The training field sprawled out before them like a living machine.

  It was vast—an open basin of packed earth and scorched metal plates, ringed by towering floodlights and gantries lined with cables and sensor rigs. The ground was scarred with deep grooves where heavy feet had dragged, craters half-filled with rainwater reflecting the gray Ironford sky. Every few seconds, the earth thudded as something massive landed, the vibration traveling up through Rhys’ boots and into his chest.

  Wardens moved across the field.

  Not walking—stalking.

  Great frames of steel and ceramic plating clashed in controlled violence. Training blades rang out with a deep, metallic clang that echoed across the basin. Hydraulic pistons hissed. Servos screamed under strain. Warning horns blared briefly as one Warden was knocked to a knee, its pilot ejecting steam as the machine reset.

  Overhead, speakers crackled with barked instructions and timer beeps. The air smelled of hot metal, oil, and ozone.

  Rhys stood frozen.

  “…Those are training?” he muttered.

  A Warden sprinted past in the distance, each step shaking the ground like a distant explosion.

  Elias swallowed hard. “That one just picked up another one.”

  “And threw it,” Rhys added faintly.

  Amélia, on the other hand, leaned forward slightly, eyes alight. “They’re beautiful,” she said before catching herself. “I mean—terrifying. Very terrifying.”

  A shadow fell over them.

  Rhys felt it before he saw it.

  “Enjoying the view?”

  Mara stood in front of them, arms crossed, white UF coat fluttering slightly in the wind. Her gaze was sharp, assessing—like she was already taking measurements of where their weaknesses lay. Behind her, Callen lounged with his hands hooked behind his head, chewing on something and grinning, while Loran stood a step back, quiet, eyes half-lidded but alert.

  Elias nearly jumped out of his skin.

  “H—hi,” he squeaked.

  Mara’s eyes flicked to him.

  He immediately looked at the ground.

  Rhys wasn’t doing much better. There was something about her presence—calm, controlled, predatory. Like she already knew exactly how they’d fail.

  Amélia, noticing both of them lagging behind, grabbed Rhys by the sleeve and Elias by the collar and dragged them forward.

  “Stand up straight,” she hissed. “You’re going to embarrass us.”

  Callen chuckled. “Too late for that.”

  Mara ignored him.

  “You’re late,” she said flatly. “Which means you’ll be tired by the time this ends. That’s intentional.”

  She turned and began walking, clearly expecting them to follow.

  “This,” she continued, gesturing broadly at the field, “is Warden Combat Training. Up until now, you’ve learned how to survive on the ground. From today onward, you learn how to control the battlefield.”

  Elias raised a timid hand. “Um. Hypothetically. What if someone isn’t… uh… built for controlling a battlefield?”

  Mara didn’t even look at him. “Then they learn faster.”

  Callen laughed loudly. “See? Encouraging already.”

  He jogged a few steps ahead, walking backward as he talked to them. “This is the fun part about being UF, you know. Guns are nice, swords are cooler—but giant walking war machines?” He spread his arms wide. “That’s the dream.”

  Rhys stared at the Wardens again. Up close, they were even more intimidating—three training units parked off to the side of the field, towering silhouettes of armored limbs and reinforced frames. Their armor was lighter than frontline models, exposed joints showing hydraulic lines and glowing calibration nodes. Training markings were stenciled across their plating, but even stripped-down, they looked unstoppable.

  “Those are… ours?” Rhys asked.

  Mara stopped and pointed at them.

  “Yes.”

  Elias’ face went pale.

  “No,” he said immediately. “No, no, no—there has been a mistake, I think I’d remember signing up to be inside something that could step on a building.”

  “You didn’t,” Mara replied. “You signed up to follow orders.”

  She turned to face them fully now.

  “You’ll each take one. Training configurations only. Live feedback. Pain dampeners set to minimum.”

  Elias’ voice cracked. “Minimum?”

  Callen clapped him on the shoulder. “Builds character.”

  Loran finally spoke, his voice low and even. “And bruises. Mostly bruises.”

  Amélia was already walking toward the nearest Warden, craning her neck up at it. “So… where do we climb in?”

  Mara’s lips twitched. Just barely.

  “Inside,” she said, “you’ll stop thinking of it as a machine.”

  She looked each of them over, one by one.

  “You’ll think of it as your body.”

  She turned back toward the Wardens.

  “Now get in,” she said. “Let’s see what you’re made of.”

  Steel rang beneath their boots as the three of them climbed.

  Each Warden had retractable steel steps built into its legs—utilitarian, scarred from years of use. The machines loomed above them, their four-legged frames folded in a resting posture, plating overlapping like the armor of some massive animal at rest.

  Rhys went last.

  Amélia climbed with surprising ease, already halfway up before he’d found his footing. Elias followed more cautiously, muttering under his breath the entire time.

  “Why is it so high—who decided this was a good idea—”

  “The people who didn’t want pilots crushed when the thing falls over,” Amélia called down.

  Rhys reached the top and stared into the open hatch.

  The cockpit opening sat atop the central turret, a circular aperture rimmed with worn metal and handholds polished smooth by countless grips. The hatch was already open, exposing a narrow drop into the machine’s core.

  He hesitated for half a second.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  Then he climbed in.

  The inside of the Warden was tighter than Rhys expected.

  Not cramped—but intimate.

  The cockpit wrapped around him like a harness, padded panels hugging his shoulders and back. Cables and conduits ran neatly along the interior walls, glowing softly with standby lights. The seat adjusted automatically as he sat, shifting to accommodate his weight and height.

  Click.

  The harness slid over his shoulders.

  Clack.

  The belt locked across his waist.

  Rhys swallowed.

  “This feels… personal.”

  Callen’s voice came from above as he leaned into the open hatch, bracing one arm against the rim. “That’s the idea. If you’re fighting it, it fights you.”

  Across the field, Rhys could hear Mara giving similar instructions to Amélia, her voice calm and sharp. Somewhere else, Loran’s low tone guided Elias, who sounded on the verge of hyperventilating.

  “Okay,” Callen said, tapping the inside of the cockpit. “Wardens are built to be simple. That doesn’t mean easy—it means honest.”

  He pointed to the controls.

  There were no complicated keyboards. No sprawling holograms.

  Just two control grips, one on each side of the seat.

  They were shaped like forearms, each ending in a handle that Rhys instinctively wrapped his hands around. The grips responded immediately, shifting to match the angle of his wrists.

  “These are your legs,” Callen said. “All four of them.”

  Rhys blinked. “Both… at once?”

  “Yep. Left hand controls the left side pair. Right hand controls the right. Push forward, they move forward. Pull back, they brace. Rotate your wrist, you angle the step.”

  A simple diagram flickered to life on the forward display.

  The HUD came on with a soft whum—a curved projection lining the inside of the cockpit glass. It wasn’t flashy. No targeting reticles dancing everywhere. No wall-piercing scans.

  Just depth markers. Horizon lines. Range indicators.

  And a faint overlay mimicking human peripheral vision.

  “It’s basically your eyes,” Callen continued. “Enhanced contrast, mild zoom, stabilization. No seeing through walls. No predictive nonsense. If you can’t react, neither can the Warden.”

  Rhys nodded slowly. He liked that. It felt… fair.

  Callen reached in and tapped a single, unmarked button between the grips.

  “This starts it.”

  Rhys stared at it. “That’s it?”

  “No authentication. No ID check.”

  “That seems… reckless.”

  Callen shrugged. “Convention law. Wardens have to be operable by anyone. Civilian, soldier, or enemy.”

  Rhys frowned. “Enemy? Who else is there besides Schreitpanzer?”

  Callen paused—just a fraction too long.

  “It’s complicated,” he said, waving it off. “You’ll learn when it matters.”

  Rhys didn’t push.

  “Now,” Callen continued, “you’ve got weapons, but you’re not touching the gun today.”

  A small icon lit up on the HUD—two curved shapes attached to the forward legs.

  “Blades,” Callen said. “Integrated into the front limbs. Think of them like claws.”

  The camera view shifted slightly as the Warden responded to a minor movement of Rhys’ hands. The massive front legs adjusted, steel plates sliding, and with a low mechanical hum, the blades partially extended—long, narrow, edged weapons designed more for slicing through armor than cutting flesh.

  “You don’t swing them like swords,” Callen explained. “You step with them. Every movement is an attack. Every attack is movement.”

  Rhys swallowed again.

  “So… walking is fighting.”

  Callen grinned. “Now you’re getting it.”

  He pulled himself back up out of the hatch. “Start it slow. Feel the weight. Don’t rush.”

  Rhys took a breath.

  His thumb hovered over the button.

  Then he pressed it.

  The Warden came alive.

  A deep, resonant thrum vibrated through the cockpit as power surged into the frame. The HUD sharpened. The world outside steadied, aligned to his vision.

  Rhys flexed his hands.

  The Warden’s legs shifted.

  Not clumsily.

  Not violently.

  But like a creature waking up—testing its balance.

  Rhys’ heart hammered in his chest.

  Somewhere nearby, Amélia’s Warden took its first step with terrifying confidence.

  And somewhere else, Elias screamed.

  “I DIDN’T DO ANYTHING WHY IS IT MOVING—”

  Rhys spent a few more moments testing the Warden.

  He shifted his wrists slightly—too slightly—and the machine responded immediately, one rear leg adjusting its stance, claws scraping softly against the packed dirt. He corrected, heart racing, and the Warden corrected with him, weight redistributing in a way that felt… natural.

  Too natural.

  “Alright,” Callen’s voice came through the external speaker one last time, clearer now. “That’s enough sightseeing. Bring it to the center of the field.”

  Before Rhys could respond, Callen pulled himself fully out of the cockpit. Metal clanged as the hatch slid shut above him, sealing with a heavy thunk.

  The sound echoed inside the cockpit.

  Then—silence.

  Not empty silence.

  Contained.

  Rhys was suddenly very aware that he was alone inside several tons of metal.

  He exhaled slowly and nudged the controls forward.

  The Warden stepped.

  The ground trembled—not violently, but undeniably. Dust puffed up around its feet as Rhys guided it forward, each step perfectly synchronized with his own sense of balance. When he leaned slightly to the right, the machine compensated. When his grip tightened, the Warden tensed.

  It didn’t feel like steering.

  It felt like inhabiting.

  As he walked, Rhys watched through the forward glass as Callen regrouped with Mara and Loran. The three of them spoke briefly, then turned and headed toward a nearby hangar, their figures growing smaller against the towering frames of idle Wardens and scaffolding.

  That’s when Rhys felt it.

  A strange tingling ran through his arms.

  Not pain.

  Not fear.

  More like… static under his skin.

  His fingers twitched against the grips. The sensation crawled up his spine, subtle but unmistakable, as if something inside him had woken up and was listening.

  Rhys frowned. “That’s… weird.”

  Before he could dwell on it, a voice crackled into his cockpit.

  “Uh—hello? Can anyone hear me?”

  Amélia.

  Rhys’ shoulders loosened instantly. He tapped the comm panel instinctively. “Yeah. Loud and clear.”

  “Oh good,” she said, relief evident even through the distortion. “For a second I thought I broke it.”

  Another voice cut in—high, strained, and panicked.

  “WHY DOES IT FEEL LIKE IT KNOWS WHEN I’M THINKING ABOUT FALLING—”

  “Elias,” Amélia said sweetly, “stop thinking about falling.”

  “I CAN’T—”

  Rhys laughed despite himself. “You’re doing fine, Elias. Just… breathe.”

  A pause.

  “…I hate this,” Elias muttered.

  Amélia chuckled. “You’ll survive. Probably.”

  The tension eased. Even inside his cockpit, Rhys smiled.

  “Alright,” Amélia said, shifting tone. “Center of the field, right? Let’s not be late.”

  They moved together.

  Rhys guided his Warden forward, adjusting pace as Amélia’s machine drew alongside him. Elias lagged behind slightly, his Warden’s steps uneven but improving with each movement.

  They aligned themselves as instructed—three Wardens in a rough line at the heart of the training field.

  Rhys steadied his breathing.

  The Warden steadied with him.

  He realized then what Callen had meant.

  There was no delay. No buffer. No artificial smoothing.

  Every ounce of effort, every hesitation, every push—it all translated directly into the machine.

  If he wanted the Warden to move faster, he had to push harder.

  If he wanted it to hold ground, he had to brace.

  The limit wasn’t the machine.

  It was the pilot.

  Rhys flexed his hands again, feeling that faint, unsettling tingle beneath his skin.

  Whatever this thing was—

  Whatever he was becoming—

  The Warden was listening.

  The hangar doors groaned open.

  Metal screamed against metal as three Wardens emerged from the darkness within, their silhouettes cutting through the dust and morning light. These machines were different from the ones Rhys, Amélia, and Elias piloted—bulkier in the front, heavier in posture.

  Training units.

  The first thing Rhys noticed were the front legs.

  Each bore a broad, shield-like plate of layered steel, bolted directly into the limb. The surfaces were scarred beyond counting—deep gouges, shallow scrapes, spiderweb cracks where blades had struck again and again. Some marks were old and dark with oxidized metal; others were fresh, bright silver lines cutting across the gray.

  These Wardens had seen years of use.

  Their paint was faded, edges chipped, joints exposed where maintenance had replaced armor with raw function. They moved with practiced weight, not flashy, not elegant—reliable.

  One of them stepped forward and stopped directly in front of Rhys.

  Its optics glowed faintly.

  Then Callen’s voice filled Rhys’ cockpit.

  “Alright, Rookie,” Callen said, relaxed as ever. “Time to stop walking and start fighting.”

  The training Warden shifted, dirt grinding under its feet.

  To Rhys’ left, Amélia’s Warden came into position, Mara’s training unit facing her. On the right, Elias’ machine hesitated before Loran’s Warden, its shielded legs planting firmly like anchors.

  Rhys swallowed.

  The Warden in front of him moved again.

  Callen raised his machine’s right front leg, angling the shield forward like a wall.

  “See this?” Callen continued. “Your blade’s on your left front leg. Don’t overthink it.”

  The training Warden tilted its leg slightly, presenting the shield.

  “Aim your left leg’s claw right here,” Callen said. “Controlled strike. Not full force.”

  Rhys adjusted his stance.

  The Warden mirrored him.

  He leaned forward slightly, instinctively pulling his left shoulder ahead—

  —and the machine responded, its left front leg lifting, blade unfolding with a sharp metallic click.

  Rhys’ heart pounded.

  “Easy,” Callen warned. “Feel the weight. Don’t fight it. Guide it.”

  Rhys exhaled and brought the leg down in a measured arc.

  CLANG.

  The blade struck the shield.

  The impact rang through the field, vibrating up Rhys’ arms and into his chest. The feedback was immediate—jarring but not painful, like striking steel with a hammer while holding the handle too close.

  The training Warden didn’t move an inch.

  “Good,” Callen said. “Again.”

  Rhys adjusted his footing, feeling the Warden shift its balance beneath him.

  Nearby, Amélia moved without hesitation, her strikes crisp and deliberate as Mara tested her angles with short, precise movements. Elias, on the other hand, clipped Loran’s shield awkwardly, nearly overbalancing before correcting himself with a startled yelp over comms.

  “I’m okay—I’m okay—I’M NOT OKAY—”

  “Focus, Elias,” Loran said calmly.

  Rhys raised his leg again.

  This time, he struck cleaner.

  The clang echoed louder.

  The blade slid slightly across the shield, leaving a fresh silver mark among hundreds of others.

  Callen lowered his leg and nodded—even through metal, Rhys could feel the approval.

  “That’s it,” Callen said. “This isn’t about winning. It’s about control.”

  The three training Wardens shifted into ready stances.

  “Welcome to Warden combat,” Callen added.

  Rhys tightened his grip.

  The field was quiet now.

  Waiting.