Aksel had been part of the Biohive Defense Squad for three years now.
Three long years of smoke, blood, and bootlicking. He had climbed the ranks not through valor or strength, but by claiming the achievements of his more capable teammates. He told himself it was cleverness—strategy. Why break your bones when someone else could bleed for your promotion?
And it had worked… until now.
Now, that same teammate he once overlooked—mocked, even—had become the Prince of the Fiefdom. A living legend. Worshipped by the masses. Adored by the peasantry. Feared by the aristocracy. Nioh, the boy with the quiet eyes and cracked hands, was now a name sung in war chants and whispered in prayers.
And where was Aksel?
In the slaughter pit.
Sent to die on the outskirts with the rest of the expendables—mostly warriors from the outer districts, whose only crime was being born on the wrong side of the hive wall.
