The corridor widened as they walked, opening into a space that hummed with restrained life. The walls

  gleamed with a faint wet shine, like polished obsidian shot through with veins of light. Every few

  meters, thin ridges pulsed softly, heartbeats of the living structure that was, somehow, also architecture.

  Bash kept half a step behind Harrow. His legs still felt uncertain, the world too real and too foreign at

  the same time.

  “You’ll go through registration first,” Harrow said, his voice echoing just enough to sound detached.

  “They’ll register your resonance with the Nexus, assign quarters, and feed you. After that, you’re free

  until training begins. A few days, maybe.”

  Bash nodded absently. “And after that?”

  “After that?” Harrow gave a small, humorless smile. “No rest until death.”

  Bash tried to laugh, but Harrow wasn’t joking.

  “Some of us come back after death,” Harrow said. “Greens, mostly. The higher your abilities, the better

  your odds. Browns usually stay dead. You’ll figure it out.”

  Bash frowned, lowering his voice. S-C, what’s he talking about?

  He refers to the Reincarnate ability, she answered instantly. It is common among Green-class

  Spartorsthe rarest of all classifications. Statistically, only one Green Novarch emerges for every ten to

  one hundred thousand births. When a Green dies, the Reincarnate protocol can trigger a full

  reformation cycle within the incubation network. Consciousness is preserved, the body reconstituted.

  The process may repeat indefinitely, barring complete Core collapse.

  So, basically… immortal soldiers?

  With attrition, she added. Each reformation costs stability, memory degradation, Essence loss, but

  probability of successful recursion remains high. For those possessing the ability, the chance of return

  exceeds ninety-nine percent.

  He stared at Harrow’s back, feeling cold despite the steady warmth in the air. “You’re saying they just

  keep dying and coming back?”

  Harrow didn’t turn. “Exactly that. No rest ever.”

  The words clung to Bash like static.

  After a long silence he muttered, “SC, you really need to tell me more about these abilities.”

  That information was part of your missing baseline data package, she said. It should have been

  integrated during gestation. The system failure prevented installation. I can explain manually, or

  attempt a direct upload once I finish reconstructing the neural bridges.

  “An upload sounds faster.”

  Riskier, too. I could overwrite recent memory chains. Manual instruction is safer.

  He sighed. “Fine. Start small. Later.”

  The corridor bent left and opened into a vast concourse humming with life. Light poured from glass

  tubes that rose along the walls, their amber glow washing over the moving crowd. Spartors passed in

  organized lines, some brown, others grey or blue, each shade catching the light differently as they

  crossed paths.

  Bash slowed, eyes flicking from one to another, until he caught a brief glint of deep green far ahead.

  The sight tugged at something in his chest, familiar and foreign all at once.

  He caught himself staring. They weren’t all giants; some stood near human height, others loomed well

  above it. Every hue pulsed faintly under the ambient glow, alive, layered, and unmistakably ranked.

  Harrow gestured for him to keep pace. “Don’t stare too long. They’ll think you’re broken.”

  “Maybe I am.”

  That earned the faintest grin. “You’ll fit right in.”

  They crossed a raised bridge toward the center of the chamber where several archways led to enclosed

  rooms. The air smelled faintly metallic, almost sterile, humming with quiet energy.

  “You said before you hadn’t had one like me in a long time,” Bash said suddenly. “What did you mean

  by that?”

  Harrow slowed, thinking. “Ah. When you came out of your pod. Most emerge calm, confused maybe,

  but cooperative. You tried to run, tried to fight. The last time I saw that was many, many cycles ago.”

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. Please report it.

  “Someone else like me?”

  “Another Novarch, yes. Came out thrashing, screaming gibberish. Nearly ripped the nutrient lines out

  of the chamber wall. Took three of us to hold him.” He chuckled, nostalgic. “Turned out to be a genius

  once he settled. Name’s Kyzer. Leads a Blue Guild now.”

  Bash blinked. “Blue Guild?”

  Harrow nodded. “One of the mid-tier divisions. Good fighters, reliable. Their leader, Kyzer, runs one of

  the stronger ones.”

  “Is that… good?” Bash asked.

  Harrow gave a short shrug. “Depends who you ask. He’s respected, but he’s still Blue. The higher

  Guilds don’t like when someone below them forgets their place.”

  Bash frowned. “Higher Guilds?”

  “You’ll learn the ranks soon enough,” Harrow said. “Just remember, colors mean everything here. And

  the darker the shade, the messier the politics.”

  That made Harrow’s expression tighten. “Politics,” he said curtly. “Stay away from them until you

  know who you are.”

  Bash fell silent again. SC, what’s a Guild?

  One of the missing baseline modules, she said. I can reconstruct it.

  He rubbed his temples. Do it before someone asks me a question I can’t answer.

  Guilds are operational divisions maintained by the Nexus, S-C said. Each aligns with a Quantum

  Transport Portal, QTP for short. Portals connect to designated planetary systems for resource collection

  and essence harvesting. The color of the Guild corresponds to the difficulty and yield level of its

  assigned worlds.

  Bash frowned. Color?

  White, Grey, Blue, and Green, she replied. White-tier worlds are the most stable and used for training.

  Each step higher brings greater risk and higher essence yield. The colors also define status within

  Spartor society, Greens sit at the top of that structure.

  “So White’s the easiest?” he whispered.

  Correct. White for beginners and training. Grey for low-tier harvests, Blue and Green for combat and

  high-essence operations, and Black for forbidden or unstable zones.

  And Greens like me are at the top?

  Typically, S-C said. Though until you unlock your abilities, you are functionally lower-tier. All

  Novarchs begin in that state. Reincarnates retain memory of their previous abilities and can target the

  correct essence sources immediately. You will have to discover yours first.

  Bash groaned quietly. Great. A broken elite.

  Harrow’s voice pulled him out of the thought. “Stop here.”

  They reached a platform at the base of the atrium. A high desk of translucent crystal dominated the

  center, its surface rippling faintly like liquid glass. Behind it stood a tall female Spartor, her skin a

  muted brown marked with thin silver scars that caught the light with every movement. Her eyes glowed

  faintly gold, not bright, but steady, old, and watchful.

  The hum in the room seemed to shift as they approached.

  Harrow gave a respectful nod. “New arrival for registration.”

  The registrar didn’t answer immediately. Her gaze fell on Bash and stayed there. It wasn’t curiosity; it

  was examination. Measured. Clinical.

  Bash tried not to flinch.

  “This one’s fresh from incubation,” Harrow continued. “Novarch cycle, full emergence confirmed. No

  recorded anomalies.”

  The registrar stepped closer. Up close, Bash noticed faint lines pulsing beneath her skin, subtle

  channels of light that shifted with her heartbeat. Her voice, when it came, was calm but sharp. “Why is

  he so dark?”

  Harrow blinked. “Dark?”

  “His tone. He’s Green, yes, but look at the saturation. It’s nearly black.” She circled Bash once,

  studying him. “I’ve cataloged hundreds of Greens, and none this dark.”

  Harrow shrugged. “First for me too.”

  Bash swallowed hard. Every nerve screamed at him to move, but he stayed still.

  The registrar’s gaze met his. “Name.”

  “Bash,” he said quietly.

  She repeated it once, as if testing the shape of the syllable. “Bash.” Then, with a small nod, she

  gestured toward a circle etched into the floor before her desk. “Step in.”