters surged from the smoke, armored frames pounding through the undergrowth like juggernauts. They didn’t creep or probe, they hit the fortress head on, shoulder plates and fists slamming into the outer wall with brutal confidence. The impacts thundered through the fortress, a pounding rhythm that made even the kalacrete underfoot tremble. The sound was sickening, like the fortress’s ribs cracking. But the wall did not fall. Instead of splintering, the defenses held, the false timber shell groaning but refusing to give. When the smoke thinned for a moment, the fourth-year cadets reeled back in shock, realizing too late that the logs were nothing more than camouflage. Beneath them was something far stronger, walls lined with kalacrete, the same material mega-structures were built from. Vaeliyan’s trick had bought them a fortress no battering ram could casually break. The first breach attempt had failed.
But then came the beasts.
The jungle itself seemed to shudder before they appeared. Then the firelight broke and a rush of snarling shapes poured out of the undergrowth, eyes reflecting flame, jaws snapping. Feral Nespói war-beasts, creatures often seen fighting alongside the insurgency, charged in a tide of muscle, fang, and scar tissue. Their hides bore crude insurgent brands, their limbs twisted by generations of selective survival. They were larger than most men, built to run down soldiers and crack armor with raw weight. The Citadel taught cadets never to underestimate them, and here they were, screaming through smoke and fire. This was why Vaeliyan had been certain Deic would choose this simulation.
The 93rd opened fire instinctively, lances barking streams of flechettes into the horde. Beasts buckled, but more surged forward, trampling their own. For every one that fell, two pushed through the smoke. The walls shook with the thunder of their charge. And then Vaeliyan’s voice cut sharp and clean across the comms. “Hold. Save your shots. They want us empty.”
He was right. Flechettes weren’t limitless. In a siege , you couldn’t run outside the walls to pick them back up. Every wasted round was a piece of their survival thrown into the dirt. They couldn’t let Deic’s squad bleed them dry before the real fight even began. Content orıginally comes from n0velfire.net
“Fenn, ” Vaeliyan said, calm and deliberate despite the storm at their gates. “It’s time.”
Fenn didn’t argue. He nodded once, letting his lance clatter against the floor. The sound rang out like a challenge. From across his back he pulled something that looked almost laughably simple: a bow, plain and curved, with not a single arrow in sight. But he didn’t need arrows. His Soul Skill made sure of that.
He drew the string, and the bow thrummed. The air itself shifted, compressed into a deadly shape only he could control. With a crack of displaced atmosphere, the first invisible arrow streaked across the night. The lead beast jerked violently, its chest caving inward as though struck by a falling boulder, body tumbling head over heels into the pack behind it. The others trampled over it, their momentum faltering for just a breath.
Fenn exhaled slow, steady, and drew again. The bow sang, and another beast staggered, skull snapping sideways as if struck by an invisible hammer. He kept firing, each shot nothing more than air shaped by will, each strike hitting with lethal precision. The horde began to falter under his storm, bodies crashing into one another as the pack thinned.
On the wall nearby, Elian pressed both hands against the rampart, eyes narrowed on the incoming storm of metal. Flechettes whined overhead, dozens at once, fired by the fourth-year cadets beyond the fireline. This time he didn’t let them pass. His Soul Skill caught them mid-flight, halting their deadly paths with invisible command. One by one, then in groups, the flechettes bent under his control, dragged in toward him as if gravity itself had chosen a new master. They clattered down at his feet in neat piles, harmless now but ready to be turned back. He collected them as if they were deserters returning to ranks.
He barked a laugh between clenched teeth, sweat streaking his brow. “Never thought I’d end up a support unit in a fight. But hells, this is genius.” His gauntlets tightened on the rampart as another storm of flechettes bent into his grasp. He glanced at the growing cache beside him and shook his head in disbelief. “Never really thought about running out before. Flechettes are reusable after all. In a siege , it's so much more versatile than even I realized, and Vaeliyan saw it before I did.”
The fortress adapted in real time. The walls still burned with pitch, the kalacrete still braced against every blow, but now the air itself became arrows and the enemy’s own ammunition was turning against them. Every tower, every cadet had their part to play. And with every beast that fell and every flechette collected, the 93rd’s defense shifted from desperate survival into a machine of calculated defiance.
Deic was furious. Who the hells was this kid, and how was he doing this? The Nespói insurgency setup was supposed to be a death sentence, a simulation designed to chew cadets apart until they had nothing left but broken armor and silence. No one agreed to it willingly. Those who had found themselves dragged into it never came out the same, and often only entered it because they hadn’t paid enough attention to the briefing, or were too green to understand what they had signed up for. It was a trap disguised as a test, and she had used it more than once to remind younger cadets what the Citadel really meant. It wasn’t survival, it was punishment. But this kid, no, Vaeliyan, had known she would choose it. He had baited her into it. He had counted on her anger, on her pride, on the insult she thought he had thrown her way. He had read her so well it made her skin crawl. And now, instead of being ground under, he had turned Nespói into a siege. A siege. No first-year had ever done this.
Her jaw tightened, teeth grinding audibly as the realization sank in deeper with every moment. He wasn’t improvising, wasn’t scrambling like prey in the brush. He had planned all of this, every step, every wall, every trap. She could see the shape of it now in hindsight: the towers, the smoke, the fire, the reinforcements hidden under the soil. This wasn’t luck. He had flipped her own weapon against her and was dragging her squad into a grinder of his own making. For the gods’ sake, he was winning. Winning in Nespói was supposed to be impossible, but Vaeliyan had made the jungle itself bow to his tempo. The thought clawed at her, hot and sharp, because it meant she had underestimated him, and that was a mistake she never forgave in herself.
She drew a slow breath, trying to leash her fury into focus. Respect. That was what he had earned, and she hated it. She needed to give him far more respect than she had thought necessary, because if she didn’t, he might drag this further, might make this humiliation permanent. He was dangerous. He was clever. And worse, he wasn’t done. She could feel it in the rhythm of the fight; in the way his squad moved without hesitation. He most definitely had more hidden up his sleeve than what he was showing now. He had planned for beasts, for fire, for attrition, and he was still holding something back. That thought made her gut twist with anticipation and dread alike.
But so did she. Deic hadn’t shown her true hand yet either. She would shift. She would escalate. The fight wasn’t done, and she would make sure he learned that firsthand. Kelmar, Greg, and Luna were already slagged, their loss a bitter weight she hadn’t expected to carry this soon, but she had more. Others in her squad were still primed and hungry, still capable of hitting hard enough to split his fortress wide open. It would be more difficult now, the element of surprise gone, but it would be enough. Her next offensive would shatter his defenses, tear apart his carefully stacked plans, and remind every single one of them that a fourth-year did not lose to a first. Fortress or not, Vaeliyan Verdance would learn where his place truly was.