November 2027, Boston Catacombs

  Leo's hands rested easy on the wheel, guiding the semi through the barren expanse of Catacombs territory. The engine hummed beneath him, a steady vibration that traveled up through the seat and settled somewhere in his chest.

  Outside, the landscape rolled past in shades of ash and rust. The earth stretched flat and lifeless in every direction, cracked and scarred where nothing would grow. Dead forests stood as charred spikes, their branches long since burned away. The ground itself looked sick, patches of discolored soil mixing with areas of fused glass where the heat had been most intense.

  There was something calming about it. The rhythm of the road, the predictable sway of the trailers hitched behind them, the simple act of keeping the transport moving forward. Just the wheel, the road, and the horizon stretching endlessly ahead through the radioactive haze.

  The convoy spread across the wasteland in a loose circular formation, four hundred semis maintaining careful spacing as they drove toward their destination. Leo could see perhaps thirty other transports from his position, their Flak cannons catching the sickly yellow light that filtered through the perpetual cloud cover.

  Somewhere to the east, hidden in the center of the formation where he could not see, a Dreadnought moved with them.

  "Route update coming through," Tom announced from his seat. His fingers moved across the display, pulling data from the convoy's shared network.

  "Slight deviation around grid reference seven-seven-four. Unstable terrain reported by the forward scouts."

  Leo glanced at the navigation display mounted above the windshield. The suggested path adjustment appeared as a gentle curve, adding perhaps ten minutes to their travel time. He made the correction smoothly, the steering responding with the familiar resistance he had grown accustomed to over the past months.

  Map of the territory of Boston Command looked like a constellation scattered across a dark sky. Outposts marked the smaller points of light, each one guarding a Tier One spiritual vein. These veins produced Qi suitable for Qi Refinement cultivators, enough to sustain small teams and maintain defensive formations. The outposts bore simple designations: M23, M58, M103.

  The larger stars in that constellation were the bases. These sat atop Tier Two spiritual veins, Foundation Establishment grade resources that could support larger operations and more powerful cultivators. Each base carried a name drawn from the old neighborhoods of Boston, a reminder of the city they were fighting to protect: Base Mission Hill, Base Roxbury.

  Their current mission ran from Base Mission Hill to Outpost M23, a four hour drive. Once at M23, they would refuel, unload a portion of their cargo, and continue to their next destination. Outpost M58 waited five hours beyond that, a more distant posting that required regular resupply.

  A burst of static crackled through the communications system. Tom adjusted the frequency, filtering out the interference.

  "Convoy lead is requesting status checks from all transport units in the third ring," he reported. "We're number forty-seven in the queue."

  Leo kept his eyes on the road while Tom handled the communication. The exchange was brief and professional. Position confirmed. Cargo intact. No mechanical issues. Status green.

  "Anything else?" Leo asked.

  "Weather advisory. Spiritual interference expected in about two hours. Minor stuff, shouldn't affect navigation, but we might lose clear comms for a bit."

  Leo nodded. He reached for the secondary systems panel and turned on the shield harmonics. A precaution, nothing more. These defensive formations would handle minor interference without issue, usually left off to save on Qi.

  Tom stretched in his seat, rolling his shoulders and cracking his neck. He had been hunched over the scheduling tablet for the better part of an hour, arranging their missions for the following week.

  "Done," he announced with satisfaction. "Next week is locked in."

  "Thanks, Tom."

  Tom did not respond immediately. He stared at the tablet, his brow furrowing slightly.

  "Something wrong?" Leo asked.

  "I don't know." Tom set the tablet down and leaned back. "I've got this feeling. Like I'm forgetting something important. Or like something's about to go sideways."

  Leo laughed. "Nothing has gone wrong since we started driving. That was over two months ago."

  "Don't jinx it." Tom pointed an accusing finger at him.

  Tom's expression shifted, the concern fading as something else replaced it. A grin spread across his face, the kind that usually preceded either very good news or a terrible joke.

  "Actually, I just realized something." He pulled up a different screen on his tablet. "After this week's missions are complete, we're finally going to start earning merits for ourselves."

  Leo glanced over, confused. "What do you mean? We've been earning merits this whole time."

  "Technically we have, but none of it has been ours to keep."

  "Running missions like ours requires a minimum rank," Tom began. "The military doesn't let just anyone command a transport semi. Normally, each semi would be commanded by a Sergeant or a Staff Sergeant. A Non-Commissioned Officer, a soldier with leadership responsibilities."

  Leo adjusted their heading slightly, compensating for a subtle drift in the terrain. "But we've been running these missions from day one."

  "Exactly. There's an exception for student-soldiers. New teams can receive special permission to run certain missions without having purchased or earned the required rank first."

  Tom smiled. "The catch is that mission earnings go toward paying off the debt first. Every merit we earn gets applied to purchasing the required rank before anything can be saved toward other goals."

  The navigation display flickered briefly. Leo tapped it once, and the image stabilized.

  "All four of us needed to reach the rank threshold to command the squad," Tom continued. "Cadet Sergeant. CE-5. Because of our shift system, most of the time three of us are off duty, cultivating or sleeping. Command needed to know that whoever was on watch had the authority and training to lead."

  "So every merit we've earned has been going toward promotions?"

  "Right. The Cadet rank designation exists specifically for high school and college students. It places us in the chain of command with leadership authority over other student-soldiers. When we formally enlist after graduation, we'll receive the equivalent professional rank we earned during school."

  A communication request appeared on Tom's screen. He handled it with practiced efficiency, confirming their position and status to the convoy coordinator before returning to the conversation.

  "We can't command professional soldiers or draftees," he added. "But we can command other student-soldiers. That matters more than you might think."

  Leo considered this. "How long does it normally take to reach CE-5?"

  "Six to twelve months for most high school students. And that's if they're dedicated. Most are lucky to hit CE-4 before graduation. CE-5 is a rank above that."

  "We did it in two months." Tom's grin widened.

  Leo allowed himself a small smile.

  "So," Leo said, "do we learn how to salute now? Start calling each other Sergeant in formal tones?"

  Tom laughed. "Absolutely. In fact, as the squad's senior communications officer, I believe the proper protocol would be for you to address me as 'sir' from this point forward."

  Tom started absently flipping through his spreadsheets. His brow furrowed. Leo let him cook.

  This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

  "I think I have something I wanted to show you guys once we get back to Garrison Boston. Enemy cultivator activity is increasing."

  ---

  Tom cleared his throat.

  "Before we go back to Garrison Boston and return home I have good news and bad news."

  The others turned to look at him. Tom pulled out his tablet and brought up a spreadsheet.

  "The good news is that we are officially Cadet Sergeants! We have cleared our rank debt and will now start earning merits for ourselves."

  Everyone cheered and high fived.

  "As for the bad news, I've been tracking our interruptions. Every time the convoy goes into alert."

  He turned the tablet so everyone could see the graph. The trend line climbed steadily upward from left to right.

  "The frequency has been increasing. Steadily. Week over week."

  Matt frowned at the numbers. "I hadn't noticed."

  "It's easy to miss if you're in the thick of things. But the pattern is clear when you look at the aggregate data."

  Vivian leaned forward, studying the spreadsheet. "How much of an increase are we talking?"

  "Thirty percent more alerts week over week. And the alerts are lasting longer on average."

  Leo pulled out his phone and sent a quick text to Jimbo.

  Seeing more cultivator activity in the Catacombs. Trend is increasing. Thoughts?

  The response came back within a minute.

  I'm at Garrison Boston right now. If you're free, come meet me. We should talk in person.

  Leo showed the message to Tom.

  "Perfect," Tom said. "I have a lot of questions."

  ---

  Ever since they'd started their merit farming, they'd never gone back to Garrison Boston. The security line to get inside took way too much time.

  In fact, this was Leo's first time he would get a look inside the base. He was dreading the infamous security line.

  At least now each of them had purchased enough rank that the process moved faster. The guards recognized their Cadet Sergeant insignia and waved them through the priority line.

  But rank came with requirements they'd been ignoring. While they'd been focused on farming merit, they'd skipped or postponed important military procedures. Now they were paying for it all at once.

  Basic Training could be waived. NCO Training too. Administrative processing could be signed off remotely.

  But the oaths couldn't be skipped. The Cadet Oath. The Provisional Service Agreement. The Cadet Leadership Creed. The NCO Creed.

  Apparently this situation was common enough that the garrison had a streamlined process. A bored-looking sergeant pulled them into a side room and administered all four oaths in quick succession. They raised their right hands, repeated the words, signed the documents.

  Done in fifteen minutes.

  What actually held them up was learning how to salute.

  As Cadet Sergeants, it would be an embarrassment if they wandered around the garrison without knowing proper military etiquette. The sergeant refused to let them proceed until they could render a crisp, regulation salute.

  All of them were pretty awkward and took quite a few tries to get it down.

  Vivian was a disaster.

  She was good at basically everything. Top of their class academically. Excellent driver. Master multitasker. Apparently learning how to do a crisp salute was not among her talents.

  It took them about an hour before Vivian had achieved something the sergeant grudgingly called "passable." She looked more frazzled than Leo had ever seen her.

  They were finally released into the garrison proper.

  The place was massive. Buildings, training grounds, administrative centers, all connected by a maze of pathways. Soldiers hurried past on unknown errands.

  Tom spotted a Cadet Corporal standing near an intersection, looking like he had nothing to do. CE-2. Four ranks below them.

  "Hey," Tom called out. "We need directions to Cadet Command."

  The CE-2 snapped to attention, clearly surprised to see four CE-5s approaching him.

  "Also," Tom added, "help us with proper etiquette along the way. Who do we salute? When do we salute? What do we do if someone salutes us first?"

  The CE-2 blinked. "You don't know?"

  "We've been busy," Vivian said flatly.

  Rank hath its privileges. The CE-2 didn't ask any more questions. He simply nodded and began leading them through the garrison, offering quiet corrections whenever they passed someone who required acknowledgment.

  Cadet Command occupied a building near the center of the garrison. The architecture was functional rather than impressive.

  Jimbo was waiting for them in the main operations room.

  Or rather, Cadet Captain Park-Sinclair was waiting for them.

  Leo stared at the insignia on Jimbo's uniform. CO-3. A Cadet Officer rank. And based on his position at the central planning table, surrounded by maps and communication equipment, he was running this place.

  Leo, Matt, Vivian, and Tom snapped to attention. Their salutes were stiff and slightly awkward, but passable. The CE-2 who had guided them winced at the form but said nothing.

  "Cadet Captain Park-Sinclair, Cadet Sergeants Chen, Wheeler, Xin, and Stammer reporting as requested, sir."

  Jimbo returned the salute crisply.

  "At ease."

  The four of them relaxed. Slightly. The operations room was bustling with activity. Other cadet officers moved between stations. Communications chattered in the background. Maps covered the walls, marked with symbols Leo didn't recognize.

  Jimbo studied their faces for a moment. Then he smiled.

  "Let's talk in my office."

  He led them down a short hallway to a smaller room. The door closed behind them, muffling the noise from the operations center. Jimbo gestured to a set of chairs arranged in front of his desk.

  "Sit. Please."

  They sat. The tension in the room dropped considerably.

  "You all look like you're about to pass out," Jimbo said, settling into his own chair. "Relax. It's just me."

  "You're the XO of Cadet Command," Leo said.

  "You'll make it here in no time if you tried." Jimbo shrugged like it was nothing. "Ranks are meaningless most of the time. No Gold Core is going to listen to a Foundation Establishment Captain."

  Then Jimbo looked at Leo.

  "Though you might be an exception once you advance. Anyway. Let's talk about why you're here."

  Jimbo pulled up a holographic display above his desk. The image expanded until it filled the center of the room: a rotating globe, its surface pockmarked with glowing red dots.

  One hundred and five of them.

  "This is a live feed from the United Cultivator Nation's Catacombs monitoring network," Jimbo said. "Every marker represents a Catacomb entrance on Earth. Ninety-seven of them are reporting sustained increases in hostile cultivator activity."

  He let that sink in for a moment before continuing.

  "Current intelligence suggests a coordinated offensive. Could be territorial expansion. Could be resource denial. Could be something we haven't considered yet. What we do know is that every major Cult has set aside their differences and begun probing our defenses together."

  He swiped the display, and the globe zoomed in on America. Twenty-seven red dots burned across the nation, from Alaska down through the heartland to the Gulf Coast.

  "The United States has twenty-seven entrances to defend. The National Guard has already begun mobilization. The Draft is being reinstated. Garrison Commands across the country are shifting to heightened readiness."

  Jimbo zoomed in further. New England filled the display. A single red dot pulsed over Boston.

  "Which brings us to our problem."

  He tapped the dot, and it bloomed into a detailed topographic map of the Boston Catacombs.

  "Garrison Boston's sector is controlled by the Oblivion Cult. They worship their Tier Six Void Refining Eternal known in intelligence reports as the Hollow Throne."

  Jimbo pulled up a new image. A dossier, heavily redacted, with a grainy surveillance photo clipped to the upper right corner. The photo showed a young man, standing next to what appeared to be a subterranean entrance. His features were difficult to make out through the distortion of long-range spiritual imaging.

  "This is who Command believes is leading the Oblivion Cult's operations in our sector. The Cult's Divine Child, the direct grandson of the Hollow Throne. Command expects him to lead an attack within the next few days or weeks."

  The room fell silent. So much for their free Merit farm.

  Leo shifted in his chair. "Should we take a break? Wait for things to calm down?"

  Jimbo shook his head immediately.

  "The opposite. You should rush to earn Merits as fast as possible."

  "Even with the increased danger?"

  "Especially because of it. Look, if it were up to Harry, you wouldn't have practice at all. He wanted to cancel it entirely. Coach refused."

  Leo blinked.

  "Harry is the most connected person on our team." Jimbo leaned back in his chair. "If he's telling everyone they should earn as many Merits as they can while it's still easy, you should follow his advice."

  With that, Jimbo dismissed them and directed an aide to lead them back to their transport.

  ---

  They walked back in silence. Leo kept turning the briefing over in his head. Ninety-seven entrances reporting increased activity. A coordinated offensive across the globe. The grandson of a Tier Six Eternal leading operations in their backyard.

  "So," Leo said, once they were out of earshot of the building. "Are we just going to ignore the part where a divine child is about to attack Boston?"

  Matt shrugged. "The Cadet Captain said to keep farming Merits. Good enough for me."

  "He also said every major Cult is working together."

  "The Cadet Captain will warn us if things get dangerous, he wouldn't have told us to keep going if he thought we'd get killed." Tom said, with the confidence that came from being sixteen and convinced that bad things only ever happened to other people.

  "Fine," Leo said. "But we stay smart about it."

  They boarded the transport, and Tom found his tablet and brought it out.

  "Okay, hold on. Back up. You know our XO?"

  Leo paused. "What do you mean, our XO?"

  Tom turned the screen so Leo could see. An organizational chart filled the display.

  "Look. This is our chain of command."

  At the bottom was Tom's name, listed as the nominal commander of their transport unit. Above him was their convoy leader. Above that was a sector coordinator. Then a regional operations officer. Then the deputy commander of Cadet Command.

  Then, near the top of the chain, Cadet Captain Park-Sinclair. Executive Officer, Cadet Command, Garrison Boston.

  Six levels up.

  "He's six levels above us in the chain of command," Tom said. "Six. And you just called him Jimbo."

  Leo stared at the chart. He had known Jimbo was doing well. But seeing it laid out like this made it feel different somehow.

  Vivian had settled into her seat, arms crossed. "Who's Harry?"

  "Oh. Harrison Rockefeller. He's one of my teammates."

  The transport fell completely silent.

  Matt's mouth opened. Then closed. Then opened again.

  "Rockefeller," he repeated. "As in, the Rockefellers."

  "Yeah."

  Vivian's eyes narrowed. "Who else is on your cultivation team?"

  Leo thought about it for a moment. "Victoria Walton. And Alessandra Medici."

  Matt sat down heavily on the sofa in the break room.

  "Walton," he said faintly. "Medici. Rockefeller. Park-Sinclair."

  "And you," Vivian added, looking at Leo with an expression he couldn't quite read.

  Tom was furiously typing something into his tablet. Probably updating his spreadsheet with this new information.

  "I knew your team was fancy," Matt said. "I didn't realize it was that fancy."

  Leo shrugged uncomfortably. "They're just my teammates. We practice together twice a week."

  "Your teammates include heirs to three of the most powerful families in the country." Vivian's voice was flat. "And the XO of our entire command structure. And you."

  "I'm not heir to anything."

  "You beat a divine child a few months ago," Tom said. "The same kind that's about to attack the Boston Catacombs."

  "I don't think Mateo would appreciate being lumped in with them."

  "So you are on a first-name basis with a divine child, then?"

  Leo just gave up and went to cultivate.