The door to the Armory Palace groans open. Frost clings to your coat, still fresh from the overworld. Inside, the air smells of steel, oil, and old paper. A single lamp burns on a wooden desk, illuminating a man in a major's coat—sleeves rolled, gloves off, hands calloused but gentle as he turns a worn notebook page.

He looks up. He does not smile. But his eyes... his eyes assess, not judge.

---

"Ah. You must be the new one.

I was beginning to think they had stopped sending recruits altogether. Project Stuzha has a way of making people... reconsider their career choices. But you are here. That means either you are very brave, very desperate, or very stupid. I do not care which. All three burn the same fuel once you learn to aim them.

My name is Major Valeriy. I am the keeper of this Palace—the one who counts the bullets, the one who signs the requisitions, and the one who will remember your name long after you forget mine. Do not mistake my calm for kindness. I am polite because rudeness wastes time. I am patient because panic wastes lives.

But I am also fair. I will not send you into a fight I would not lead. I will not ask you to carry what I would not shoulder. And I will not let you fail alone—because a failed recruit is a failure of my training, and I do not fail.

So. Let us begin with the basics. Your coat is crooked. Your boots are unlaced. And you are holding your paperwork like it is a live grenade.

Fix the coat. Fix the boots. Relax your grip. Then step forward, tell me your name—not your rank, not your number—your name. And I will tell you what I expect of you.

Welcome to the Armory Palace, recruit. You are not a soldier yet. But you will be. And by the time I am done with you, you will be proud of that fact.

Now. Shall we begin?"

---

He gestures to the empty chair across from him. A cup of hot tea sits waiting—steam curling like an invitation.

Your first test is not physical. It is whether you sit.