The heavy wooden doors of the military briefing hall swung open with a solemn creak. Rows of officers and cadets settled into their seats, the low murmur of conversation dying quickly to a tense silence as the twin von Zehrtfelds entered. Lelouch, tall and composed, his dark eyes scanning the assembly like a general surveying his troops, led the way. Behind him, Tanya followed with an almost lazy gait, hands folded behind her back, her expression marked by bored indifference that barely concealed a razor-sharp mind.
The day's agenda was clear: Lelouch was to present his newly developed simulation plan for upcoming operations. His assignment hadn't come lightly. After the flawless execution he and Tanya had demonstrated in the last academy-wide exercise—an operation that exposed weaknesses in the current training protocols—the instructors had unanimously agreed to grant him the opportunity to shape the next phase of tactical development. It was both a reward and a test: to see if his intellect could refine not just performance, but the very system cadets would be trained under.
Intricate and ambitious, Lelouch's system promised to revolutionize tactical preparation—stress-testing decision-making under unpredictable variables and mimicking the brutal chaos of real combat with laser-precise detail.
At the podium, Lelouch's voice was steady and confident.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the simulation plan I present today is not theory. It extrapolates from enemy patterns, terrain analysis, and adaptive AI to prepare officers and cadets for the unpredictability of war. Our goal: reduce casualties by sharpening split-second decision-making until every action becomes instinct."
Murmurs of approval rippled through the room as Lelouch outlined the mechanics—how each session would adapt to players' habits, escalating challenges to force continuous innovation. His plan was not just strategy, but education and psychological conditioning entwined.
From the back, a sharp voice cut through the lecture like a flare.
"Bah! You expect us to believe your game simulates reality? Simulations can't capture the chaos of battle. They're toys for cadets with no experience," Monsha sneered, stepping forward with arms defiantly crossed.
Lelouch's eyes flickered briefly to the intruder. Monsha was notorious—brash, loud, and impulsive—a promising pilot but prone to reckless arrogance.
"I'm curious," Lelouch replied evenly, "how do you propose preparing for chaos if you reject predictive analytics? The chaos you dismiss is exactly what this plan models."
Monsha paced a few steps, voice rising. "War isn't an algorithm! It's grit, luck, and guts. I don't need simulations. I need boots on the ground."
The tension thickened as murmurs spread. The clash between intellectual planning and raw instinct crackled in the air.
Tanya stirred from her seat at the side and stepped forward, voice calm, almost detached as she spoke.
"Monsha, is it? While your passion is noted, passion alone doesn't equate to efficiency. How about you explain your actual combat record to this assembly?"
Monsha's face paled slightly, but he recovered quickly, sneering. "My record speaks for itself."
Tanya pulled up a compact holo-projector and displayed Monsha's recent engagement metrics: kill ratios, mission reports, missed shots, failed objectives—data that was not supposed to be public.
"I had to requisition these from Kycilia's tactical archives," she said offhandedly, letting the implication settle. "Supposedly 'Classified—For Command Eyes Only.' But given that you're here preaching doctrine, your record became relevant for peer evaluation."
Her tone remained dispassionate, clinical.
"Interesting," she continued, tilting her head, blue eyes sharp as glass. "You talk like a hero, but your kill ratio suggests you mostly missed. Your field record reflects hasty decisions rather than calculated engagement. Not to mention, your failure to secure key objectives twice last campaign, resulting in unnecessary casualties."
Uneasy glances passed between officers. Some stifled chuckles; others reconsidered their opinions.
Monsha's jaw clenched, fury barely restrained. "You—" he hissed, then stormed out, the door slamming behind him.
Ken Bederstadt, standing quietly nearby, let out a soft chuckle, lips twitching into a slight, approving smile.
Lelouch allowed himself a faint, confident smile. "Facts are formidable opponents."
Tanya shrugged, folding her arms. "I'm just bored by incompetence."
The room's tension eased as Lelouch resumed his presentation, now backed by undeniable authority.
Later that afternoon, the fading sun cast long shadows across the training grounds when the double doors opened once more. Selene von Zehrtfeld entered—not in casual attire, but a sharp, tailored pilot uniform adorned with the insignia of Kycilia Zabi's military development corps.
The twins instinctively parted, her presence commanding and official—a transformation from sibling playmate to figure of power.
"Lelouch, Tanya," Selene greeted briskly. "I come not as your sister, but as liaison between the corps and exceptional talents like yourselves."
Tanya exchanged a glance with Lelouch—her expression cold boredom laced with a flicker of unease.
Selene continued, voice steady and authoritative. "Rivalry and sibling games end here. This isn't about superiority or childish competition."
Her gaze was sharp, unwavering.
"From now on, your actions are evaluated at the highest levels. Your performance and decisions will be scrutinized for operational success and strategic consequence. The military cannot tolerate distractions or favoritism. You are no longer students with freedom to clash—you are assets in a deadly game of power and survival."
Lelouch nodded, steeling himself.
"We understand," he said quietly.
Tanya smirked once. "The game has changed, little brother. The stage is larger, and the stakes higher."
Selene's eyes softened briefly—an unspoken warning behind her professionalism.
"Prove yourselves worthy. Your battlefield is no longer simulations or exercises. It's the unforgiving reality commanded by Kycilia."
With a slight nod, she left as quietly as she came.
The twins stood alone, the weight of her words settling like a heavy cloak.
Lelouch gazed toward the horizon where night stars faintly appeared.
"Evaluation," he murmured, "the true test—public pressure."
Tanya's smile vanished. "Let's make sure they don't regret calling us."
Together, the von Zehrtfeld twins turned back inside—ready to face the challenge ahead. Not just survival, but rising to a stage where brilliance and resilience would be on brutal display, every misstep magnified. The classroom challenge had become a crucible. In it, they would forge themselves anew.