0.0 - Prologue

This year’s twelve sharpshooter division graduates of the Hopetown Military Academy stood lined up as one, in a straight row, at the range barrier, separated from each other by protective sound-resistant plexiglass walls. With their weapons resting at their sides, they were ready for their final examination, which was to begin in less than 60 seconds.



Most of them in their teens, some with still growing furry little beards, some with braces on their teeth, some with puberty marks on their foreheads, and freckles on their noses… twelve pairs of determined eyes were focused on the target dolls, solidly. Like young Doberman pups, who had just been told for the first time to rip a rabbit apart. Ready to kill. That’s what they did to them. A hundred times and a hundred times again, they trained them to invoke that “for the very first time” thrilled gaze. Every time they were amped to get off the leash as if they’ve never tasted rabbit before. That’s how they were selected.



“Position!” – commanding officer’s voice exclaimed.



Their commanding officer, Praetor Stanfield was exceptionally pleased, his own soul already far down in the bowels of hell in advance, he took the labor of turning twelve-year old boys with narcissistic tendencies into focused, cold, relentless, psychopathic killers to an art. Stanfield himself was far from cold. He enjoyed good conversation over tea or sometimes red wine, with his colleagues, especially Count Remington and Legate Soprano, on a shady terrace, in a finely decorated gazebo, he loved watching ladies dance at the balls and reminiscing with friends about the tales from the times of Ryswick the Great, while chewing on fine filet mignon with sautéed mushrooms that popped in their mouths, saturating the pallet with that baked sweet onion and garlic sauce. Oh yes, and sometimes the wine would be white. No, Praetor Stanfield was far from cold and crude himself. He was a refined, a practiced sort of psychopath with a solid notion for appreciating the finer, gentler aspects of life in the silken cloth. And almost nobody today would dare to remember how he was twenty years ago, stomping the eyes out of Axium’s enemies in the trenches of war and ripping at the throats of the republican soldiers under His Royal Majesty’s banners. The way he was back then, if one were to remember, they would pause, it would show on their face and sound a stutter in their voice, a momentary shift in tone would be enough to break the social etiquette. It is best not to dwell on such things.



The twelve young boys arched their backs with visible tension in their muscles, establishing firm grips on their guns.



“Ready! On the whistle!”



The man placed the whistle to his lips and blew all the air out of his chest. The high pitched sound signal rang through the volumous pavilion, and one could swear that exactly at the same moment in time, twelve guns were unholstered with loud snaps as if the whistle was physically connected to twelve miniature electrical contacts. Twelve lightnings flashed, lighting up the room, and the song of the gunshots began.



A wild massacre of moving tin targets being send flying, torn apart, and laid flat on their backs, before they even had a chance to fully jump up. A hail of flying bullets, dancing bullet holes, and wall ricochets.



“Look at ‘em go” – the brass decorated old men whispered to each other with wide smiles at the observation podium.

“You did a splendid job this year, chief.” – somebody commented.



And in a minute, it was over.





“Let’s see what we got here…. Derallas! 91…”

“Sir!” – a young voice replied with a ring of light disappointment.

“Jaeger! 91…”

“Sir!” – a different voice replied.

“Willis! Hmm, 90, close one.”

“Sir!”

“Ford-Mercury! 91”

“Sir!”

“Logan, 92….”

“Sir…”

“Naffa! 93.”

“Sir-r-r!!”

“Foreshadow! 90”

“Sire!”

“Rhyoa! 91”

“Sir!”

“Hmmm…” – the officer took a glance at the next four piles of targets, and shook his head at the first three, “Peetbull, Nightfish, and Niko … you boys failed.”

Sound of uncomfortable movements and audible sighs.



Each of the lads seemed to be disappointed, as they stood at their positions, bitterly checking their guns, clicking safety locks in place, and placing them on small tables in front of them… almost all of them… but one. One kid was not disappointed. Wait a second, the skinny kid in the very back of the line, in the last row, farthest away from the observation booth… he was smiling!



…And the officer stepped to the very last pile of destroyed targets. Doing his very best to conceal it, the man chuckled, and almost resisted shaking his head.



“Knox! 95…”



The young slender looking lad in the last row drove a hand through his sunlight-blonde semi-spiky hair, and his deep icy-blue eyes lit up with arrogance and joy. His handsome, clean, delicately featured face shined with an honestly evil smile, revealing a row of perfect white teeth. Yeah, they all knew that the target score to chase was 100, and that was near impossible, and unless they hit 95, they wouldn’t get Knox. In their class only Knox ever hit 99 points. The 100 was a dream nobody got in this age, the right to wear two gold epaulettes at the graduation ceremony. One legendary student was known for it in the past, and if anyone here was going to repeat the feat, it was going to be Knox. But he didn’t, and he would not get the chance to, for this was their final examination. Still, the top student got to wear the one golden epaulette, which was as good as it’s going to be.



“Well done, boy! That - is how you shoot, fellows!” – the instructor laughed, curling his red mustache. – “Secure your weapons!”



The blonde-haired boy dexterously unloaded, safety-checked, locked his pistol with one hand, and placed it on the table.



“Class! You all have done a marvelous job. The nine of you will have your graduation papers signed and handed to you on the exit to your left. The three trainees who did not pass, please join the committee for the post-mortem analysis.”



The officer smiled, and announced on the final note:



“Boys, on behalf of the Academy, we wish you good luck in your future careers. May your fortunes guide you on to success in your service to the Glory of The Crown and His Royal Majesty! Victory to Axium! Class Dismissed! See you at the graduation ceremony.”



With that, Praetor Stanfield retreated behind the heavy wood doors to meet with the men in the observation booth and accept his congratulatory remarks, criticisms, awards, and ultimately, approval.

He did not know that in the next fifteen years, the work he had done here was going to be made insignificant, as 100 points would become the bare minimum.