Mira and the Kid stood near a far wall, both wearing the same black training suits given to all new Tuners.
The suits fit tightly but it was still flexible enough for them to move. They were padded at the elbows and knees and had a small Haven Bastion logo stitched on the chest.
Mira tied her dark auburn hair in a messy knot, with some strands sticking to her cheek from the heat.
She stood with her arms crossed and scanned the yard, ready for anything. She had that sharp kind of beauty—confident, focused, like she didn't care what anyone thought.
The Kid was a little smaller and stood quieter, her silver-white hair falling just past her shoulders. Her face stayed calm, almost too calm, and her grayish-blue eyes looked like they were always watching but not saying much.
She didn't speak often, but something about her felt steady—like no matter what happened, she'd keep her cool. Beautiful in her own way, just quieter, softer. A little strange. A little hard to read.
Raith and the others walked toward the two of them. They too, wore the same black training suits.
They were the kind of suits given to low-ranked Tuners—meant for field drills, beginner missions, or early camp sessions.
Not really built or designed for battle.
Just enough to show that you were no longer Untuned.
"Raith!"
Mira noticed him first. She raised a hand, relief flashing across her tired face.
The Kid stayed close to her side, silent, her expression unreadable as always.
Raith raised a hand and waved back. A tired smile formed on his face—but it was real. Seeing them again eased something heavy in his chest.
He'd been worried, especially about the Kid. She was a Duotune—something rare, something valuable. And in a place like this, that could make her a target.
Part of him had been afraid she wouldn't make it out with the rest of them. But she had. She was still here. Still standing. And for now, that was enough.
Dane and Kev emerged a few steps behind him, also stripped down to the same suits. Their old mining suits and broken helmets had been dumped into a pile somewhere along the way—no longer needed.
They had nothing now but themselves... and their Marks.
The group reformed without a word.
For a moment, they stood there, a battered island amid a sea of concrete and strangers, surrounded by officers barking orders and newly registered Tuners like them herded into lines like livestock.
Beyond the towering floodgates, the Outer Region of Haven Bastion stretched far and wide—a maze of factories, run-down housing blocks, and concrete walls that seemed to go on forever.
Somewhere beyond all that lay the heart of the Outer Region—the cleaner, shinier districts where real-but-lower ranked Tuners and Great Families lived. Places people like them had never been allowed to reach.
But, that was before.
"What do you think we're going through next?" Mira asked quietly, breaking the silence.
Raith shrugged. "No idea."
"Training at the camp. Definitely," Dane said. "A hellish one. They probably think late awakeners like us are way behind and need to catch up fast."
"Damn... That doesn't sound so good." Kev scratched the back of his neck, his new ID tag swaying from the thin lanyard. "Anyone else feels like we just signed up for something worse than mining?"
"Don't overthink it," Dane replied, his voice steady. "We've made it this far. That means we've got a shot now—something better than before."
All of them nodded. It wasn't confidence. They knew that. Maybe it was just stubbornness.
Either way, it was enough to keep them moving for now.
A soldier barked for attention, motioning their group—and several other newly registered Tuners—to the transport trucks idling near the loading yard.
No one resisted.
They boarded another rugged carrier—metal benches bolted to the sides, no safety restraints—and rumbled away from the Outer Registration Center 4-B, heading deeper into the Outer Region.
The landscape blurred past—straight grey roads lined with neatly maintained barrier posts, old but solid.
Old factories dotted the distance—remnants of a previous age—but reinforced scaffolding and layered plating showed they were still in active use.
Floating Field Stabilizers hung across the skyline, spaced out in even intervals. They were tall, angular structures that gave off a soft hum—like something alive but tightly controlled.
They were there for one reason; to make sure no Force Fields could form inside the Bastion walls. Every city had them.
Without those Stabilizers constantly suppressing the energy in the air, another Force Field could tear through the ground or air at any moment.
Drones buzzed overhead in organized patrols, their metal shells gleaming under the sun. Not sleek military-grade ones, but older models—reliable, durable, doing their job without fuss.
Below, people moved in orderly clusters across work sectors—some in faded armor, others in utility jumpsuits.
They worked the loading docks, manned the checkpoint gates, or moved crates between armored transports.
No one shouted. No one loitered. Everyone minded their own businesses.
Every motion was purposeful, and mechanical, like a city breathing through the hands of those who refused to be crushed by history.
Haven Bastion's Outer Region wasn't glamorous.
But it was alive. Stable. Focused.
And none of them paid the newcomers any attention. To them, the new Tuners crammed into the back of the transport weren't heroes or curiosities.
They were Tuners but barely, and in a place like this, that made them nothing special.
"Are we really going to the camp?" Mira asked after a while, voice low enough not to draw the soldier's attention.
"Yeah. Heard them talking," Dane answered without opening his eyes. "The only Outer Provision Camp here, Camp 70."
"Camp 70? Sounds lovely," Kev muttered. "Maybe they'll give us a grand welcoming too."
Nobody laughed. Nobody was in the mood for that.
The truck finally jolted to a stop in front of a squat, rectangular building complex—concrete walls, force barriers, and heavy blast doors.
A battered sign above the main gate read: Outer Provision Camp 70.
No banners. No flags. No promises of glory.
Only survival.
"Number 70 again," Raith chuckled.
He'd started in Outer Ward 70. Now he was in Provision Camp 70. And his ID before? 707.
At this point, it felt like his whole life ran on zeroes and sevens.
"Get down!" a soldier barked suddenly.
The Kid glanced up at him. She didn't say anything, but from the way she looked, she was probably wondering why soldiers always had to shout like that—even when it wasn't necessary.
They climbed off the transport under the watchful eyes of guards stationed on raised catwalks. There were at least two dozen of them.
Automated turrets followed their every move with slow, steady clicks.
Raith didn't look at any of it for long. Instead, he focused forward, quietly memorizing every hallway, every doorway. Just in case.
They were herded into a large Main Hall. The space echoed with every footstep. Rows of old benches lined the steel walls—firmly bolted down.
Faded posters hung above them, edges curling with age. They had slogans about loyalty and serving the Haven Bastion, but no one paid attention anymore.
Not even the soldiers.
The air reeked of sterilizer and years of tired desperation. Then, everyone could hear heavy footsteps coming into the hall.
Everyone turned in its direction. A broad-shouldered, square-jawed, and built like a warrior stepped onto a low podium at the center of the hall.
He wore a black uniform with Haven Bastion's insignia on the chest. He looked like a man who would never tolerate nonsense.
Nothing about him looked soft. His presence hit harder than the warning lights overhead.
"I feel pressured just by looking at him," Kev whispered.
Mira gave him a death stare. She was worried that Kev would be punished because of his mouth.
The man in front seemed to notice Kev's remarks. He stared straight at him. Kev gulped and trembled a bit.
The man didn't need to shout—but when he spoke, his voice hit like a hammer through the old comm speakers.
"I'm Chief Warden Harrex Vale of Outer Provision Camp 70," he said. "I'm in charge here."
The room fell silent.
"You might've awakened," he continued, tone flat. "You might even have Marks now. But don't confuse that with being special."
He scanned the room slowly, eyes like stone. "You're not heroes. You're not elite. In fact, you awakened too late."
He paused before adding, "And starting now—don't expect an easy life."
A quiet murmur moved through the group. Uneasy. Tense.
Vale didn't stop.
"Tomorrow morning. Drill Yard. 0600 sharp."
His boots echoed as he paced the platform.
"You'll be tested. Twice. The first test is Force Adaptability. That's where we see if your body can even handle the power inside you—or if it's going to rip you apart."
He paused just long enough to let that sink in.
"Second test, the Force Potential. That tells us if you're worth training… or if we're better off shipping you to other places."
Raith felt his chest tighten. The room had gone completely still.
Vale turned to face them again, voice colder now.
"Fail either test—you're done. You'll be reassigned to labor crews, plumbing shafts, or worse. No appeal. No second chances."
He let the weight of his words hang in the air.
"But if you pass," he added, tone sharpening, "you just might earn something. Real training. Squad placement. A chance at the Middle Region. Maybe more, if you're stubborn enough."
He stepped forward once more, his shadow stretching across the floor.
"But if any of you are still clinging to some fantasy about being a hero—wake up. This isn't a story. This is Bastion. And Haven Bastion doesn't need heroes."
His voice dropped low and final. "It needs people who can get the job done—and not die doing it."
Vale didn't wait for a response. He turned and stepped down, leaving the silence behind him like a blade still hanging in the air.
The hall remained heavy with silence, the reality sinking in deeper than any warning before. Without another word, he snapped his fingers.
Guards motioned toward the dormitory corridors.
Men to one side. Women to the other.
Their room wasn't much.
A cramped, four-bunk metal barrack stacked end-to-end with worn mattresses and lockers that looked like they might fall apart if kicked too hard.
A single overhead light buzzed weakly.
Still, it was better than sleeping in a mining cart.
Before being shown to their rooms, each of them had been handed a basic dinner ration—sealed, bland, but filling enough.
No one complained.
After everything they'd been through, it was the first real meal in what felt like days.
They were told they were free for the rest of the day.
Then came the duffel bags. Each one was labeled and packed like someone already knew exactly who they were.
Inside were another two extra Bastion-issued black training suits, a few undergarments, and basic hygiene supplies.
Nothing special—but everything fit. Their sizes had been recorded during scanning and sent ahead.
Raith tossed his duffel onto the nearest bunk and sank down heavily. His muscles still throbbed in places even the Kid's healing couldn't fix.
"Please wake me up tomorrow." Kev dropped onto the bed right after he said that.
Raith smiled as he looked at Kev who had already curled under the blanket without saying a word.
Dane sat cross-legged on the floor, even with a bed right in front of him. Maybe he just needed space.
Or maybe that was how he stayed grounded—close to the floor, always braced for the next hit.
Quiet. Not asleep. Just thinking, maybe.
From the hallway, Raith could hear faint voices—other Tuners talking in low tones. Some laughed nervously. Others argued. A few sounded like they were already on the edge.
Raith leaned back, staring at the ceiling.
The Force Field. The monster. That first fight.
It felt like it had happened a lifetime ago.
He looked down at his hand, clenching it slowly. The Mark still burned faintly on his palm.
'They can't take this from us now.'
He glanced at the others.
Kev was twitching lightly in his sleep, mumbling something Raith couldn't catch. Dane hadn't moved.
Tomorrow was coming.
And with it—testing.
Raith didn't sleep. Not really. He closed his eyes, but his mind kept going.
Because tomorrow would decide everything.
Two tests.
One shot.
And they couldn't afford to fail.