Across the dining hall, Officer Tamsin stood near the back wall, arms folded behind him. His posture had relaxed—just a little.
He glanced toward the head table, where Chief Warden Harrex Vale sat surrounded by officers. Then, at one of the fourteen officers known as the Wardens.
'I wonder what's in your head, Ivara,' Tamsin thought to himself. 'Both the Chief and you are the most hard-to-read people that I've ever met.'
His eyes dropped to the floor, and he let out a quiet breath, the kind that came with disbelief you didn't bother hiding.
A few hours ago, all of this didn't exist.
A few hours ago, in the office, the Chief Warden had ordered him with his usual sharp tone—half-command, half-impatience.
"Get someone from infrastructure," Vale said, not even glancing up from his desk. He slid his datapad across the surface. "I don't care who. Don't care if they're stationed in the Inner, Middle, or Outer. I want a crew here right away."
Tamsin had hesitated. "Sir, we don't usually get clearance for—"
"It's not about clearance. Look at that." Vale jabbed a finger at the tablet. Five names blinked at the top of Camp 70's registry. Five S-grades. Two were flagged as High Anomalies.
"We're sitting on something rare," he muttered. "I've waited seven years in this camp for something like this. If Bastion won't send the spark, I'll strike it myself."
That was enough to make Tamsin understand the gravity of the situation. After that, Tamsin didn't ask another question.
And now, hours later, everything changed.
Camp 70 had changed. Not into luxury—but into something that felt alive. It was not an impossible feat with the Forces and the advancement of technology that they had now.
The walls of the dining hall had been scrubbed clean and painted with muted, neutral tones that didn't scream neglect.
The cracked floors were now solid matte gray, laid clean and even.
The old mismatched tables—half-rusted frames and splintered planks—had been replaced with reinforced units under soft, working lights.
Even the air felt different. Warmer and calmer.
Before, the camp looked just a little bit better than a prison.
But now, it looked like a beginning.
And the Cadets knew it. You could see it in their expressions—curious, uncertain. Like they were afraid it might vanish if they blinked.
Tamsin's gaze shifted to the far side of the room.
There they were—Raith and his group. The five had turned Camp 70 upside down in a single day. They didn't speak much. Didn't posture. But people noticed them all the same.
The one who really valued them was the Chief Warden.
Chief Warden Harrex Vale was not someone born in the Outer Region. Built like a soldier but groomed like an aristocrat, he carried himself like he'd never been ignored a day in his life.
And he hadn't.
Vale came from the Inner Region—from a Grand Family with wealth and influence. He could've stayed there, coasted through Bastion's ranks in comfort.
Instead, they gave him an assignment. He needed to prove himself by fixing the worst camp on record.
Make something out of the nobodies. So they sent him to Camp 70 since there was no other place fitting the criteria like this one.
Camp 70, the camp for late bloomers. For kids who failed every early scan. For the ones who got left behind.
And for seven years, he tried. He trained them. Fed them. Watched them fail over and over.
Until now. He believed that it would be better.
Now he had five S-grades.
And two that broke the scanner trying to measure them.
Tamsin could see it clearly—Vale wasn't just proud. He was driven. For the first time since arriving, he wasn't maintaining a broken system.
He was building something.
Something that could change how the Outer Region was viewed.
Something the Haven Bastion couldn't ignore.
To him right now, this place was not just a camp.
It was a proving ground.
And Raith and the others… they were the chance to make this work.
The last of the plates were cleared away. Steam from half-eaten bowls still curled in the air. The noise of clinking cutlery and quiet conversation faded as Chief Warden Vale rose from his seat once again.
This time, the room quieted faster. Even the ones still chewing froze mid-bite.
Vale placed both hands on the edge of the table and let his gaze sweep across the dining hall.
"I know many of you are still wondering what this place really is," he said. "What Camp 70 is… and what it means for your future."
He took a slow breath, then continued. "Let me start with the structure."
He looked at everyone before adding, "There are seven Outer Provision Camps under Haven Bastion's jurisdiction. Camp 10, Camp 20, and Camp 30 are located in the Inner Region—polished, privileged, and funded like academies. Camp 40, 50, and 60 sit in the Middle Region—practical, structured, with strong recruitment pipelines."
He paused.
"And then there's us. Camp 70."
Some Cadets straightened in their seats.
"The only camp stationed in the Outer Region. The only one that accepts late awakeners. The only one… built for those the system already gave up on."
A few heads lowered, unsure whether to feel insulted or seen.
Vale didn't soften his tone.
"You started later. That means less time. Less resources. But I won't coddle you. And I won't pity you. Because what you do from here matters more than what came before."
He walked around the front table, his boots echoing over the clean tile.
"To graduate from this camp, you must meet two conditions. First—reach Level 20 as a Tuner within two years. That is your minimum threshold to be considered stable and capable."
Kev's eyes widened slightly. He glanced at Raith, who said nothing.
"Second," Vale continued, "each Cadet must accumulate no less than 1,000 Mission Points. These points are earned through assignments, operations, support duties—real-world tasks that prove your worth beyond theory."
A few Cadets muttered quietly. Mira frowned. Dane was already doing mental math.
"Some of you will get there faster than others. Some may not get there at all. But the path is the same."
Vale stopped at the center aisle, facing them directly now.
"Starting tomorrow, every Cadet will be placed into a squad of five. Each squad will be assigned a Warden—one of my officers. That Warden will be your trainer, your handler, your evaluator. You'll live or die under their guidance."
Whispers rose again. Raith felt the weight of it settle between his shoulders.
"And one more thing," Vale said, raising a hand. The room stilled again.
"There is an annual event held across all seven camps. It's called the Apex Proving."
That name alone sparked more movement than anything he'd said yet.
"It is not a festival. It is not a reward. It is a tournament—a proving ground—for every Cadet who thinks they're worth more than the uniform they wear."
His voice sharpened.
"During the Apex Proving, representatives from Guilds, Agencies, and even the Haven Military will be watching. They scout for recruits. They observe performance. They look for value."
Elisa tilted her head, absorbing every word. Mira's brows knit in curiosity.
"You want to rise?" Vale asked. "You want to climb? To leave Camp 70 with more than just a mark and a number? Then prove it there."
The room was silent.
"Perform well, and you'll be noticed. Perform better… and you might be recruited straight into special squads or elite programs—before your two years are even up."
Now even Raith's heart was beating harder.
None of this had been explained until now. Not the levels. Not the mission system. Not the tournament.
And for most of them—especially the late awakeners—it was like a whole new world had just opened up.
Vale walked back to the front of the room.
"You are not equal to those who trained in the Inner or Middle Regions. Not yet. But you've already done what most of them never will."
He gave a rare, thin smile.
"You've survived the worst."
Then, without another word, he sat down again.
No applause followed. No cheers.
But every Cadet in that hall felt the shift.
The feast had ended.
The real training was about to begin.