Technecht: Death and Rebirth

[Alasw1]

They call me Nibelung. Nibel, for short. It's not a name my family gave me, I was too young to remember them, or the name they chose. "Nibelung" is just what they call my kind. We're born with it: a perfect, triangular mark on the palm of our right hands. A genetic curse, they say. A permanent stamp of our ancestors' sins. My owners made sure I knew that much. Just enough to understand my own inferiority.

My owners? Yes, I am a slave. My world is this asteroid mine. My purpose is to work until my body gives out, at which point I've been promised a swift "disposal."

At least, that's what I thought.

The mine was a cold and dreary place on its own, but for Nibel, it was a prison within a prison. The mark on his palm isolated him even among the lowest of the low. To most, it was a bad omen that conjured fear; to others, a sight that provoked pure disgust.

A harsh buzzer blared, the signal to eat. Nibel set down his tools and fell into step at the very back of the worker procession. Even his fellow slaves shied from his presence, shooting him looks of disgust or shoving him away if his arm so much as brushed theirs.

The cafeteria bustled as usual, its air thick with the smell of recycled food and the din of chatter. It served as the mine's common area, where off-duty free workers played games and drank coffee. A stark divide split the room in two: one side for the free, the other for the enslaved. Nibel joined the slave serving line, hanging back to avoid causing trouble.

For a moment, he could almost believe he was invisible. The line was alive with cheerful banter, the simple prospect of a meal lifting spirits. The cafeteria worker even managed a tired smile as she served the man in front of him.

Then, it was Nibel's turn.

The worker's smile vanished, her expression curdling. She slammed a ladle of gruel into his bowl, splattering the counter, and flicked her fingers at him in a shooing motion. "Move on," she said, her voice flat.

But today, a small victory awaited. In the slaves' section, he spotted a lone, empty table. This is great, he thought, a fragile relief washing over him. For once, he wouldn't have to eat sitting on the grimy floor.

However, his relief was short-lived. A shadow fell over his table. He looked up to see a group of men looming.

"Move," one grunted.

Nibel's grip tightened on his spoon. "Come on," he said meekly. "I just want to eat like a normal person for once."

The largest of them didn't bother with words. He grabbed Nibel by the collar, hauled him up, and flung him aside. It was a practiced motion. Nibel hit the floor, the breath knocked from his lungs in a familiar whoosh. Scrambling up, he saw the group already claiming his table, their faces etched with disgust. His eyes swept the cafeteria—a reflexive, foolish hope for a flicker of sympathy. But there was none. Only a sea of hard eyes that confirmed the same old story: he was the issue. He was the one who had forgotten his place.

Like a normal person? The thought was bitter ash in his mind. What folly made me think that was ever an option?

Resigned, he bent down and picked up his bowl, scooping the little slop that remained back into it.

He walked toward his usual spot by the window, the weight of their mocking stares a physical pressure on his skin. For a people at the bottom, he thought, they are experts at digging.

He sat and stared into the infinite blackness, mechanically shoveling the tasteless gruel into his mouth. The numbness inside him making it barely more tolerable. The moment he finished, he left. The cafeteria was a crowded arena, and more people simply meant more torment.

His work table was his only true sanctuary, a place so desolate no one else would linger. He lost himself in the hollow rhythm of his own thoughts until the harsh buzzer ripped him back to reality, signaling the return to his endless labour.

When the final buzzer blared, a flicker of spirit returned. While the slaves' official shift was a brutal 10 to 12 hours, their remaining time was their own. Many spent it working for the mine's few private enterprises, small shops and restaurants run by free workers. The pay wasn't in real currency, which was useless to them and would be confiscated, but in goods or coupons: extra rations, better clothing, or, most prized of all, spices to make the daily slop tolerable.

But Nibel didn't work for spices. He worked for books. They were his only escape, his only window into a universe beyond the asteroid's cold rock. He had found precious work at a store that sold them.

"Hello, Mr. Swaza! How are you today?" Nibel said, the words feeling unusually light on his tongue.

Swaza wouldn't meet his eyes. "Ah, Nibel. I have some bad news."

"Oh? What's this about?"

"Management made an announcement. They've forbidden us from trading 'cultural items' with slaves. I'm afraid I can't give you any more books."

The air left Nibel's lungs. He was no stranger to misery, but this was a different kind of blow, a devastating, hollowing shock, akin to learning of a sudden, tragic death. It wasn't a disappointment; it was an amputation.

"But… why?" It was the only thought his reeling mind could form.

"Don't want you educated. Or maybe they just enjoy the misery. Who knows?" Swaza shrugged. "If you want to work for spices, I'd be happy to pay you. We just got a fresh shipment."

"No," Nibel whispered, the world tilting around him. "That's okay. I'll just… head off now."

Without books, there was no point. The prospect of slightly more flavourful gruel was a pathetic motivator.

"Oh, and Nibel?" Swaza called after him. "The books you already have… you need to turn them in to management. You're not allowed to own them anymore. They've probably already swept the quarters and confiscated everything anyway."

Nibel walked back to his quarters, his mind a roaring static. His chest was tight, his thoughts a scramble with no single thought forming. The walk was a death march. How was he to endure a lifetime with no escape, no friends, no family, and nothing but universal contempt?

The darkness of the corridors had always been a comfort, a place to hide. Now, it offered a different kind of solace. It was no longer a shield, but a promise, the deep, silent black of a tomb, and the nothingness it held was the only thing that felt like peace. He didn't even register the usual looks of disgust from the others. His body was on autopilot, one foot placed mechanically in front of the other until he found himself standing before his locker.

He already knew. He had known from the moment Swaza spoke. But he still had to look.

He opened the locker door.

Empty.

The small, precious collection of books he had so carefully built was gone. The space where they had been was just a void. It was the final, physical proof. Every escape route—physical, mental, spiritual—was now sealed shut.

He shut down. He gave up. His life collapsed into a numb, robotic cycle: Eat. Work. Sleep. Repeat.

Eat. Work. Slee—

A distant BOOM shook the very rock around him. Then, the shriek of alarms. The robotic spell was broken. Panic erupted as people scrambled. Gunfire chattered in the distance, growing closer. A flood of bodies surged past him, and instinct took over—he ran with them.

"THIS WAY!" guards bellowed. "REMEMBER, FREE PERSONS TAKE PRIORITY! ANY SLAVE THAT IMPEDES A FREE PERSON WILL BE SHOT!"

Nibel watched the free persons rush past, then the other slaves. He was the last, the pariah of the pariahs. He had to wait for every room to clear before he could enter, a ghost in his own evacuation.

They funneled into a secondary hangar, a few small ships their only hope. The main hangar, he assumed, was where the attackers had breached.

"FREE PERSONS ONLY! THEN THE STRONGEST SLAVES!"

Nibel watched the brutal boarding process. When a desperate slave was shot for pushing forward, the rest fell into a terrified silence. The free persons filled the ships; there was little room left. The only slaves who managed to board were the very group that had tormented him in the cafeteria.

The gunfire was at the door now. The ships, seeing the battle was lost, immediately departed, sealing the fate of those left behind.

Then the attackers entered.

They were clad in black, skintight suits that left not a speck of skin visible. Lights glowed where their eyes should be, giving them a demonic appearance, with lines of light spreading from the eyes across their bodies.

Nibel felt nothing. If this was death, it would be a relief.

A soldier's voice, amplified, echoed through the hangar. "We are from the Empire. This mine has been operating illegally in Imperial space and employs slaves, a practice forbidden under our law. The operators will be judged. The enslaved are freed. Former slaves, form a line to be processed. We will take you to Nasturia for repatriation to your homeworlds."

Freed? Nibel's mind rejected it. A trick. But to what end? They had all the power already.

An Imperial ship landed. Out of ingrained habit, Nibel waited until every other former slave had formed a line, then took his place at the very back, maintaining a gap between himself and the others.

This caught the attention of a soldier. "You, boy. Why do you hang back?"

"This is my place, sir. People… don't like me near them."

"Oh? Why is that? Are you a criminal?"

"No, sir. It's because I'm a Nibelung." He showed his palm.

The soldier made a sharp, surprised sound. "Gunther! Has this mark ever been found on someone who wasn't a Nibelung?"

"No, sir. It's an exclusive trait."

The soldier turned back to Nibel. "Wait here. Sit. Rest." He pressed a bar of something into Nibel's hand. "Eat this. We'll speak with you once the others are processed."

Confusion warred with a lifetime of conditioned fear. Were they segregating him for execution? He sat, his mind reeling, and took a bite of the food.

It was chocolate.

Flavor, rich and profound and entirely new, exploded in his mouth. It was an ecstasy so intense it was almost painful, a stark contrast to the dread coiling in his gut. He ate, staring as the hangar slowly emptied, until the soldier finally returned.

Nibel found the courage to speak. "Are you going to kill me for being a Nibelung?"

The soldier let out a short, genuine laugh. "No, son. Look." He pulled off his glove and revealed his own palm. There, etched into his skin, was the same perfect, triangular mark.

 

[Alasw1]

The scale of the Imperial ship defied belief. It wasn't just large; it was a man-made continent of polished steel and light, swallowing the ragged asteroid mine whole. Processed with the other slaves, Nibel was then singled out and led away, his footsteps echoing in corridors whose stark cleanliness made the mine feel like a distant, filthy dream.

Where the mine was a festering wound, this place was a sterile sanctuary. The air didn't taste of rust and recycled sweat, but of sharp, alien citrus. The lights were constant and unwavering, revealing walls of seamless metal without a single scratch or stain. It was a world where aesthetics mattered, a concept so foreign to Nibel it felt almost disorienting.

His guide was a man of importance, judging by the salutes that punctuated their journey. After a labyrinthine walk that stretched for half an hour, they arrived at the heart of the vessel: the bridge. It was a silent symphony of focused activity, holograms and data streams painting the air.

The man in the command chair, the Captain, spared him a glance. "And this is?"

Gerhard, the soldier, gestured to Nibel. "You're not going to believe this, Captain. Go on, lad. Show him."

Nibel's heart hammering in his chest. He unfolded his fingers, revealing the triangular mark on his palm, the source of a lifetime of shame.

The Captain leaned forward, his professional demeanor cracking into a bemused frown. "Huh. Is that what I think it is?"

"No doubt, Captain," Gerhard said. "The mark is exclusive to our bloodline. It's genuine."

A single word snagged in Nibel's mind, hooking his entire attention. "Our?"

The Captain barked a short, incredulous laugh. "Bridge crew. Show our guest your hands."

In a single, unified motion, a dozen hands rose. A dozen identical marks were unveiled. Finally, the Captain turned his own palm upward. There it was. The same.

The foundation of Nibel's reality shattered. His entire life, this mark had been a brand of isolation. Here, it was a badge of membership. A hot, confused anger began to simmer beneath the shock. These people, his kin, had saved the very slaves who despised him for this mark.

"You look like you have questions, lad," Gerhard said, his voice softening.

Nibel could only nod, his throat tight.

"They'll be answered. For now, sit. Rest."

He obeyed, the command ingrained in him. "What happens to me now?" he whispered.

"Nothing bad," Gerhard assured him. "But your situation is... unique. Full explanations will come when we make port. The Duke will want to be informed personally."

The Duke? Recruitment? The words were hooks baited with a future he couldn't imagine.

"Until then, introductions," Gerhard said. "I'm Sergeant Gerhard."
"Captain Hrodwulf."
"They... they call me Nibel."
"Is that short for Nibelung?" Hrodwulf asked.
"Yes. It's... the only name I've ever had."
"Well, that won't do. 'Nibelung' is our shared last name. We all bear it. You'll need a first name."

Before Nibel could process this, a console chimed. "Captain! Two contacts identified as the mine's escapees. Your orders?"

Hrodwulf's gaze slid to Nibel, a predatory smile touching his lips. "Let's make this interesting. How do you feel we should proceed?"

Nibel's mind flooded with faces: the cruel guards, the contemptuous foremen, the fellow slaves who shoved him away. A raw, vengeful heat surged through him. Destroy them, a voice screamed inside his head.

But a lifetime of submission was a cage stronger than steel. The words that emerged were meek and hollow. "I... don't know, sir. It's not my place to say."

Hrodwulf laughed. "They truly broke you in, didn't they? Made you a good, obedient dog. No offence. We're all dogs here, of one master or another. You'll fit right in." He turned. "Weapons officer, destroy them." His eyes locked back on Nibel. "But remember, even a dog can learn to bite. You can still learn to command your own fate."

On the main viewer, two distant pinpricks of light flared and died. A brief, savage satisfaction washed over Nibel, until the memory of Swaza surfaced. The merchant hadn't been kind, but he had been neutral. He had given him books. A wave of guilt, cold and cloying, extinguished the fire. "I'm sorry. Thank you. Rest in peace." he whispered.

The planet Asturia was a bleak, inhospitable rock, its beauty stripped away by acidic rains and barren soil. From the shuttle viewport, Nibel had seen the Imperial solution: gleaming biodomes that housed the civilian cities, perfect, self-contained bubbles of climate-controlled comfort. They were jewels scattered on a corpse, tantalisingly close yet infinitely far away.

His destination was the Empire's other face: a military base of stark functionality, a scar of raw technology fully exposed to the harsh elements. There were no domes here, only towering concrete bastions and the relentless, chemical-tanged wind.

"Don't worry, this isn't a permanent assignment," Gerhard said, referring to how he had been constantly taking him places up until that point. He led him off the shuttle and into the open air. Nibel squinted against the gritty dust. They moved through a canyon of military might, passing monolithic black airships and buildings forged from slabs of exposed concrete, their surfaces thick and unadorned, designed for pure protection.

It was then that the ground shuddered. A shadow fell over them, cool and vast. Nibel looked up, his breath catching in his throat.

A giant was landing beside them. It was a bipedal mechanised suit, sleek and terrifying, its armour a black so deep it seemed to drink the light. From its head, two optical sensors shone with a cold, deep blue light. It stood over six meters tall, a colossus of polished death.

Nibel stared, utterly captivated. The question was inevitable, his tone hushed with awe. "What is that?"

"That," Sergeant Gerhard said, a note of pride in his voice, "is a Technecht."

But it was the movement that unhinged him. It didn't clang or jerk. It moved with the fluid, predatory grace of a living thing. His mind rebelled at the contradiction, rooting him to the spot with pure, uncanny dread. Yet, he couldn't look away. Its terrible grace was beautiful, and the sheer impossibility of it captivated him completely.

They entered a prefabricated structure to meet a man who was their antithesis: Warrant Officer Godefrid. He was impeccably groomed, every hair in place, his uniform pristine. His eyes, the color of a winter storm, held Nibel with an unnerving, analytical intensity.

"Yes," Godefrid said, a slow smile spreading across his face. "You'll do perfectly."

"Don't mind his eccentricities," Gerhard muttered. "He's the best we have. You can trust him."

As they sat, Godefrid's gaze never wavered, his smile fixed. A cold dread coiled in Nibel's stomach, whispering old, ugly fears.

"First, you're wondering who 'we' are," Gerhard began.
"The Volsung Empire?"
"The Empire is our master. We are the Nibelung Servant Legion. The NSL. Our purpose is to operate the Technechts you saw outside."

It was Godefrid who leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial pitch. "I hear you were a slave. A familiar story. You see this mark?" He tapped his palm. "It doesn't just signify our tribe. It is the Empire's brand of ownership."

"But the Empire outlawed slavery," Nibel protested, confused.

"Not for us," Godefrid replied, his smile turning sharp. "Our ancestors betrayed the Empire. When Emperor Ingmar the Third crushed their rebellion, he offered a choice: perpetual servitude or total annihilation. Our forebears, in their cowardice, chose the chains. And so, we inherit them."

"Then why the military? Why this?"
"Because this is the forge where those chains are broken!" Godefrid's eyes blazed with fervor. "In the civilian sectors, you live a comfortable, docile life as corporate property. Here, on the battlefield, you earn your freedom with blood and courage. You can ascend until your name is spoken with respect, and only the Emperor himself has the right to command you! This is where we seize our destiny from the jaws of our history. The only question that remains is: will you seize yours?"

Nibel looked down at his own hands, the instruments of his powerlessness. "I'm not a warrior. I'm a coward. I've never fought back. What use am I here?"

"Precisely!" Godefrid exclaimed, his face alight with a terrifying joy. "You started from the absolute bottom. Wouldn't that make your tale all the more impressive? In hardship there is beauty, and a good story needs beauty. So, what do you say? Will you join me in writing it?"

"The conditioning you've endured can be undone," Gerhard added, his tone grounding the conversation. "We've done it before. The choice, however, must be yours."

Nibel thought of the endless, gray days of submission. He had already accepted death in the mines. This was not a reprieve; it was an exchange. His passive despair for active struggle. A chance to grasp a destiny that had always been a forbidden dream.

"So, what will it be?" Gerhard asked.
"Will you seize your destiny?" Godefrid's voice was a whisper charged with lightning.

Nibel took a breath. "Yes. I'll do it."

Godefrid's composure shattered into pure, unadulterated ecstasy. "No," he commanded, his voice rising. "Say the words."

"I'll do it."

"SAY YOU WILL SEIZE YOUR DESTINY!" Godefrid roared, the sound filling the room.

And from the depths of his being, Nibel found a voice he never knew he possessed, loud, clear, and irrevocable:

"I WILL SEIZE MY DESTINY!"

The shout echoed in the sterile room, dying away to a ringing silence. Sergeant Gerhard's initial look was a mix of amusement and pure confusion, his eyebrows raised as if to ask, 'Where did that come from?' The timid, broken slave was gone, replaced for a single moment by this raw, shouting youth.

Then, just as quickly, the moment passed. Nibel's bravado vanished, his shoulders slumping as a hot flush of embarrassment crept up his neck. "I'm sorry for shouting," he stammered, unable to meet the Sergeant's gaze.

Gerhard's expression softened into a warm, rumbling laugh. "Don't worry about it, lad," he said, a genuine grin spreading across his face. "That's the first real spine I've seen in you."

Across the table, Godefrid made no attempt to hide his triumph. His smile was one of pure, unbridled delight. He looked less like an officer and more like a child on Christmas morning.

 

[Alasw1]

Nibel awoke in a small, sterile room. It held a bed, a desk, a closet, a bookshelf, and a private shower. To anyone else, it would have been cramped and impersonal. To Nibel, who had slept on a worn-out mattress in a room with hundreds of other slaves, it was a sanctuary. He had slept so deeply that waking felt like surfacing from a long dive into dark water, and even a cold shower did little to shake the lingering haze of true rest.

A knock startled him. "Hello, can I come in?" It was the Sergeant's familiar voice. "Well, it seems I'm still your guide," Gerhard said, stepping inside. "There's paperwork to formalize your enlistment. This is usually a sponsor's duty, but Godefrid finds formalities boring and claims he has 'important duties.' So, you're stuck with me." He gave a weary smile. "We spoke of seizing your destiny yesterday. A fair warning: be prepared for that destiny to be regularly handed to you by fools with more rank than sense."

With a sigh, he gestured for Nibel to follow.

As they walked, Nibel gathered his courage. "You mentioned Godefrid is my sponsor. What does that mean, exactly?"

"Right, you wouldn't know," Gerhard said. "The system is second nature to us. We're a specialized legion. Our basic training happens when we're teenagers, where we learn the foundations of our roles. When we officially enlist, we're sent straight here. A sponsor, a veteran, takes us on as an apprentice to mentor us into our position. One day, you'll do the same for the next generation."

"But what about those who choose civilian life? Isn't that training a waste?"

"Honestly, few choose it. We're bred for this. The ones who do usually drop out early and sign with a corporation. The corps are happy to get an employee with no rights they can pay a pittance to."

Nibel nodded. "As hated as I was, my owners always made sure I was healthy enough to work."

"Exactly."
"But how will I catch up? I have no training. No education."

"Don't worry about that. We'll get you into shape. The Empire is just happy to have a warm body to throw at its problems. It's our job to make sure you're a body that survives the throwing."

Perhaps he should have been troubled by the dehumanizing language, but a life of slavery had, ironically, prepared him for the blunt realities of military life.

They arrived at a recruitment office, where a secretary acknowledged them with profound indifference. The familiarity of her annoyance was a strange comfort to Nibel; the secretaries at the mine had been the same. They were great equalizers, treating slaves and free workers with identical disdain for interrupting their day.

"How can I help?" she droned.

"We're here for enrolment," Gerhard said.

"Here. Fill these out."

"Not those. We need the Nibelung forms."

The secretary looked up, exhaling slowly. "Aren't your people usually enrolled by the rehabilitation centres you're raised in?"

"This is a unique case. Please find the form."

"Ugh. Fine. Give me a second." She shuffled off to a back room.

"What did she mean by 'rehabilitation centres'?" Nibel asked.

"Remember how we serve the Empire for our tribe's sins?"

"Yes."

"It's not just a metaphor. The official doctrine is that we carry the sin on a spiritual, even genetic level. This mark," Gerhard said, tapping his palm, "is supposedly the physical proof of a tainted soul. That's how they justify our servitude long after the original rebels are dust. The 'rehabilitation' is just learning our place and how to atone for a crime we didn't commit."

Nibel processed this. The Sergeant's tone held a bitter edge, a quiet anger that felt alien. Nibel's own spirit had been conditioned into submission, all resistance beaten out of him. He had never dared to feel anger about his fate, only acceptance. Before he could form a question, the secretary returned.

"Here. Fill these out," she muttered, slapping the forms on the counter.

The Sergeant gave her a thin, perfunctory smile. "Thanks."

He then turned to Nibel. "So, have you thought of a name?"

"I have. I think I'll keep Nibel."

"Nibel Nibelung? That's a mouthful. And wasn't it used as an insult?"

"It was. But it's the only name I've ever known. Changing it would feel like running from who I am. If I'm to seize control of my fate, I think that starts by seizing my own name."

"Wouldn't choosing a new name also be a form of control?"

"It would. But this feels more symbolic. It's a reclamation, not an escape."

The Sergeant nodded, his curiosity piqued but the clock ticking. "Fair enough," he said, ending the conversation there.

"Yoo-hoo!"
The call came from behind as Nibel walked back to his quarters. He turned to see Godefrid striding toward him, a wide grin on his face. "Did you miss me?"

Most would find the man's eccentricities grating, but Nibel felt a genuine flicker of joy. Godefrid was the first person who seemed genuinely interested in him, though he desperately hoped that interest was purely platonic.

"So, did you get all your paperwork done?" Godefrid asked.
"Yes. I don't know when the enrolment will be finalized, though."
"Oh, don't be silly. You were enrolled the moment you were born. The rest is just formality. Come, we have lessons to start."

Taken aback but with no reason to argue, Nibel followed him to a room filled with large, spherical pods.
"What are these?" Nibel asked.
"Training pods. Put these on." Godefrid handed him a black, skintight suit and a pair of wraparound glasses.

After changing, Nibel stood waiting. "What do I do now?"
"Get in."

Once Nibel was inside the pod, Godefrid's voice came through a speaker. "A quick rundown. The suit is a techsuit. It uses electromagnetic fields to control a Technecht. Simple, really. You move, it moves."
"And the glasses?"
"They let you see. Any other questions?"


Before Nibel could answer, the pod hummed to life. He was elevated, floating half a meter in the air. Metallic rings emerged from the walls, encircling his limbs without touching them, mirroring his every motion.
"You'll learn quicker this way," Godefrid laughed.

The glasses flickered on. One moment he was in a pod; the next, he was standing in the middle of a half-destroyed town. He looked down at his hands, massive, metallic claws. He moved an arm, and the Technecht's arm moved in perfect sync. The connection was so seamless it felt like an extension of his own body. He could even feel a simulated wind against the metal hull, or was it just a perfect, unnerving illusion?

A sudden warning scream filled his ears. A red exclamation mark flashed before his eyes. High-speed jets screamed past, dropping bombs that shook the ground. Nibel threw the mech to the ground, scrambling behind the ruins of a building. A furious artillery barrage began to pound the town into dust.

"You've got a gun! On your hip!" Godefrid's voice was calm amidst the chaos.

Nibel fumbled, grabbing the massive weapon. He fired wildly in the general direction of the artillery. Bullets whizzed past his head, from behind. He spun around to see fellow Technecht units, but a jet slammed into one, obliterating it in a fireball.

"KEEP SHOOTING!" Godefrid shouted.

Terrified, Nibel kept firing. Then he saw them: tanks, rolling into the town. His sole remaining comrade fired down at them before exploding into a shower of shrapnel under a concentrated shelling.

Nibel screamed. He destroyed a few tanks, but then a searing impact threw his suit to the ground. He looked down and saw his mech's legs sheared off. He looked up into the cold, glowing eyes of an enemy Technecht, its weapon still smoking.

The simulation powered down.

Nibel gasped, his heart hammering against his ribs. "What the hell was that?" The realism was absolute; it felt like he had truly died.

Godefrid laughed. "That's war, baby. How did it feel?"
"Terrifying! How am I supposed to survive that?" Nibel's voice was thick with frustration and defeat.
"To be perfectly honest, that was a nightmare scenario. Only the best of the best can survive it. Artillery, suicide jets, limitless tanks, and enemy Technechts in a terrestrial setting? It's a guaranteed loss. I just enjoy seeing new recruits panic. It's a guilty pleasure. That said… you held the line. Most people just run. You have some fight in you. It's interesting."
"Can we just do something normal, please? I'd like to build a tolerance before experiencing hell again."

Godefrid chuckled. "Alright, alright. Basic lessons it is."

The next simulation placed him in the void of space. Godefrid patiently guided him through the suit's functions: omnidirectional flight, the antimatter gun that could extend from a sidearm to a rifle, and the energy sword that drew from the same hyper-dense cartridges. He learned about the shield, capable of stopping most projectiles but vulnerable to a single hit from the powerful energy weapons.

After the lesson, Godefrid invited him to lunch.

He watched, amazed, as Nibel devoured the food. "Did they not feed you?"
"It's not that," Nibel said, almost choking on mashed potatoes. "On the mine, it was flavorless slop designed to keep us working. These new tastes… I can't pace myself."

Godefrid smiled, looking at him like he was a rescued animal. "Enjoy it, then."

"Can I ask you something?" Nibel said.
"Sure."
"Why do people hate us so much?" The vague answers about ancestral sins had never sat right with him. The sheer universality of the disgust seemed illogical.

"We're the cursed people. The traitors."
"I know, but why does everyone still care? No one alive experienced those crimes."

Godefrid's gaze held a deep pity. "Hatred is a seed inside everyone. Give people a target, and they'll happily water it. It's an outlet that makes them more docile elsewhere."

It made a bleak kind of sense, but it still felt incomplete. "But you're right, there's more to it," Godefrid added. "Why do you think the Empire needs a slave army?"

Nibel thought. "Because we're cheap? Disposable?"
"That's cute. You don't need this complex system for cheap and disposable. The reason is more sinister."
"So, what is it?"

Godefrid smiled again, but this time, Nibel could see a profound sorrow in his grey eyes. "I could tell you, but you'll find out soon enough. Trust me, this is better for your growth. For your way of thinking."
"My way of thinking?"
"It's not enough to be told an answer. To truly understand, you must recondition your mind to reach the conclusion yourself. Until then, the truth is just words." Godefrid leaned forward. "But remember that question: Why does the Empire need an army of slaves?"