“War teaches only one lesson:
It’s not who strikes the hardest,
but who stands tall the longest.”

That evening, Oku needed a drink.

He lay back on his bunk’s cushions, a bottle of liquor resting at his side.
He didn’t like to get drunk — the discipline of Castorian warriors forbade it.
Mind sharp, body always ready.
Singularities came like calamities: sudden, unpredictable, leaving only ruin and pain behind.

But he wasn’t on duty anymore.
And no one would have complained if, for one night, he gave himself permission for just one toast.
He was about to pour a glass when the air shifted.
An electric whisper cut through the room, his arm hairs rose, and a subtle crackle filled the silence.

He turned sharply.
Before him stood a figure draped in a brown burlap cloak, hood pulled low over the face.

Oku dropped to one knee.
“My lord…”

The man placed a hand gently on his shoulder.
“Please, Oku. No need. Stand up.”

Oku obeyed, bowing his head ever so slightly.
“What brings you here, sir?”

“Are you not going to offer a drink to an old friend? One glass won’t kill us, will it?”
They sat. The liquor trembled in the rough-cut glasses.
“How are you, old friend? How go things at the Arena?”

“We’re managing, sir. Better here than where you are. But… you seem worried. Am I right?”

The cloaked man took a slow sip.
“There’s something wrong in the air above Gommhon. I don’t know exactly what, but it’s like the calm before a storm. Maybe I’m wrong… and yet, that singularity keeps growing darker.”

“What do you think is coming?”

“I don’t know, Oku. Maybe Alset is right. Maybe I’m just the ramblings of an old man.”

He took another sip, then his voice deepened:
“How’s the new generation? Do you have promising recruits? Because if I’m right — and I hope I’m not — we’re going to need every ounce of strength we can muster.”

Oku nodded.
“Yes. There are a couple of good ones. One in particular: Gozen Rockembech. Raw, but talented. Orange Planet, Galaxy Y91, Quadrant 34, Sector H10.”

 “Rockembech…? Wasn’t that planet overrun by the Fhuurian?”

“Likely. But if he’s still alive, he was born to fight.”

 “The Fhuurian… living enigmas. You never know what they’re after.”

Oku smiled bitterly. "It’s true. Mercy isn’t part of their vocabulary."

“And the kid from the white planet?”

Oku startled.
"How do you know that? Mind you, it was Gladyo who wanted him here — I was again..."

“Relax, Oku. I didn’t come to scold you. How’s the kid doing?”

“Physically he’s improving by the day. In combat, he’s fast and determined. But the Ori… that’s another matter. Without it, he’ll always lag behind, a cripple among marathoners.”

The man stayed silent, gaze blank, glass suspended mid-air.

Oku looked at what had once been the greatest warrior in the universe, reflecting on how merciless time could be.
Nothing destroys like time.
It is the darkest and most remorseless element of the universe — the true incarnation of fate.
Nothing is created. Nothing is destroyed. he thought. Everything transforms. But what transforms never returns to what it was.

The cloaked man murmured:
“Who can say, Oku. We believe things are the way they are only because we know nothing else. But the universe doesn’t care about our convictions. It follows its own rules, whether we understand them or not.”

Oku smiled faintly."You should talk about this with Alset."

The man chuckled.
"One should never philosophize too much with a scientist! That’s why I’m here. You and I are made of the same stuff".
He emptied his glass and stood up.
"Thanks for the drink, my friend."

Oku bowed.
"My lord, don’t worry. Whatever happens, we still have you, Lawrence, and Alset."

The man gave a melancholic smile.
"We’re old, Oku. And we lost Micaene, Jinrai, and Parcil a long time ago. The era of the invincibles is over. Now more than ever, we need new heroes. Don’t forget how important your mission here is."

“Yes, sir.”

When he looked up again, the figure had vanished.
Oku stood frozen, gaze lost in the empty glass.
Suddenly, the will to drink had left him.

The trainings at the Arena continued relentlessly.
Muscle aches, hand blisters, injuries, insults.
Everything had become routine.
Finde had adapted: a year had passed since his arrival on Castor.

One morning, Oku gathered everyone in the courtyard.
“Recruits! Today we change things. It’s time for a tournament.”

A ripple of excitement ran through the group.

“Four teams, eight recruits each,” Oku announced.
“Open field, rough terrain, fifteen kilometers from here. Three hours on the clock. Victory goes to those who conquer without being conquered.”

The recruits burst into chatter, organising and already plotting strategies.

Oku didn’t say when it would be.
Exactly one week later, he had them up at dawn.
After breakfast, he ordered them to fill their satchels with weapons, water, and rations.
Then he set them in motion.

Or rather — into a run.
Oku hated seeing anyone walk.

After forty minutes of running, they reached a vast rocky plain.
The Arena staff had set up a large canopy to shield from Galeo’s milky light.
Beneath it, two long tables: one lined with monitors linked to drones overhead; the other loaded with water, food, and medical supplies.

The battle field was broad and square — four hundred hectares of desert dotted with craters and fissures.
At each corner, tall poles with coloured banners marked the teams’ bases.

Oku handed out monitoring wristbands and read the teams.
Finde was in the White Team, alongside May and Katrin, two of the best recruits.
The most dangerous unit was the Black Team — Gozen and his shadow Yano, inseparable and lethal.

The red team was led by Jhoanna — strong and intelligent like no one else.
The Blue Team fielded the formidable duo Serbice and Kleus.

Oku stepped forward.
“Listen carefully. I won’t repeat myself.”

His voice cut the murmur like a blade.

“Each team defends its flag and tries to seize the others.
Flag captured: +2 points.
Team that loses it: –2 points.
Reclaiming your own flag: +4 points.
Team that loses it afterward: –4 points.
To capture a flag from a team that had previously stolen it from another team: +5 points/ –5 points.
If a single recruit captures the first flag through individual initiative: team +1, opposing team –1 point.
Killing someone: –10 points”.

The recruits stared at him, bewildered.

A recruit grumbled:
“Master Oku! You never said we’d have this whole points mess!”

Oku glared.
“Oh, sorry, idiot. Next time I’ll leave you a note under your pillow.”

A muffled laugh rippled through the ranks.

“What are the points for?” asked Jhoanna.

Oku smiled coldly.
“To decide who among you is worthy to stay in the Arena… and who will be thrown out.”

A tense silence fell over the group.
Then his hoarse voice broke it once more:
"Head to your base positions. When you hear the drones above your heads, you may start moving. The timer starts at that exact moment. I will watch every single move on the monitors, so think carefully before you act. Now move, spineless amoebas! Today we’ll see who can fight and who can only complain!".

Everyone grabbed their wristband.
Then, in small groups, the four teams dispersed into Castor’s milky desert.

Finde tightened his grip on his wooden weapon.
The wind lifted the sand, and his heartbeat marked the beginning of something greater.

The tournament wasn’t just a test.
It was the first war of his new life.

“The Recruits’ Tournament is about to begin.
Who among them will prove worthy of joining the prestigious order of Castorian warriors?”

Next Episode 8: "The Tournament - Part. II"