The simulation chamber was massive—an open cathedral of steel and circuitry, wide enough to hold a full battalion, tall enough for gunships to hover. Harsh lumen-strips cast long white bars of light across the polished floor. Digital terrain flickered into place—ruined towers, broken ramparts, crumbling walls—all modeled after ancient battlefield ruins.
House Exodus stood in formation.
Their armor was mismatched but mended, their blades were worn but sharpened. The crest of the Lion burned silver across every chestplate. Once-scattered exiles, now a line of breathing iron.
Caelin stood at the front, helmet under one arm, eyes scanning the far end of the field.
That's where the others would enter.
The Swords of Eden, a minor house with pride beyond its size. And with them, Templari from veteran houses—those who had heard of Exodus' rise and come not to observe, but to crush. As if this mock war were a public reckoning.
Across the chamber, the enemy gates hissed open.
Silhouettes poured in—clean lines of polished armor, shimmering tabards, the smooth rhythm of a well-trained march. Shields locked in perfect cadence. Longspears braced. Arcbows drawn.
The crowd of officers watching from observation balconies above began to murmur.
Caelin turned to his house.
"Breathe," he said, loud enough to carry. "Feel your heart beat. Know what you are."
He raised his voice now, eyes moving across every face. "They think this is where we break. That this is where the name 'Forsaken' proves true. That we are the ash left after the fire."
He strapped on his helmet.
"They are wrong."
Behind him, House Exodus raised their weapons. The war drums of the simulation began to thunder.
Caelin stepped forward.
The ground beneath his boots echoed—sharp, deliberate—until he stood a few paces ahead of the line. The war drums still thundered overhead, but his voice rose above them like a blade drawn in silence.
He unsheathed the longsword at his side.
The edge gleamed dull silver, old but clean. The hilt was marked by ancient scars. This was no standard issue—this was Marshal Dareth's sword, reforged and given into his hand.
He raised it high.
"Exodus!" he called. "What is your oath?"
The chamber pulsed with the weight of silence. Then, like stone catching fire, the 333 answered in a single voice:
"As Christ lives…
I will not fear, for He goes with me.
He will never leave me nor forsake me.
He arms me with strength for battle.
He trains my hands to stand when others fall.
The Lord is my shield and my strength.
I do not walk alone. I walk for those beside me.
I do not fight for glory. I fight for the broken.
I do not bow to darkness. I burn in defiance.
I am a sword reforged.
A soul reclaimed.
A child of ash and exile—
But I rise. And I rise not for myself,
but for every one who was cast away."
The final line struck like judgment against stone.
The enemy line across the chamber faltered, momentarily stunned by the cry of unity, of something deeper than pride.
Caelin turned his sword downward, the tip touching the simulated soil.
He spoke once more, quieter now—but not softer.
"This is the furnace. The fire built to consume us.
But like the three in Babylon, we will not bow.
And when they look into the flames… they will see we are not alone.
God walks with us, even inside the fire."
He raised the blade again. "Brace for the charge."
Above them, the signal flare ignited in crimson. The battle had begun.
The war-sim sky shimmered in hues of red and gold, cast by the artificial sun overhead. Dust clouds rolled across the virtual landscape.
But just beneath the chaos to come, ten Exodi had already broken away—moving low beneath the cover of shattered virtual rock formations, jagged and angular like the bones of a long-dead world.
____________________________________
Rock Formations Behind The Exodi Main Force.
They crawled like phantoms through the canyon mouth.
A younger Forsaken, tall and wiry, whispered to the others, "Gunship's unguarded. Their eyes are on the front line."
A woman with a scar running from temple to jaw nodded sharply. "On Caelin's mark, we storm it. Fast. Quiet. Kill the overwatch. Then we hit their rear flank when the lines engage."
Another added, "We fail—Exodus falls."
The wiry one smiled grimly. "Then we don't fail."
____________________________________
Back on the field, Caelin's voice boomed:
"Exodus, hold."
The simulated wind stilled.
"Weapons ready."
Steel rang from sheaths. Shields locked.
"Advance."
The storm broke. Steel against steel. Faith against pride. And in the shadows, ten ghosts ran for the high ground—Exodi blades drawn, hearts burning.
Steel howled. Shields shattered.
The first moments of battle had gone to Exodus. From the rocky ridge, they'd surged, breaking through the pristine symmetry of the Swords of Eden. Their jagged descent turned elegance into confusion, and Exodi blades found blood in the disorder.
But the enemy wasn't blind.
The call for the Phalanx changed everything.
Across the open ground, golden shields locked in perfect rhythm. A wall of warriors advanced, formation unshaken, spears angled like the teeth of a leviathan. The Templari influence was clear—this was a wall forged by tradition, drilled since childhood.
The line hit like thunder.
Exodus bent.
Not from cowardice, but from force. Spears pierced through shield gaps, found shoulders and sides. Men screamed. Women cried out. Lines wavered.
Caelin watched from the slope as his front fractured. He could see the effort—see them trying to reform, trying to dig in—but the ground offered little cover now. The Phalanx advanced, consuming the high ground, pressing Exodus downhill into choke points they couldn't hold.
He opened comms.
"Hold formation! Shields high, blades low! You break here, we're ash!"
He knew they weren't ready for this—not yet. They were better, yes. They were growing. But the Phalanx was the old order at its strongest.
To his left, a captain of Eden rammed his spear into an Exodi chestplate, toppling the fighter. To the right, another trio of Exodi tried to flank—but were met by a second wave reinforcing the line. They were being herded.
Caelin turned his eyes to the distant edge of the simulation, where ten Exodi crawled unseen through the ravines. Not yet at the gunship. Not yet in position. His jaw tightened.
"Not yet," he whispered. "Just hold."
He stepped forward into the descending chaos, voice rising again:
"Exodus—fall back in ranks! Don't meet their charge—bleed it! Buy the ten more time!"
The retreat wasn't a rout—it was controlled, battered, but determined. Exodus bent, but refused to break. High above, the eye of the simulation watched. Waiting.
____________________________________
Outer Simulation Perimeter – Flanking Route
Dust rose in plumes as the ten Exodi weaved through jagged ravines, their footfalls muffled by loose stone and broken earth. They moved low, close, fast—shadows slipping past enemy sightlines under the cover of chaotic terrain. Above them, the roars of the battlefield echoed like distant thunder.
At the lead was Laziel, younger than most, but sharp-eyed and steady. Caelin had marked him early—quiet, but bold under pressure. Now he raised a closed fist, halting the line.
Just ahead, nestled behind natural stone ridges and simulated blast craters, loomed the artillery gunship, its projection shimmering faintly in the war sim's programmed haze. Half-buried, but real enough to serve its function. If they took it, the Phalanx would crumble from the rear.
Laziel lowered his voice.
"We breach on my mark. Jalen, Mira, flank right. Rest hold center. Once we cross the perimeter, we take it fast, no showboating. This isn't glory—it's purpose."
Then he paused.
A low clank echoed through the ravine—metal on stone. Then another.
Laziel's hand shot up again. Eyes narrowed. He turned—
And out from behind the next outcrop stepped three armored titans.
Swords of Eden—Heavy Knights.
Their armor was reinforced, shining silver trimmed in violet. Crests of their house flared on broad pauldrons. Each bore a two-handed warblade and tower shield. They didn't speak. They didn't posture. They just advanced, in complete silence.
Laziel's voice dropped to a hard whisper.
"Form up. Tight. No retreat."
One of the Exodi behind him murmured, "We're outmatched—"
"Then we bleed well."
The charge came fast. The clash came faster.
Swords met shields. Sparks flew like fire from heaven.
Laziel ducked a hammering swing, rolled beneath it, and drove his dagger into a weak point near the knee joint—but the Knight barely faltered. Another Exodi screamed as a blade caught his side, flinging him into the rock wall.
Still, they stood.
Ten against three.
But these weren't just any three. These were the elite. Trained in the halls of the great houses. Raised for this— to destroy anything infront of them.
____________________________________
Main Battlefield – Simulated Ravine Front
Caelin's boots skidded across loose stone as he turned, shouting over the clash of metal and the beat of retreating feet.
"Break and fall back! Split into echelon formation—move, now!"
Exodus fragmented, scattering in two curved arcs away from the forward press of the Phalanx. The enemy formation advanced with mechanical precision—tower shields braced, spears thrusting with brutal rhythm. Where the Exodi staggered, they stabbed. Where gaps formed, they widened them.
Steel spears pierced the line.
One Forsaken went down screaming, impaled through the shoulder. Another fell to a shield bash that cracked ribs.
Still, they moved.
But as the rocky terrain gave way to a more open slope, a new sound joined the storm of battle:
Thwip.
Thwip-thwip.
Then the sky darkened—arrows.
"Archers!" Caelin roared, raising his shield just in time for a black-feathered shaft to clang off its rim.
The air filled with death. Arrows fell like divine judgment, tearing through gaps in armor, ricocheting off rock, driving Exodus even further into retreat.
All around him, Forsaken scrambled for cover—behind broken columns, jagged ridges, fallen comrades. The retreat had become a rout.
Caelin dropped to one knee beside a wounded soldier, dragging him behind a fractured boulder. Another Exodi was hit in the leg, screaming as she tried to crawl.
His teeth clenched. This wasn't just a drill anymore. This was a message. They want us crushed. Humbled. Broken before we ever rise. He gritted his jaw and slammed his fist against the ground. Not today.
Caelin's eyes snapped toward the exposed line—shields scattered, bodies vulnerable.
"Dome!" he shouted, voice cutting through the chaos like thunder. "Form the Shield Dome! Now!"
The veterans among Exodus reacted first, snapping into motion. Shields slammed into position, overlapping above and around their formation like scales of iron. Others followed, dragging the wounded into the heart of the growing shell.
"Up! Lock! Brace!" Caelin bellowed, lifting his own shield overhead and stepping into the perimeter.
Arrows rained down, striking the dome with thunking rhythm—some glancing off, others lodging deep. A few shafts splintered against reinforced plating. The structure held.
Inside, breath came ragged. Shoulders trembled. But they were alive.
Caelin stood at the center, shield raised high. "This is how we endure. This is how we rise. Hold."
And they did. Bent, bruised—but unbroken.
____________________________________
Back Near the Gunship
Dust and static clung to the air. Laziel's breath came hard through gritted teeth, his blade locked against the massive sword of a Swords of Eden knight. Sparks flew as steel screamed against steel.
The knight grinned behind his helm. "You Exodi think a few broken swords and a sermon make you soldiers?"
Another heavy knight crashed into one of Laziel's men, sending him sprawling. The ground trembled beneath the weight of the powered plate. The third knight slammed his shield into a second Exodi, bones cracking beneath the impact.
"We could've ended this with the artillery," the first knight sneered, forcing Laziel back step by step. "But that's not what they want. The Lords of Eden want blood. Your blood. All of it, hand-to-hand. They want you shattered."
Laziel grit his teeth. "So you came to gloat before we cut you down?"
The knight laughed, booming inside his helmet. "We came to remind you: exile is earned. And mercy's been revoked."
Another Exodi soldier was knocked down, scrambling behind a rock outcrop for cover.
"Stand together!" Laziel barked. "Stagger their footing! They're bigger, but they're not gods!"
He parried a crushing overhead swing and ducked a backhand slash, countering with a blade jab under the knight's armpit. Sparks flew—but the armor held.
One of his men flanked wide, swinging with a war cry, but was caught mid-leap by a knight's shield bash that sent him sprawling to the rocks.
"They trained you like fodder," the second knight growled, advancing.
Laziel's eyes darted to the gunship—so close. So far.
"We just need five minutes," he muttered. "Hold the line."
They braced again, outnumbered but not outwilled.
The clash resumed, blades singing, grit flying. The Exodi were smaller, lighter, but faster. Wounds opened on both sides. One knight stumbled. Another grunted as Laziel's blade scraped through a thigh joint. The battle evened, moment by brutal moment.
Laziel's eyes remained on the gunship, just beyond the slope. Silent. Waiting. Its control panel gleaming through the haze like a promise.
He feinted another strike, gritting his teeth as a knight's blade carved sparks off his pauldron. Then he shouted over the clash.
"Fall back and spread! Pull them wide!"
The others faltered for half a second.
"Do it now!" Laziel roared, ducking a hammering blow and breaking left.
The Exodi scrambled into motion—diving, rolling, drawing the knights toward scattered cover among the rocky formations. The terrain broke the Eden formation. Their bulk slowed in pursuit.
Laziel ran.
Up the slope. Fast. Faster than the pain in his chest. Faster than the exhaustion in his limbs.
A knight noticed too late.
"Stop him!"
Too far.
Laziel slid across the final ledge, slamming his palm against the gunship's interface. The console sparked, accepted his command, and hissed to life. A targeting system flickered open—bright and red and divine.
He set his jaw and locked on.
The bowmen. Dozens of them on the ridge, pelting the retreating Exodi with volleys meant to break their backs.
Laziel's hand hovered for only a heartbeat. Then he pressed the trigger. A low hum charged the air. The turret mounted atop the gunship rotated, whining with power.
Then fire fell from the heavens.