Transport 8 carried the academy's outcasts—those with weak abilities or none at all.
Among them was Vorden Blade, a calm blond youth wearing an elegant silver trench coat, and Peter Chuck, a timid boy shaking with terror.
Before the engines could even reach cruising altitude, a muscular cadet named Brandon stood up, flanked by two bruisers. "Listen up, trash. On this ship, you pay protection tax. Hand over your meal rations and coin cards, or we throw you out the emergency airlock."
Brandon grabbed Peter by the collar, lifting him clear off his seat.
Peter pleaded with tears in his eyes, but no one moved. The other cadets averted their gazes.
Quinn tightened his fists. His stomach was still gnawing with starvation. If he did nothing, Peter would be beaten bloody.
"Put him down," Quinn said quietly.
The entire cabin went silent. Brandon dropped Peter and turned toward Quinn with a mocking laugh. "What did you say, F-rank scrub? You want to die first?"
Brandon lunged forward, his knuckles hardening into jagged gray stone. Quinn stepped forward. In his mind, a new prompt flashed in blood-red text:
[Combat Skill Unlocked: Blood Swipe.]
[Cost: 5 HP. Damage: High. Do you wish to activate?]