The recycled air of the tactical briefing room hummed with a static tension. Fluorescent lights cast a sterile glare on polished floors and the expectant faces of the cadet class, arrayed in neat rows of identical grey-blue uniforms. The atmosphere was always taut in these sessions, but today, something felt different – heavier, sharper, poised on the edge of a precipice no one had been explicitly told about.
Instructor Valiant, a man whose face seemed permanently etched with the weariness of countless campaigns, stood before the main projection screen. His voice was flat, devoid of the usual training cadence, adding to the palpable unease. "Attention, Cadets. As you are aware, Phase Two of the Assessment Program is imminent."
A collective stir rippled through the room. Phase Two. The weeding-out phase. Whispers had circulated for weeks—rumors of accelerated timelines, of new technologies being integrated, of an assessment far beyond the traditional infantry and armor exercises. It was the next logical step after the Unit Compatibility and Tactical Synergy Trial—the UCTST had hinted at something deeper.
Valiant paused, his gaze sweeping across the faces before him, lingering for just a fractional second on the von Zehrfeldt twins, who sat toward the back, a study in contrasting stillness. Lelouch, observing with his usual intellectual intensity, and Tanya, a quiet node of absolute focus beside him.
"Effective immediately," Valiant continued, the words dropping like stones, "the simulation zone for Phase Two is being expanded by a factor of three. Terrain parameters will include urban, mountainous, and extreme climate environments, previously reserved for advanced officer training."
This announcement, while significant, only served as a prelude. The real blow landed moments later.
"Furthermore," Valiant stated, his voice dropping slightly, commanding absolute silence, "for the first time in Academy history, Phase Two will integrate Mobile Suit-assisted units into hostile force protocols."
A hush, absolute and immediate, fell over the room. It wasn't just silence; it was the vacuum created by a collective, held breath. The hum of the lights seemed suddenly deafening. This was it. The confirmation of the most persistent, most whispered rumor. Mobile Suits—the colossal, bipedal war machines that had begun to dominate battlefields on the frontier colonies—were coming here. To their training.
In that profound silence, Lelouch and Tanya von Zehrfeldt exchanged a glance. It wasn't a dramatic, wide-eyed look, but a subtle, shared shift in focus, a tightening around the eyes that spoke volumes. In that instant, they both understood, with chilling clarity: this wasn't just an elevated test. This was the selection. The Academy wasn't merely assessing their existing combat prowess; it was evaluating their adaptability, their potential to integrate with the nascent era of Mobile Suit warfare. This was the gate to the future of the military, and only a select few would pass through it in this first wave. The stakes had just become existentially high for their carefully constructed plans.
The silence shattered moments later, replaced by a sudden cacophony of excited murmurs, nervous chatter, and thinly veiled boasts. The room, minutes before a picture of rigid discipline, dissolved into a swirling eddy of reactions.
"Mobile Suits? Already?" someone near the front gasped. "By thrice the zone? They're pushing us hard," another cadet muttered, a mix of fear and exhilaration. "About time! This is what real war looks like now!" a confident, booming voice declared from the center of the room.
The elite-born cadets, those with family names whispered in the same circles as the Zabi dynasty that ruled the Principality, were visibly the most confident. Their posture straightened, their gazes met across the room in silent acknowledgment of their perceived advantage. They had likely seen blueprints, heard dinner-table discussions that hinted at this shift. They were the inheritors, the first in line for the cockpit.
Others, cadets from less influential backgrounds, those who had relied purely on academic scores and physical performance to reach this stage, looked pale, their earlier confidence draining away. How could infantry tactics, honed over months, possibly prepare them for facing a walking tank? The equalizer of traditional warfare felt suddenly obsolete.
Rivalries, previously simmering beneath the surface of forced camaraderie, boiled over into open posturing.
Elias Krest, a cadet known for his sharp intellect and equally sharp tongue, leaned back in his chair, a sardonic smirk playing on his lips. "Mobile Suits," he scoffed, loud enough for several rows to hear. "Nothing but Zabi propaganda made manifest. Oversized, expensive targets designed to siphon funds and consolidate power under the guise of 'evolutionary warfare.' Give me well-trained infantry and coordinated armor any day. This is a circus." His dismissal, laced with anti-establishment undertones that bordered on dangerous, drew wary glances from some and nods of agreement from others who felt threatened by the technological leap.
Across the aisle, Marika von Essen, her uniform impeccable and her air radiating inherited privilege, tossed her perfectly coiffed hair. "Elias, darling, you simply don't understand progress," she purred, her voice carrying with effortless projection. "My uncle is on the prototype development board. These machines aren't just 'targets'; they're... extensions. One needs the right pedigree, the right mindset, to truly grasp their potential. Traditional warfare is for the commoners." Her words were a thinly veiled assertion of her own anticipated superiority and a direct jab at anyone not born into the right family.
Lelouch von Zehrfeldt listened, his dark eyes sweeping across the shifting tides of ambition, fear, and resentment. He wasn't just hearing the words; he was analyzing the alliances being forged and broken in the heat of the moment. Elias was positioning himself as the voice of traditionalism, potentially rallying those who felt left behind by the technological shift. Marika was consolidating the support of the privileged, those who expected their birthright to translate directly into control of the new machines. He saw the chessboard spread out before him: who was aligning with whom, who was isolated, who was a vector of influence, who was a liability. Every boast, every nervous twitch, every exchanged glance was a piece of data, feeding into his relentless calculation of the social and strategic landscape. His own position, and more importantly, Tanya's, needed to be carefully navigated through this rapidly changing map.
Beside him, Tanya von Zehrfeldt remained outwardly still, her gaze fixed forward, seemingly unperturbed by the rising clamor. But internally, she was a whirlwind of operational adjustments. Social maneuvering was Lelouch's domain; hers was the grim, practical reality of combat. Her thoughts weren't on political posturing or inherited privilege, but on trajectories, effective ranges, thermal signatures, and the sudden, terrifying obsolescence of previously reliable cover. How did a unit the size of a building change the optimal distance for engaging a point defense? What kind of ordnance could reliably penetrate reinforced mobile armor? Where were the new blind spots, the new kill zones? Her mind, a finely tuned instrument of applied lethality, was already recalibrating its most fundamental calculations, adapting to the brutal physics of this new era. The whispers and boasts of her peers were just background noise to the silent, urgent revisions happening within her strategic core.
Instructor Valiant cleared his throat, the sound cutting through the cadet buzz. "Silence!"
The room snapped back to a semblance of order, though the underlying tension remained a live wire.
"The parameters have been set," Valiant stated, his voice back to its flat, authoritative tone. "Details regarding deployment schedules and simulation objectives will be disseminated within the next twenty-four hours. Prepare accordingly. Dismissed."
The bell rang, the high-pitched tone echoing in the suddenly silent room. Cadets rose, the air thick with the unspoken implications of the announcement. The easy camaraderie of shared hardship had been replaced by a stark awareness of each other as rivals for a limited future. Some filed out quickly, eager to strategize. Others lingered, their faces a mixture of awe and dread.
Lelouch and Tanya rose with the rest, moving through the dispersing crowd like parallel vectors. They didn't need to speak; the shared weight of the revelation bound them tighter than any words could. As they reached the doorway, Lelouch glanced back at the briefing room, already feeling smaller, more mundane, having served its purpose as the stage for this pivotal moment. He saw the fractured groups, the wary looks, the calculation in others' eyes mirroring his own.
He met Tanya's gaze again. Hers was steady, resolute, already focused on the practical challenge ahead. He saw the silent question there: Are we ready? His own eyes, sharp and determined, gave the only answer that mattered: We have to be.
The evolution of warfare had just delivered its ultimatum. And the von Zehrfeldt twins knew, with absolute certainty, that their future depended on adapting faster, calculating more accurately, and surviving more ruthlessly than everyone else.
The selection had truly begun.