Soulforged: The Fusion Talent-Chapter 111: The Opportunist’s March

Chapter 111: Chapter 111: The Opportunist’s March
Adam had been watching the Academy candidates’ building since the alarms first rang.
Not from obligation. Not from concern for their safety. But from cold, calculating assessment of opportunity.
For all his smiles and carefully chosen words of wisdom he often provides, the feelings had already settled in his heart, he would not be denied his future—no matter who had to bleed for it.
Fifteen slots. Fifteen selected. But chaos creates vacancies
. He thought
The thought was sick. He knew it was sick. But Adam had built his entire existence on recognizing opportunities others were too moral or too stupid to exploit.
When the candidates split into two groups and burst from the building, Adam followed the larger group—Ellarine’s faction, moving with the discipline a noble’s grace could afford, toward the officer compound.
He kept his distance, his rifle ready, his mind working through scenarios.
If candidates die during the assault, their slots become available. Emergency replacements selected from surviving soldiers who demonstrate exceptional capability during crisis. It’s precedent. It’s protocol.
I just need to be in position when vacancies open.
The group ahead moved with unexpected cohesion. Ellarine took command without hesitation, her signals crisp and decisive. Bolt followed close—an "independent," officially, though it was hard to believe anyone truly earned an Academy slot without unseen hands tipping the scales. Still, whatever strings might have pulled him there, the man could fight. He drove the blunt edge of his blade into a Covenant agent with bone-shuddering force, dropping him without ceremony.
Marcus held the rear, methodical and lethal, finishing enemies before they could even think to cry out. Together, they carved through the Covenant cells they encountered, not with flair or heroics, but with cold, practiced brutality—soldiers doing exactly what they had been trained to do.
Adam watched, documented and waited.
His mind tracked casualties like a ledger:
• Sinclair, the wind manipulation specialist—isolated when the group took a wrong turn through collapsed infrastructure.
• Two Kadesh-affiliated candidates—decent fighters, but inexperienced with coordinated urban combat.
• Several others whose names Adam had memorized from the selection announcement.
If enough of them die, if I’m present to fill the gap, if I demonstrate tactical value at the critical moment—
The rationalization was seamless. Efficient. Monstrous in its cold calculation.
But Adam had stopped pretending he was a good person months ago.
Survival trumped morality. Always had. Always would.
He followed Ellarine’s group through darkness, invisible through deliberate insignificance, his rifle loaded, his mind calculating.
Waiting for opportunity.
Waiting for crisis to create the vacancy he needed.
—-
On the other end,
Adept Vaelith Crownhold emerged from his office with perfect timing, his expression crafted into concern and determination.
Around him, the officer compound buzzed with organized chaos—Lieutenants coordinating defensive responses, Captains organizing squad deployments, the military machine adapting to unexpected three-way assault.
"Status !" Vaelith’s voice carried authority as he approached the command center. "What’s our casualty assessment? Where are our defensive gaps?"
A harried Lieutenant turned, relief visible at seeing Adept-level reinforcement. "Sir! The Covenant forces are running amok throughout multiple sectors. A lot of infrastructures have been compromised. The Crawlers have also emerged —It’s the ant colony but this time it’s a massive deployment. We’re stretched thin coordinating response across—"
"Prioritization," Vaelith interrupted smoothly. "We can’t defend everything simultaneously. Focus forces on some critical infrastructure—medical facilities, supply depots, communication hubs. Let the peripheral sectors contain themselves until we’ve secured the core."
It was sound tactical advice. Exactly what a competent Adept should recommend during crisis.
It also happened to abandon the sectors where his noble opponents were concentrated, where independent soldiers had been positioned, where casualties would serve Vaelith’s political purposes.
But no one questioned it. During crisis, clear direction from Adept-level authority was followed without debate.
"Implement immediately," Vaelith ordered.
"And get me casualty s—I need to know which officers we’ve lost, which positions need emergency replacement."
The Lieutenant saluted and moved to execute, unaware that he was helping orchestrate the very tragedy he thought he was preventing.
Vaelith’s aide materialized beside him with subtle ease, carrying a communication mirror.
"s coming in," the aide said quietly, voice pitched for Vaelith’s ears only. "Estovia Armand’s assassination team encountered unexpected interference. Mission incomplete. Target status unknown but likely survived initial attempt."
Vaelith’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened microscopically. "Clarify ’interference.’"
"Some kids. Six of them, moving through the logistics sector. They engaged our operatives and extracted Estovia before termination could be confirmed."
These kids...
Who else could be this young and still carry enough strength to put down his operatives, if not those muttering candidates? They hadn’t even set foot in the Academy yet, and already they were proving themselves a nuisance—one that refused to stay quiet.
Vaelith had expected them to stay secured in their quarters, protected and passive, letting soldiers handle the violence. Instead, they’d done exactly what he’d warned against—played hero, engaged in combat, positioned themselves where they could interfere with carefully orchestrated objectives.
"Which candidates?"
"The Morgan kids part of them. The two guys who just got made private and some others."
"Of course it’s Morgan," Vaelith muttered.
The Private was a tad problematic
,Vaelith’s tactical mind assessed. But potentially useful.
If Morgan’s group died protecting Estovia, it would demonstrate the danger of Academy candidates engaging in outpost defense. Would validate Vaelith’s warnings about wasted resources.
If they survived but Estovia died anyway, same result.
If both survived... well, Estovia’s evidence would need to be addressed through other means. Political rather than violent. It would be slower but still effective.
"Continue monitoring," Vaelith ordered his aide. "If opportunities arise to eliminate either Estovia or the interfering candidates, exploit them. But nothing that traces back obviously. Let the chaos do the work."
"Understood, sir."
Vaelith returned to coordinating defensive response, his performance of concerned leadership flawless, his actual agenda hidden beneath layers of plausible duty.
Around him, soldiers died containing threats he’d helped orchestrate.
And he counted each casualty as investment in future political capital.
——
Rhys Cavendish stood at Vester’s southern gate, watching alarm bells ring across the outpost, listening to the distant sounds of combat echoing through darkness.
He should have left yesterday. Should have departed immediately after concluding his business. But he’d lingered—restocking supplies, negotiating some contracts ordered by his father, letting his noble’s instinct guide decisions that logic said were complete.
Now, watching Vester dissolve into crisis, he understood why.
"We’re closing the gates!" a guard shouted. "No departures until the assault is contained! Return to secured positions!"
"How long?" Rhys asked, his noble’s mind already calculating delays, losses and unexpected complications.
"Hours. Maybe days. Depends on how bad this gets." The guard looked grim. "You picked a shit time to visit Vester, lieutenant."
"So it seems."
Rhys retreated from the gate, his hand instinctively checking the concealed documents in his jacket—copies of evidence Estovia had provided during their brief meeting days ago.
She’d been cautious. Professional. But also desperate in the way people became when they’d uncovered corruption and realized they were alone in fighting it.
"If anything happens to me," she’d said, pressing the copied documents into his hands, "get these to the Senate. To Representative Ashford specifically—she’s not compromised by some petty House interests. This evidence proves Vaelith Crownhold has been systematically diverting Republic resources for family benefit. Supply manipulation, political assassination coordination."
"Why give this to me?" Rhys asked. "You can’t be sure I’m a hundred percent on your side in all this. You’re literally kicking a hornet’s nest. Every noble is tangled in crime, Armand—your father included. The ones before him too."
"Because you’re not under Crownhold’s payroll. House Cavendish is a bulwark—one of the few that can stand on the same stage as Crownhold. Their reach doesn’t extend far enough to punish you without consequence."
She met his eyes then, unflinching.
"And because I don’t trust you," she continued. "But I do understand you. I know what you want. And I know you’ll act—especially when I’m the one caught in the middle."
Rhys had taken the documents, had promised to deliver them if needed, had thought it was some kind of paranoid precaution.
Now, listening to Vester’s chaos, he wondered if Estovia was already dead.
Get these to the Senate.
Her words echoed with new urgency.
Rhys moved through the outpost’s inner districts, avoiding combat zones, seeking the convoy compound where House Aurin’s transport was secured. If he couldn’t leave through gates, perhaps he could negotiate emergency evacuation with the convoy security.
The documents burned against his chest—evidence potent enough to topple an Adept-level authority, or at the very least carve a bloody chunk from it. Nobles, for all their splendor, despised having their filth dragged into the light. And though every last one of them waded in the same cesspool of corruption, they would still seize upon a rival’s exposed sins with relish, pressing salt into the wound for all to see.
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Rhys kept moving toward the convoy, the documents secured against his chest, the promise he’d made weighing heavier than the papers themselves. She had trusted him with information capable of getting them both killed—and he intended to honor that trust.
Because sometimes, even nobles had principles. And principles, inconvenient as they were, often aligned neatly with self-interest. Cavendish and Crownhold had never been allies—never would be—and delivering this to his father would be a gift worthy of Central.
Even so, he couldn’t deny the truth. In a crisis, principles weren’t virtues.
They were liabilities.
Elsewhere, Adam followed Ellarine’s group through darkness, his rifle ready, his mind calculating which candidate’s death would benefit him most.
Vaelith coordinated defensive response while his aide monitored assassination attempts, playing commander while orchestrating murders.
Rhys navigated toward escape, carrying evidence that would expose everything if it reached Central.
And in the logistics center, Bright’s group prepared to defend Estovia’s unconscious body against Crownhold assassins who’d already killed dozens to reach her.
And once again the machinery of orchestrated crisis turned.
Three players with three agendas.
Covenant seeking divine purpose.
Crownhold pursuing political consolidation.
Ants following hunger’s simple mathematics.
And caught between them—soldiers trying to survive, nobles trying to escape, Academy candidates trying to make impossible choices.
Clear Light’s Eve.
When Vester learned that everyone was just pieces on someone else’s board.
And the only question was whose game would claim you first.