Interstellar: Return of the Villain
Chapter 209: The Real Challenge

Chapter 209: The Real Challenge

Lyra stepped forward with crisp precision, saluting in the classic military fashion.

Ryan, T9’s vice, downed his beer in one loud gulp, crushed the can in his hand like it was nothing, and tossed it to a nearby cleaning bot.

He then barked, "Everyone, fall in!"

The soldiers responded quickly, forming up in two neat rows. Squad No. 7, however, was sluggish, dragging their feet and barely managing to line up.

All eyes zeroed in on Lyra, who stood beside Ryan. Their gazes carried a blend of curiosity, doubt, and straight-up mockery.

To them, she looked too young, too soft. As if the moment needed an extra dose of awkwardness, Lyra coughed a bit from the dust kicked up by the training grounds, not exactly helping her first impression.

"Is she seriously a Level-Seven Peculiar?" someone muttered under their breath.

"I saw her in the AMAT vids, but she still looks too weak for this," another voice chimed in.

The whispers grew louder, rippling through the rows of soldiers.

Ryan caught the looks being thrown her way and, with a shrug, motioned toward the disorganized ranks of Squad No. 7. "Go meet your team," he said.

Lyra gave a nod and walked toward her squad, stopping in front of the ragtag group of misfits. Her expression stayed calm, her voice controlled as she introduced herself. "I’m Lyra Shedd, your new squad leader. Look forward to working with you."

Her words were steady, but they lacked the booming authority that these soldiers were used to.

It was as if she were making small talk at a casual meet-and-greet, not addressing a unit of elite soldiers.

The reaction was immediate: the other squads broke into laughter.

"Oh, you’ve gotta be kidding! She’s a kid!" someone snickered from one of the other groups.

"Did she really just say ’look forward to working with you?’ What does she think this is, a book club?" another laughed.

Ryan coughed loudly, trying to bring things back under control. "Alright, back to training," he said, giving Lyra a nod that felt more like a good-luck-you’ll-need-it gesture than a real show of support. "You’ve got three days to figure your squad out and get things running smooth."

The look on his face said it all: Don’t expect a miracle, kid.

At Ryan’s signal, the other squad leaders waved their teams off with a casual "Dismissed," and the soldiers scattered.

Squad No. 7, though, lingered, almost reluctant to follow orders.

At the front of the pack, a man and woman started to turn away, clearly ready to bolt, when Lyra’s voice cut through the air.

"I don’t believe I’ve dismissed you yet."

The entire training ground went dead silent. Soldiers from other squads, sensing this was about to get interesting, stuck around, eager to watch the drama unfold.

Squad No. 7 froze in place.

Standing at the front was a cocky red-haired man with a smug grin plastered on his face. He was built like a tank, arms crossed, and clearly thought very little of his new leader.

This was Marty, the squad’s strongest soldier—a Level-Six Therianthrope who could transform into a beast. He’d been with the squad longer than anyone, and had assumed he’d be leading it until Lyra showed up.

"And now what, MA’AM?" Marty asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

Lyra met his gaze without flinching. "We’re going to get to know each other," she replied evenly, her tone still calm. She looked over the squad. "I can either call you out one by one, or you can step up on your own."

A collective groan rippled through the other squads.

"This girl really didn’t know how to handle this, did she?"

"How could she hope to control a bunch of soldiers if she was acting this soft?"

Squad No. 7 burst into laughter, with Marty leading the charge. He tilted his chin up, his grin widening as if he’d already won. "Why don’t you go ahead and call us out, LEADER?"

It was obvious that he didn’t consider her in charge. He figured he ran this show, and everyone else seemed to agree.

"Alright then," Lyra said, not fazed by the mockery. She calmly pulled out her opticomputer, scanning through the list of names. "Let’s start with you, Marty Zanis."

Marty rolled his eyes so hard it looked like they might stay that way. "Yeah, I’m here," he drawled lazily, standing right where he was without moving an inch.

"Step forward," Lyra said, her gaze locked onto him.

Marty took a half-hearted step, barely shifting his weight. It was the ultimate act of disrespect, a challenge to her authority right out of the gate.

His grin widened as he stared her down, silently daring her to do something about it.

The soldiers still watching were on the edge of their seats, waiting to see how she would handle this blatant insubordination. They weren’t expecting much.

Lyra let out a soft sigh, barely audible but somehow heavy with intent.

Before Marty even had a chance to react, a flash of green light shot out from Lyra, wrapping around his neck like a noose made of lightning.

In an instant, he was slammed hard into the ground, eating sand in a humiliating defeat.

His face contorted in rage as his body morphed into its beast form, covered in thick scales with a unicorn-like horn jutting from his forehead.

He thrashed wildly, sending up clouds of sand that turned the air into a dusty, choking haze. But no matter how hard he struggled, he couldn’t lift his head from the ground.

"Ugh, what a pain," Lyra muttered, sounding more annoyed than impressed.

With a dismissive wave of her hand, she pressed her foot onto Marty’s back, her power effortlessly disrupting the energy particles that fueled his transformation.

Within seconds, his beastly form was gone, and he lay there, back in his human skin, panting and defeated.

The entire training ground went still, jaws dropping as everyone tried to process what they had just seen.

Even Ryan, who had expected something to go down, was taken aback.

The murmurs about Lyra being too soft quickly died out. What they had just witnessed was a raw, overwhelming display of psychokinetic power.

Lyra hadn’t been soft—she had simply been polite. And now, everyone could see she wasn’t someone to be messed with.

Unbothered by the crowd’s shifting mood, Lyra looked down at Marty, who was still struggling to catch his breath.

"Since you seem to have trouble walking and standing properly," she said, her voice calm but biting, "you might as well stay down."

With Marty pinned beneath her, Lyra resumed calling out the names of the rest of her squad.

This time, there were no jokes or mocking laughter. One by one, the soldiers stepped forward when their names were called, each more respectful than the last.

Once she finished, Lyra closed her opticomputer and addressed the group.

"You’re free to resume your activities."

Squad No. 7 exchanged uncertain glances. ’That’s it? No further punishment, no grand speech?’

Most of them had expected her to hammer home her authority with some dramatic display, but Lyra seemed content to keep things simple.

Confused but not willing to test her again, the squad began to disperse.

Lyra finally lifted her foot off Marty’s back, releasing him from his humiliating position.

As she turned to leave, she tossed a final comment his way. "I’ve heard that Special Force soldiers take pride in surviving the toughest conditions. But showing arrogance when you’re clearly outmatched? That’s just dumb."

Marty’s face flushed red with anger and embarrassment. Deep down, he knew she was right. Going up against a Level-Seven Peculiar when he was still stuck at Level Six had been a pride-fueled mistake. And now, everyone knew it.

Lyra’s parting words weren’t just for Marty—they were a lesson for the entire squad, and it hit home.

With her authority established, Lyra made her way toward the other squad leaders, who had been watching the scene unfold with growing interest. "Nice to meet you all. I’m Lyra," she said, introducing herself with a nod.

The earlier display had earned her some respect, and no one doubted her strength now. If anything, they were intrigued.

She didn’t waste time with small talk and got straight to the point. "I’d like to know how you all manage your squads. Anything specific I should be aware of here in the Special Force?"

The squad leaders exchanged glances before the only female leader let out a chuckle. "Manage? With our death rate, recruits are always cycling in and out. There’s not much to ’manage.’"

Another leader chimed in, leaning against a post. "Yeah, you saw it yourself. These soldiers don’t expect to live long, so most treat training like a formality."

"All we do is make sure they don’t break any major rules," added a third leader. "We keep them on task, report for missions and roll calls. Screw that up, and it’s OUR heads on the line."

"In short," the last squad leader said with a shrug, "just keep them alive during missions. That’s all anyone expects."

It became clear to Lyra that the Special Force operated with a unique blend of chaos and structure.

Discipline here was looser than in most military units, but that was a product of the high-risk, high-death-rate environment they worked in. There was no time for micromanaging; survival was the only real rule.

Later that evening, after spending time observing how the other squad leaders handled their teams, Lyra felt like she had a solid grasp of how things worked.

The Special Force wasn’t just a unit—it was a closed-off world. They lived, trained, and fought within the confines of their military zone. When there were no missions, they were given a rare two days off each month, but otherwise, it was nonstop.

As they were winding down for the night, the sound of hurried footsteps echoed through the barracks.

A soldier rushed in with an update: the squads that had been out on a mission were returning.

The vibe shifted. A group of Special Force soldiers slowly staggered in, their uniforms torn and bloodied, their faces pale from exhaustion.

Some of them were missing limbs, and their skin was marred with radiation burns. Though they had been through medical treatment, many still bore fresh scars.

The sight was met with calm indifference by the soldiers still in the barracks. They had seen this all before. It was just another reminder of the brutal reality of the unit.

Lyra watched from her seat by the window, silently observing the worn soldiers as they trudged past.

Across from her, Hazel spoke quietly, her voice almost lost in the heavy air. "A forty percent death rate? Not bad this time, huh?"