Cain had just turned twelve, and the softness of childhood had nearly vanished. His jaw had grown lean and angular, shaped by discipline and repetition. A sharp focus lived in his eyes, the kind born not from play but from pressure and responsibility. Unruly black hair framed his face, refusing to stay flat no matter how often it was combed.
Time was scarce, and every second had gone into honing his skill with the gear he trusted to keep him alive. He wasn't a soldier yet, but he was being shaped like one, one hour, one bruise and one decision at a time.
After a few more months of solo drills, he was finally ready to leave. Now, he sat inside a metallic chamber, but this wasn't just any ordinary chamber. It was a half-kilometer-long cylindrical barrel, one of the four back-mounted cannons of the Roosevelt Fortress.
Designed to launch siege-class payloads, the cannon was now set to fire a terrified pre-teen packed into a rusty transport round.
Cain adjusted his suit for the seventh time, fingers twitching as metal creaked around him. He had been sitting in silence for minutes, nerves coiling tighter with each sound.
Finally, unable to stand the rattling any longer, he pressed a finger to his terminal and activated his microphone.
"Uncle J, is… is this safe?"
The ammunition itself was old, unused, and clearly decommissioned for some unspoken reason.
Static buzzed. Arthur's voice came through in bursts, as if he was fighting to put a word in through the microphone.
"Sending."
Each strained syllable carried urgency, the sound of a man fighting not to be drowned out.
"Davy. Jones."
"Gramps, what's this Davy Jones talk? I ain't even going to the sea."
Then came a crash, loud and final, like someone had physically stopped him from speaking. With a few breath of silence, Julius's smooth voice crackled through.
"Ahem. Yes. Very safe. This'll save you a good fifty to eighty kilometers of walking. You're inside a blank round. Just brace for the G-force. Nothing serious little lad."
"Imagine flying to the moon like when I tossed you up as a baby."
Cain's skin went pale, a chill creeping down his spine.
"Uncle Julius, this isn't funny. Stop joking around. I'm getting off—"
He fumbled with his harness, trying to unbuckle, but then came the heavy clank of machinery. A massive spring hissed behind him. The shell casing locked in place, it was like a final click echoing like a sentence.
"I'm serious! I'm—"
The world disappeared in a thunderous boom.
"Waaah!"
His scream bounced inside the shell like a trapped banshee.
Back at the fortress, the comms crackled to life, a grainy video feed showed Cain's face frozen in mid-howl as the bullet shot through the sky. Arthur who was watching from the command deck couldn't help but let out a chuckle.
"That lil chap better bring us something good when he comes back, eh Arthur. Look at his face."
"I just hope he'll be alright."
Julius, ever the prankster, had even rigged a speaker inside the shell to play random mechanical noises, he even went as far as strapping a torn tarp over the front just to make the kid think the whole thing was falling apart mid-flight.
"Grandpa! Save me!"
He gripped the sides of his seat and screamed, his voice lost in the howling air and shaking frame.
Just when he thought he might faint, Julius's face flickered onto the wrist display of his holo-terminal.
"Lil chap, it was all a prank. Don't get too worked up now. Hop out of the round at three-point-five kilometers altitude. Sliabh'Verdan's Seigefort City's about thirteen hundred klicks out. You're a man now, lad. I reckon you'll manage just fine."
As the transmission flickered out, Cain swallowed hard, steadied his breathing, and checked his terminal for his current altitude.
[Altitude: 5,056 Meters]
Just as he secured his helmet and reached for his terminal to check the map, the view outside the porthole caught his eye.
Far ahead, rising through the mist and broken peaks, loomed the remains of a being that had once burned with living magma.
"The titans."
Its frame was inconceivable, a towering colossus forged from obsidian and fire, veins of molten light once pulsed as they themselves are children of earth. During its lifetime, it walked like an apocalypse. Each footfall split the earth, its presence reshaped mountains and boiled rivers into steam.
But now, it was dead.
The magma had long cooled to black stone, jagged and fractured. Its blazing form lay broken, scattered into spires that pierced the clouds. The titan's corpse had become the land itself, its limbs formed the mountains and the hollow chest gave way to rising forests.
At the center, a divine spear still stood and still shimmered faintly, it was the very weapon that pierced its heart and ended its life.
Half-buried in a cliffside, its grimace locked in eternal wrath, it stared to the heavens with sockets like charred furnaces. Even in death, it face remained seething. Nature had tried to soothe it, cloaking it in greenery, but the fury lingered, vast and unresolved.
While Cain's eyes fell into a dreamlike trance inside his mind, a sharp ping pulled his attention.
[Approaching Optimum Altitude]
[Altitude: 4,007 Meters]
"Focus, Cain. We can't be daydreaming like this all the time."
Steadying his breathing, he tugged on each piece of gear, making sure everything would hold and not fly off once he took to the air.
His suit was matte black and smooth to the touch, each segment seamlessly integrated with hidden sensors operated by magicules. These fed directly into his helmet's interface, forming a precision system designed for rapid response.
Cain had also modified the visor to obscure his face and project illusionary features, making him nearly impossible to identify. Lastly, the wingsuit's fabric was reinforced for g-force resistance and small-caliber impacts, a standard instrument in a war-torn world like this.
'Nothing seemed out of place.'
Cain exhaled a shaky breath, his gloved fingers hovering over the ejection control.
Him leaving Roosevelt Fortress wasn't just a test of gear, it was the first step toward proving he could stand on his own.
Arthur could've funded everything and secured Cain a spot in any school. But Cain refused, it wasn't out of petty pride or some romantic notion of earning it himself.
The truth was simpler, the top five academies had a second admission criterion, it was a flawless transaction record. He needed to earn his Societal Reputation. It was similar to a credit score, but with far greater benefits than just financial leverage or loan access.
A high reputation could unlock top-tier job opportunities, premium access to elite establishments, and, if high enough, grant you treatment even better than royalty. Each point reflected personal virtues, measured across three core principles.
Reliability, honesty, and commitment to the law.
If Arthur paid his tuition, Cain's application would still rank lower than those who had built their reputation through personal trials and real-world decisions.
For the past thousand years, no one had successfully tricked the system, huge tycoons and high-ranking magicians even sent their silk-pants heirs through staged hardship arcs, only to end up slapping their own faces when they tried to fake what couldn't be forged.
Cain knew one thing for certain, no one climbed to the top alone.
If he wanted to truly rise, he'd need more than skill or luck. He'd need a crew and not just warm bodies or yes-men, but capable, loyal and razor-sharp people. The kind who could handle backroom deals one day and face monsters the next.
People he could trust to carry weight, share risk, and fight beside him when everything went to hell.
But before a plan could form, his thoughts scattered as urgent beeping filled the cabin, snapping him back to the present.
Altitude warnings pulsed across his terminal as the transport munition began to lose velocity.
[Altitude: 3,523 Meters]
Without hesitation, he slammed the ejector and a harsh click snapped through the capsule. The rocket seat jetted out, his body slammed against the restraints, rattling his bones and blurring his vision for a moment.
Looking below, he saw the shell falling away like a worn-out gear ejected from an overclocked engine. Cain didn't wait for the automated parachute. He unbuckled, kicked the seat behind him, and stepped into open air.
His arms spread like wings, the reinforced glider suit catching the air with a snap.
After a few ticks in, he glanced at his terminal, it was already tracking as he picked up speed and started losing altitude.
[Traveling Speed: 231 km/h]
[Altitude: 3,327 Meters]
"Woohoo!"
Freedom surged through him as he glided effortlessly in the air, his tense body relaxed as he appreciated the scenery below.
It was a battlefield long reclaimed by nature and silence.
Then he spotted movement ahead. It was distant, yet fast.
But by the time it registered in his mind, it was already too late.
Their twisted forms resembled corrupted cranes, wingspans stretching two to four meters. Their feathers were matted with ash and grime, as if clawed from a burned wasteland. Beaks jutted forward, jagged and serrated like saw blades. When they cawed, rows of exposed teeth clicked in the gaps, chattering with each cry.
He bellowed, trying to force them to scatter.
'Oh no, Filth-eating cranes!'
"Hey! Move! Get out of the way!"
Cain crossed his forearms in an X-shape, with a pulse of fortification magic activated, he sent bluish hexagons racing across his suit like a protective weave.
"Thud! Thud! Thud!"
A swarm of black-winged mutant birds crashed into him in rapid succession. Each blow hit like a hammer, pounding through his spell and sending shockwaves deep into his bones.
The spell held, but the force made his muscles shudder.
'No way. I just got outside. Why the sudden misfortune?'
The unlucky birds he collided with crumpled mid-air, spiraling toward the distant ground.
The largest one descended, wings stretching at least five meters across, its feathers jagged like shards of broken glass. A guttural caw burst from its vocal sac, a rallying cry for his flock to catch the boy.
'I didn't even do anything.'
Yes he did not, except admiring the sky like an idiot while flying through hostile airspace.
Cain scrolled through his presets.
'Light Cask.'
Originally a destructive spell, he'd modified it to be bright, loud, and mostly harmless, more flashbang than frag.
Just enough to buy time. Enough to make them dodge, hesitate and scatter.
Seeing them stall for a moment, Cain was about to smile, but the flock's leader swept in beside him.
Its decayed beak opened wide and clamped down on his right forearm. Crunching sounds echoed as layers of his spell barrier began to shatter.
Cain gritted his teeth, channeling more magicules into the protective layer as cracks spiderwebbed across its surface.
'Magic missile.'
Energy surged into his left pistol, but the bird reacted first. It thrashed its head and flung Cain away like a ragdoll.
He spun mid-air, wingsuit flaps shrieking as he tried to regain control.
He wasn't gliding anymore.
He was falling, and fast.