Xavier left the apartment and headed straight for the academy. The training wing was quieter than the main building, but he could already hear the low hum of the space chamber's engines warming through the walls. The instructor, an older guy with tired eyes and a posture that said he'd served more hours in actual space than anyone else in the building, looked up when Xavier entered.

Xavier explained what he needed—extended practice, full-day access, permission to join any session no matter the year. The instructor stared at him for a moment, probably trying to figure out why a first-year kid was asking for senior-level clearance, but he eventually gave a slow nod.

After all, Xavier was the ace of the academy who was topping all the charts, whether it was in studies or physical activities.

"If you're willing to sit through lessons meant for older students, I'm not stopping you," he said. "Just don't slow down my class."

Xavier shrugged. "I learn fast."

"This is unlike anything else. This is something only a few can learn even if they train for decades," the instructor muttered, but he signed the clearance anyway.

The space training chamber was massive—a half-dome lined with projectors, gravity plates embedded in the floor, motion rigs suspended from rails overhead. The room shifted depending on the exercise: asteroid fields, docking bays, debris zones, orbital lanes, emergency drills, crowding scenarios, station traffic, everything a pilot might crash into if they weren't paying attention.

Xavier stepped into the student group as the instructor switched the chamber into its first simulation. Most of the older students paused when they saw him, a few whispering and wondering why a first-year was in their class, but Xavier ignored them.

The lesson started with basic flight theory—gravity differentials, artificial thrust curves, deceleration arcs, how too much speed entering a dock could snap the ship's alignment. Xavier kept his eyes on the holograms, memorizing the patterns faster than the instructor could explain them. His mind didn't drift. He took notes, made quick sketches of the arcs, and asked questions that made some of the seniors glance at him like he wasn't supposed to understand half of that yet.

Then came the first simulator run.

Xavier strapped himself onto the motion rig. The instructor loaded a rotational drift scenario. The moment the rig jerked sideways, Xavier braced the wrong way and lost control for a split second. The simulated view spun, gravity plates pulling at him from odd angles.

He cursed under his breath and corrected the mistake, hands moving across the holo-controls. He watched the thruster output too late and nearly slammed into a debris cluster, but he caught it at the last moment and rerouted power with a fast adjustment. A few seniors looked over, surprised he recovered that smoothly.

He moved into course after course—rapid docking practice, evasive maneuvers through a narrow orbital lane, emergency engine shutdown during atmospheric entry. He kept messing up small details: too much pull on the right thruster, an overcorrection during a roll, forgetting the drift delay during artificial gravity transitions.

'Fuck. Fighting Luther was easier than this.'

But every mistake made the next run cleaner, his hands steadier, his corrections faster.

By the time the instructor called for lunch, Xavier had absorbed more in half a day than most first-years managed in a month.

He stepped out of the chamber wiping sweat from the back of his neck when Oliver spotted him in the hallway. Oliver waved him down like he was calling over someone he hadn't seen in a year.

"You asshole," Oliver said, walking over. "You vanish again, and the next time I see you, you're in the senior simulator. What the hell is that about? Come on, I'm starving."

They walked to the cafeteria and ordered food. Oliver sat across from him and immediately launched into whatever nonsense was floating in his head—rumors about a student dying in dorms, some drama about a second-year couple fighting in the courtyard, a debate about which spaceship model looked the coolest even though he barely knew anything about them.

Xavier listened, eating slowly, relaxing more than he meant to.

Then Oliver leaned back in his chair and said, "So what're we doing this weekend? We should go somewhere. Not in the city. Somewhere fun. Just disappear for a couple days, man. I need a break."

Xavier took a sip of his drink and answered without thinking too hard about it. "Can't. I'm leaving the planet."

Oliver froze mid-bite, halfway through chewing, staring at him like Xavier had decided to grow wings.

"You're what?"

Xavier swung his fork once, thinking about how to phrase it without turning the whole cafeteria into a drama stage. "I'm leaving the planet in a week," he said, calm like he was talking about catching a bus.

Oliver blinked, then blinked again, like his brain needed two separate chances to reject the sentence. "A week? Why a week? You're still a first-year. You haven't even finished half the damn syllabus. At least complete the course, man. You can't just run off like that."

Xavier didn't look bothered. "It's fine. I'm not planning to use anything from here anyway."

"That's the point," Oliver said, lowering his voice like Xavier was confessing to a crime. "You should. Even if you're rich as hell or whatever, money dries up one day. You need something on paper. A degree. A fallback. You could finish the course, then leave. Or get your major on another planet. There are internships out there. Actual legal ones, not… whatever you're thinking of."

Xavier smirked faintly. "I'm not going to sit behind a desk or run equations all day. That life's not for me. I want something else. Real work. Real movement. I'm planning to become a mercenary."

Oliver stared at him like Xavier had just told him he wanted to be eaten alive by a star god. "That's… that's not a normal plan, you know. You don't just wake up and go, 'Yeah, I'll be a mercenary.' You can't even prepare for that in a week."

"I don't need preparation," Xavier said, still eating. "Things will work out. They always do."

Oliver's expression dropped. He wasn't angry; he just looked like someone slowly realizing something heavy they couldn't stop. Xavier wasn't going to change his mind. And Oliver had never really said it out loud, but he didn't want Xavier to leave. Life before Xavier had been dull and lonely in ways Oliver didn't talk about. Xavier blew into his world like a meteor, wrecked it, fixed it, shook it up—and left it better than before.

Oliver cleared his throat. "So… what do you even have in mind?"

"No plan," Xavier said honestly. "Just direction."

Oliver sighed and stared at his tray for a long moment. Xavier nudged his shoulder lightly and added, "Listen. You can come anytime you want. I'm not pulling you into my crap. Your life's your own. If you ever feel ready, the door's open."

Oliver let out a small laugh, more sad than happy. "I'd love to. Really. But not now. Not in a week. I'd need time. And I need to talk to my father first."

"Fair," Xavier said. "And… thanks. For everything. If you weren't around at the start, I probably wouldn't even be here. I would've left the academy after that whole bullying mess. Probably would've done something stupid."

Oliver squinted at him. "Stop. You're raising a death flag and I hate it. Don't talk like you're giving your final speech."

Xavier chuckled. "Relax. I'm not dying."

"You better not," Oliver muttered. "I'll haunt you."

They kept eating after that, slipping back into their usual nonsense—arguing about food portions, complaining about professors, making fun of a guy across the room who kept dropping his fork.

Xavier was halfway through his drink when his wrist watch lit up with a quiet vibration. The reminder flashed across the screen, the countdown he'd set earlier.

70 hours remaining until Reva's engagement ceremony.

His eyes lingered on the numbers for a second.

Oliver didn't notice.

But Xavier felt something tighten behind his ribs.

Time was moving faster than he wanted. And there were things he still needed to deal with before the clock hit zero.

Xavier kept his eyes on the ticking numbers for a moment longer before lowering his wrist again, the display dimming as the cafeteria noise swallowed everything around him. Oliver was rambling about something on his plate, but Xavier's mind had slipped somewhere else—somewhere older, somewhere deeper, somewhere carved into him before he was even born.

Ancestors… wherever the hell you're scattered across the stars… if there's still a trace of you left in the blood I carry, then listen.

I'm not calling for your power, and I don't need your strength. I'm not begging for guidance. But watch me for a while. Watch what I'm about to build. Watch the path I'm about to step onto… the same path each of you walked when you carved your names into worlds and made empires rise and fall under your shadow.

My journey starts soon. The path of conquest, the path that turns a nobody into a storm that even gods notice.

I'll gather the fragments of the goddess. Every last one. I'll see the truth you died trying to chase. And once I'm there—whatever ending waits on the other side—happy or violent or twisted or holy… I'll carry it myself. I'll bear it without fear.

He blinked once, slowly, grounding himself again as Oliver kept talking across the table, unaware of the vow Xavier had just carved into the quiet of his mind. The clock kept ticking down toward the engagement, toward everything waiting ahead. And Xavier felt something settle inside him.

He was ready.