Hoshina's idea of "psychological training" was not what Kafka expected. There were no therapists, no meditation sessions. There was only the crucible.
It was a virtual reality simulator, the most advanced piece of tech in the entire Defense Force, usually reserved for testing the mental fortitude of potential Numbers Weapon wielders. They called it 'The Cauldron'. When Kafka stepped into the stark white, circular room and the door hissed shut, he wasn't just watching a screen. The system interfaced directly with the user's nervous system, creating a world that was, for all intents and purposes, completely real.
"Welcome to your new home, Private Hibino," Hoshina's disembodied voice echoed through the white void, coming from an unseen speaker. "The Cauldron will be your world for the next eight hours a day. Your body will be safe, strapped into a nutrient-drip harness. Your mind, however… your mind is fair game."
The white void dissolved, and Kafka found himself standing on a familiar, ruined street. The street of the ambush.
"Every soldier has a trigger," Hoshina's voice continued, a calm, clinical lecture. "A fear. A weakness. The Architect found yours: your protective instinct for your comrades. So, we are going to remove that trigger. Not by making you care less. But by making you immune to the fear. We are going to expose you to your worst-case scenario, over and over again, until it has no more power over you."
From the end of the street, the Architect's wolf-kaiju began to appear, their red eyes glowing in the simulated twilight.
"The scenario is simple," Hoshina explained. "Defend your team. Do not lose control. Survive. Begin."
Kafka's Kaiju No. 8 form erupted around him. This was a familiar fight. He engaged the swarm, his movements now honed by Igris's training, his power controlled and precise. He was a whirlwind of destruction, tearing through the digital monsters.
And then the sniper appeared on the roof.
He saw it, and a phantom jolt of the psychic attack echoed in his memory. He tensed, bracing himself.
From behind him, a voice screamed. "Kafka, look out!"
He turned. A simulated version of Kikoru Shinomiya was running toward him. But she tripped, falling to one knee, completely exposed.
The sniper didn't aim its psychic weapon at him. It aimed a plasma rifle at her.
"No!" Kafka roared. He abandoned his fight, his one thought to get to her, to shield her. It was the exact same emotional response. The trigger.
As he lunged toward her, he felt it. A phantom psychic dart hitting the back of his mind. And just like before, the feral rage of Kaiju No. 8 began to surge, the world tinting red.
"You're losing it, Hibino!" Hoshina's voice was a sharp reprimand. "Control it! She's not real! The pain is not real!"
But it felt real. The panic, the desperate need to protect her, it was all real. He fought it, he wrestled with the surging, berserk power, but it was too strong. His vision went dark as he lost control completely.
Then, a flash of white. He was standing on the street again. Everything was reset.
"That was one minute, forty-two seconds before total loss of control," Hoshina's voice stated, cold and detached. "Pathetic. Again."
And so it began. For hours that felt like days, he was subjected to the same nightmare, with subtle, cruel variations. Sometimes it was Kikoru in danger. Sometimes it was a terrified Reno Ichikawa, cornered and screaming his name. Sometimes it was the entire ATU squad, caught in a blast, their simulated bodies torn apart. Once, in a particularly sadistic twist, it was Mina Ashiro, her arm trapped under a piece of rubble, calling out for his help as the sniper took aim.
Every time, his protective instincts would flare. Every time, the simulated psychic attack would hit. Every time, he would struggle against the beast within. And every time, eventually, he would fail.
"Two minutes, ten seconds."
"One minute, fifty seconds. You're getting worse."
"Three minutes, five seconds. A marginal improvement."
The constant failure was a worse torture than anything Beru could devise. It wasn't just pain; it was a deep, fundamental shame. He was failing to protect the people he cared about, even in a simulation, and he was failing the one command he had been given: stay in control.
"What's wrong, Hibino?" Hoshina's voice taunted after what felt like the hundredth failure. Kafka was on his knees in the simulation, panting, the rage having subsided. "You can handle all the pain a monster can dish out in your dreams, but you can't handle your own emotions? Is this the man who's going to stand beside Commander Ashiro?"
The jab was personal, cruel, and exquisitely effective. A new kind of anger, cold and sharp, cut through Kafka's despair. This wasn't the blind rage of the monster. This was human indignation. He was being manipulated, played with.
[The tactician is using your emotions to forge a weapon, just as I do,] Jin-Woo's voice suddenly echoed in his mind. Kafka had been so immersed in the simulation, he'd forgotten his master was likely watching too. [His methods are cruder, but his objective is the same: to strip you of your weaknesses. You continue to fail because you are trying to fight the rage. You cannot cage a hurricane. You must become the eye of the storm.]
'The eye of the storm?'
[Do not try to suppress the beast. Do not try to deny the fear,] the Monarch instructed. [Accept it. Let it flow *through* you, not *over* you. The rage is a source of power. A fire. A true master does not try to stamp out the fire. He stands within it, unburnt, and uses its heat to forge his will into steel. The fear of losing those you protect is your trigger? Then let it be. But let it be the trigger for a rifle you are aiming, not the detonator of a bomb strapped to your own chest.]
The simulation reset again. White void. Then the ruined street.
This time, something was different. Kafka didn't tense up. He let his body relax. He let the phantom emotions of the coming simulation wash over him. Let it flow through you.
The scenario began. The wolf-kaiju swarmed. The sniper appeared. This time, it was Mina. She was cornered, her leg broken. "Kafka, help me!" her voice, so full of panic, tore at his heart.
He felt the familiar surge of adrenaline, of pure, protective terror. The psychic dart hit him, a needle of cold fire in his brain. The monster inside roared, a tsunami of berserk rage threatening to consume him.
But this time, he didn't fight it.
He accepted it. He let the rage come. He felt the fire wash through his veins, the desire to destroy everything. But at the very center of that inferno, he held onto a single, quiet thought. The cold, logical voice of Jin-Woo, the discipline beaten into him by Igris. Aim the fire.
His Kaiju form erupted, the full, berserk transformation. The four arms, the massive, monstrous frame. The world tinted red. But behind his glowing, savage eyes, Kafka Hibino was still there. Calm. Quiet. Focused.
He was the eye of the storm.
He moved. The speed was beyond anything he had ever achieved. He wasn't thinking. He was just doing. He didn't waste time on the lesser wolves. He ignored the panicked cries of his simulated comrades.
He had one target. The source of the threat.
In a single, earth-shaking bound, he crossed the entire street, landing directly at the base of the building the sniper was on. He didn't try to climb it. He simply reared back his four massive arms and punched the building's foundations. Once. Twice. Three times.
The simulated structure groaned, protested, and then collapsed into a shower of digital dust and debris, burying the sniper under a mountain of its own perch.
Threat eliminated.
Then, with the source of the provocation gone, he simply… calmed down. He stood in the middle of the ruined street, took a deep, shuddering breath, and let the berserk transformation recede, melting away like a bad dream, leaving him in his sleek Blackwing armor.
He had not just held on for a few minutes. He had embraced the rage, used its power, achieved his objective, and then returned to a state of control. All in the space of fifteen seconds.
In the observation room, Hoshina and Mina watched the playback, their expressions ones of pure, unadulterated shock.
"He… he weaponized the rampage," Hoshina whispered, his mind struggling to process the tactical implications.
The white void returned. The simulation was over.
"Test complete," Hoshina's voice, now tinged with a new, profound respect, echoed around Kafka. "Final evaluation: Control… achieved."
Kafka stood alone in the whiteness, his body still trembling, but his mind clear. He had found the eye of his own storm. He had taken his greatest weakness, his most dangerous flaw, and was beginning to forge it into his most powerful weapon. And he knew, with a grim certainty, that the Architect had just lost its favorite way to hurt him.