The Umizu industrial complex was a graveyard of ambition.
Rusting chemical tanks, colossal and silent as ancient tombs, loomed over crumbling warehouses. Weeds choked the cracked asphalt, and the salty, metallic tang of the nearby sea mixed with the ghosts of forgotten industry. The only sounds were the mournful cry of gulls and the rhythmic crash of waves against the corroded seawall. It was a place where the world had died and been forgotten.
Kafka Hibino stood in the center of the largest open yard, a vast expanse of cracked concrete under the cold, impassive gaze of a full moon. The midnight air was cold, but the chill running down his spine was colder.
He was here. On time. The threat of a "demonstration" at the Defense Force base had been a potent motivator.
He looked around. Nothing. Just the wind and the decay. He felt an irrational spike of hope that maybe, just maybe, it had all been a bad dream. Maybe Sovereign wouldn't show up.
A voice spoke directly behind his ear, so close and so sudden he nearly jumped out of his skin.
"You are punctual. The first, and perhaps only, quality you currently possess that is not a complete disappointment."
Kafka yelped, spinning around with his fists raised.
There was no one there.
"Up here," the voice said, full of a dry, emotionless patience.
Kafka looked up.
Perched atop one of the tallest chemical tanks, silhouetted perfectly against the full moon, was Sung Jin-Woo. He wasn't sitting or standing. He was in a relaxed crouch, like a panther surveying its territory. The image was primal, powerful, and utterly terrifying. He seemed less like a man and more like a statue dedicated to the concept of dominance.
He dropped.
There was no sound, no shockwave. He simply descended, the thirty-meter fall having no more effect on him than a single step down a curb. He landed on the concrete in front of Kafka, his coat barely even stirring.
His violet eyes scanned Kafka from head to toe. The look wasn't one of aggression, but of critical, unimpressed evaluation. It was the gaze of a master craftsman looking at a piece of warped, shoddy wood.
"Your internal energy is in chaos," Jin-Woo began, his tone that of a lecturer. "The power you consumed is warring with your own. You have not integrated it. You have merely contained it. It is an undigested lump in the belly of your power. It makes you sluggish. Inefficient."
Kafka opened his mouth to say something—defend himself, ask a question—but Jin-Woo held up a single finger, demanding silence.
"Lesson one: Your power is not a weapon you unsheathe. It is a part of your being. You do not use it. You are it. To hide your signature, you do not suppress your power. You simply decide to be quiet."
He took a step forward. The immense, soul-crushing pressure that Kafka associated with him was completely absent. He felt like an ordinary man. A dangerously calm, but ordinary, man.
"I am currently emitting no killing intent. No aura. No energy that your world's pathetic machines can detect," Jin-Woo explained. "Am I weak?"
"N-No," Kafka stammered.
"Correct. My power is not gone. It is simply at rest. Like a slumbering volcano. Your technique of forcefully cloaking yourself is like trying to put a lid on an active eruption. It is crude, exhausting, and ultimately futile. You must learn to calm the fire, not just hide the smoke."
This was… a real lesson. A genuine, if terrifying, instruction. Kafka found himself listening intently.
"We will rectify this," Jin-Woo stated. He then glanced around the derelict complex. "But first, a practical exercise. This area is infested with stray Kaiju. Yoju-class, mostly. Scavengers drawn to the chemical runoff. I count… thirteen of them. Hiding. Watching."
Kafka's head whipped around. His own Kaiju senses, which he had thought were so sharp, had detected nothing. But now that Jin-Woo had mentioned it, he could feel them. Faint presences in the dark corners of the complex. The feeling of being watched by hungry, unintelligent eyes.
"Your task is simple," Jin-Woo said, his expression unchanging. "Kill them all."
Kafka stared. "All of them? Just like that?"
"Yes."
"But… I can't transform here! The energy release… the Defense Force will detect it instantly!"
"I am aware," Jin-Woo replied coolly. "You will not transform into your 'Kaiju No. 8' state. You will learn to draw upon its power without changing your form. A partial manifestation. Channeling its strength into your human shell. It is the first step to true control."
This was what Kafka had always dreamed of. To have the power without the monstrous form. But he had no idea how to even begin.
"I… I don't know how," he admitted, feeling a familiar shame.
Jin-Woo's expression finally shifted. A flicker of something—disappointment, perhaps—crossed his face. "You do not ask the power for its strength. You take it. It is a part of you. Command it."
He made a swift, almost lazy gesture with his hand. From the shadows of a nearby warehouse, a shape detached itself. A slimy, slug-like Yoju, the size of a minivan, slithered into the moonlight, its multiple mouths gnashing with a wet, sloppy sound. It had been flushed out.
It charged directly at Kafka.
Panic seized him. His instinct screamed at him to fully transform. To let the beast out.
"Do not change," Jin-Woo's voice commanded, calm and absolute. "Focus. Reach inside. Find the river of its power and open a single channel. Not the floodgates. Just a trickle. Direct it to your fist."
The Yoju was ten meters away, picking up speed, leaving a trail of corrosive slime.
Kafka shut his eyes. He ignored the thundering approach of the monster. He did as he was told. He reached into the roaring furnace inside him. He didn't try to embrace it all. He visualized a single thread of that raging power, a glowing filament of emerald green energy. He pictured it flowing down his arm, coiling around his bones, settling in his knuckles.
'Come on, come on!' he begged in his mind.
"Command it," Jin-Woo's voice repeated, utterly devoid of urgency even as the monster was about to run Kafka down.
'No… not begging,' Kafka thought, gritting his teeth. His eyes snapped open. The Yoju was two meters away, its foul breath washing over him.
He put all of his will, his fear, and his desperation into a single, silent command.
'MINE!'
*CRACKLE!*
An electric-green energy, thick and viscous, flared to life around his right arm. It wasn't the full, monstrous transformation. His skin remained skin, but it was now covered in a shimmering, hexagonal pattern reminiscent of Kaiju hide. His muscles bulged, straining the fabric of his sleeve. Power, raw and potent, flooded the limb.
The Yoju lunged, its main maw gaping wide.
Kafka punched.
BOOM!
It wasn't the sound of a normal impact. It was a contained explosion. His fist, glowing with that alien green light, connected with the Yoju's head.
The result was apocalyptic.
The Kaiju's entire front half didn't just splatter. It disintegrated. It vaporized into a cloud of black mist and gore, the shockwave from the blow continuing through its body and blowing out its back end in a shower of organs. The rest of its corpse flew backward and slammed into a rusted tank with a deafening CLANG, leaving a massive dent.
Kafka stood there, his arm still extended, smoke and steam sizzling from his knuckles. His arm throbbed, not with pain, but with a humming, ecstatic energy. He stared at his hand, then at the obliterated remains of the Yoju.
He… he had just done that. In his human form.
He slowly turned to look at Jin-Woo.
The Shadow Monarch hadn't moved an inch. He was studying Kafka's glowing arm with a clinical, detached gaze.
"Crude," Jin-Woo said, his voice cutting through Kafka's awe. "You used far too much power for such a pathetic target. An incredible waste of energy. Your control is abysmal."
He gestured to the surrounding darkness, from which a dozen more pairs of glowing monster eyes were now staring, drawn by the commotion.
"But it is a start," Jin-Woo conceded, a hint of something that might have been approval in his tone. "Again. There are twelve more. This time, use only ten percent of that output. Be precise. A fist is a blunt instrument. Use your power to create a blade. A spear. Be efficient."
The remaining Kaiju began to crawl, slither, and creep into the moonlight, surrounding them.
Kafka looked at his still-glowing hand, then at the circle of monsters. For the first time, he didn't feel fear.
He felt the thrill of the hunt.
The lesson had just begun. And the Monarch's classroom was a bloody, unforgiving place.