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Two hours in, the "enemy"—automated drones designed to simulate high-speed raiders—ambushed them. Kaelen’s brute-force approach failed immediately. He tried to blast through a narrow choke point, but the drones were too fast, pinning the squad down behind a collapsing bulkhead.

"We're going to get wiped," one cadet hissed, shielding his face from sparks. Two hours in, the "enemy"—automated drones designed to

Leo looked at the overhead schematics he had memorized. He didn't see walls; he saw a circuit. "Kaelen, give me your override spike and two flash-bangs. Now." "What are you going to do, throw your lunch at them?" "We're going to get wiped," one cadet hissed,

The air in the Imperial Military Academy of Aristo didn't just smell like ozone and gun oil; it smelled like judgment. For Leo, standing in the middle of the courtyard, that judgment felt like a physical weight. He was "the stick," the "scrawny one," or, as the upperclassmen delighted in shouting, the "dritch" who had somehow cheated his way into the most prestigious martial institution in the sector. "Kaelen, give me your override spike and two flash-bangs

His uniform hung off his narrow shoulders, a constant reminder that he lacked the bulk of the other cadets. While they spent their evenings in the gravity-gyms, Leo spent his in the archives, pouring over ancient tactical simulations. He knew he couldn't outmuscle a sentient tank, so he had to learn how to make the tank trip over its own treads.

"I’m going to vent the coolant lines," Leo said, his voice surprisingly steady. "The drones track heat signatures. If I flood the floor with liquid nitrogen, they’ll go blind. Then we move."

Leo sat. He was still thin, and his bones still ached, but for the first time, the uniform didn't feel quite so heavy. He had learned the academy’s greatest lesson: in a world of giants, it’s the one who knows where to strike that truly stands tall.