Chapter 131: Blushing Like an Wife on the Training Mats

Chapter 131: Chapter 131: Blushing Like an Wife on the Training Mats

I nodded, hand on the door.

For the first time since Rei Lawless had entered the part of our lives, Gianna said nothing about her.

Only the quiet fact of an Empress somewhere above our paperwork, and a primary anchor who could feel a regret I still would not name.

I stepped out into Jenna’s bay with the taste of her still in my mouth and the system’s warning sitting behind my eyes.

[Note: Target already carries partial answer. Further denial decreases trust efficiency.]

"Not tonight."

[Understood. Night is finite. The Empress is not.]

Night passed with the ghost of Gianna’s mouth still sitting at the back of my throat.

She had a way of handing me confidence like a loaded weapon: your place is beside me, you’re strong, don’t spike for the board, and in the same breath she had put her hands on a chain and brushed the edge of a regret I kept locked for a reason.

That unsettled me more than any Empress flag on a system panel.

I didn’t want anyone to see that side.

I was not him.

Not the version of a life that had ended under different lights, with different failures.

This body, this name, this class: whatever overlap existed, I refused to let it become a story someone else could read through an anchor channel.

Not even Gianna.

Jenna came home late.

I had already eaten and moved to the bedroom.

Sleep came in pieces.

At some point the apartment registered her entry; at some point she paused in the doorway long enough that I felt the weight of her attention without opening my eyes.

Then she left me there and went back to work.

Morning came early.

My body was fully online, strength jump still settling in the frame, no headache from dual feed, bracelet quiet green.

I walked out and found Jenna on the sofa, upright but asleep in front of a laptop-like slate, light from unread packets washing her face in pale blue.

I made coffee.

When I set the cup near her hand, she stirred, took it, and half-smiled without the full guildmaster mask.

"You could have come to bed," I said.

"You looked like you had a lot on your mind."

She drank.

"A few..."

"I didn’t want to add another variable."

"You won’t."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Her eyes sharpened despite the fatigue.

"I don’t want it becoming a problem during the tests."

I sat on the arm of the opposite chair.

"Mm. Do you know where I come from?"

Jenna didn’t flinch.

"You aren’t from a lab."

"But you said—"

"To keep you under composure. And to keep other people from asking the wrong questions in the wrong rooms."

She set the cup down.

"We don’t know where you came from. Not in a way that satisfies a full genetic ledger."

"It’s weird, isn’t it?" I kept my voice light and didn’t manage it.

"Randomly getting a live human when the world is begging to bring them back."

"It is. It isn’t unheard of."

Jenna’s tone stayed practical.

"Men still occupy wasteland bands outside the ten sectors. Some cross over when their ground becomes unsafe: raid pressure, resource collapse, internal war. Occasionally one walks into a monitored zone with no prior registration."

"I’m not from there."

"No."

She met my eyes.

"You aren’t. Their biological construct work runs differently than yours. Mira’s early panels already ruled out standard wasteland markers. Whatever you are, you don’t file clean under any of the usual recovery categories."

I didn’t push further.

Some answers were sharper when left half-drawn, especially with an Empress already holding more of the picture than Sector 7.

I freshened up.

When I headed for the private training wing, Jenna walked with me.

"A meeting?" I asked.

"Yes. The academy has announced its schedule."

"Oh."

Damn.

They were fast.

So it was really happening.

School. Intake. Sealed briefs that stopped being theoretical the moment a board clock started.

"About the test too?"

"Especially the test."

Jenna turned her head, and the smile she wore was not comforting. "You won’t be happy about it."

Shit.

We entered the private training room.

Gianna and Rei were already on the mat, and somehow cooperating.

But it wasn’t in a warm or friendly way.

They were aligned in the narrow way people got when a shared fail condition mattered more than a video and a ranking speech.

Rei was checking a blood-budget strap on her wrist.

Gianna was setting marker cones with telekinetic micro-taps.

They exchanged a short nod when we came in.

That alone was weird enough to register.

My eyes landed on Gianna and stayed a few seconds too long.

Then something bizarre happened.

She blushed.

My eyes widened.

Gianna Everheart, the woman who kissed first, who straddled me in a sealed car, who ordered me not to die for her like it was a tactical correction, was blushing because I looked at her.

What the fuck?

Did I make her pregnant?

We hadn’t even- when we slept together, I hadn’t finished inside her.

Wait. I had come in her mouth.

Was that how biology worked here?

Residual seed and core expansion and—

Jenna flicked two fingers against the back of my head, hard enough to reset the spiral.

"Ouch!"

"Focus," she said under her breath.

I focused.

The three of us faced her as she brought up a projected packet above the mat edge.

Academy seals.

Schedule blocks.

A header that made the air in the hall feel narrower.

"The academy has announced the entrance criteria," Jenna said.

All three of us went still.

"This cycle’s practical theme is titled Fulcrum & Fury."

Rei’s eyebrows lifted.

"Dramatic."

"Intentional."

Jenna expanded the pane.

"The board is not running a pure clear-time race this year. With Empress-line participation confirmed on the intake roster, they want a format that stresses support architecture under split objectives, not only Vanguard output."

Gianna’s arms folded.

"Meaning?"

"Meaning the entrance practical is built around a dual axis."

Jenna pointed to the first schematic. "Fulcrum: a support must stabilize, distribute, and hold a linked unit under changing load, civilian markers, shifting terrain, contested fields. Failure is isolation, dropped links, or letting the fulcrum collapse while the fury element is still active."

She shifted the pane.

"Fury: aggressive clearance pressure. Timed kill quotas, high-mobility threats, and at least one bracket where holding back costs the team the score even if the fulcrum is perfect. You cannot hide in pure defense. You cannot win on pure slaughter if your linked supports can’t stand the distribution."

I felt the class sit up behind my ribs like it recognized a test designed for people like me, and for the people who used people like me.

"But there’s a twist."