A palpable wave of exhaustion, tinged with nervous energy, rolled through the ranks of Tachikawa Base. Five days after the near-catastrophe in the Northern District, Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina stood before the assembled recruits and officers. The usual lazy grin was absent, replaced by a sharp, grave intensity that demanded silence.
"The fight's over," Hoshina began, his voice cutting through the morning air. "But the war just got smarter. What we faced wasn't a beast; it was a general. And it walked away from us." His gaze swept over them, lingering on the bandages still visible on Reno, the slight stiffness in Kikoru's posture, and finally, on Akira Kurogiri, who stood with a deceptively calm demeanor. "Luck is not a strategy. Starting today, we adapt. This is a base-wide special training regimen. Everyone participates. Everyone gets sharper. Or everyone gets dead."
The "Special Training Arc" began not with spectacular displays of power, but with grueling, foundational drills designed by Hoshina to break down and rebuild their instincts. For the core quartet, every movement was a reminder of their recent ordeal.
Akira moved through the initial endurance drills with an economy of motion that was almost eerie. To the untrained eye, he looked fully recovered—the prodigy back in action. But Hoshina's sharp eyes, and Ravan's incessant diagnostics, told a different story.
[Ravan: Host musculoskeletal system: 91% recovered. Micro-tears persist in left pectoral and right quadriceps. Advising against peak output exertion. Neural pathways: Optimal. Recommend tactical analysis over physical dominance.]
Akira heeded the advice. He didn't lead the pack in sprints; he matched a sustainable pace. During strength exercises, his form was flawless, but he avoided maxing out his lifts. He was consciously masking his recovery, using the drills not to test his limits, but to meticulously map the new ones imposed by his healing body.
The real test came in the specialized combat sessions.
A ring was cordoned off. Hoshina stood there, a single wakizashi with a dulled edge in his hand. He pointed the tip at Akira. "Kurogiri. Let's see what's left in the tank after your nap. This isn't about overpowering me. It's about outthinking me. Your body's still knitting itself back together. So use that big brain everyone's so impressed by."
Akira accepted a practice sword. His expression was neutral, but internally, he was already running simulations.
[Ravan: Combat simulation initiated. Target: Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina. Analysis: Speed 96%, Technique 99%, Predictability 10%. Host physical capacity: 91%. Recommended approach: Ultra-defensive. Analyze patterns. Exploit fatigue. Zero wasted movement.]
The fight began. Hoshina was a whirlwind, a blur of controlled aggression. The air hummed with the CLACK-CLACK-CLACK! of their colliding practice blades. Akira didn't try to match the speed. He became a fortress. His parries were minimal, precise deflections, each movement calculated to redirect force rather than meet it head-on. He was a specter, flowing around attacks, his footwork impeccable.
"He's not even trying to attack!" Iharu whispered to a watching Haruichi.
"He's reading him," Haruichi corrected, his eyes wide behind his glasses. "He's learning the entire sequence."
Hoshina grunted, increasing the pressure. His attacks became complex feints and layered strikes designed to overwhelm a guard. Akira's eyes flickered, absorbing data.
[Ravan: Pattern recognized: Feint high, thrust low. 87% probability. Counter: Deflect high feint, minimal side-step, disarm on extended thrust.]
Akira executed the maneuver. He didn't overpower Hoshina; he used the Vice-Captain's own momentum against him. A subtle twist of his wrist, a precise tap on Hoshina's forearm, and the wakizashi was knocked from his grasp, clattering to the dirt.
Silence. The Vice-Captain had been disarmed.
Hoshina stared at his empty hand, then let out a short, surprised laugh. "You're a real piece of work, kid." He massaged his wrist. "You fight like you're already three moves ahead. Fine. A deal's a deal. You won without relying on that monstrous strength of yours." He walked to a locker and tossed Akira a long, narrow case. "Custom order. Forged based on your combat data. Consider it a reward for making me look like a chump without breaking a sweat."
Akira opened the case. Inside lay a katana of stunning craftsmanship. The blade was a darker, almost smoky steel, and the balance was perfect.
Kikoru, who had watched the end of the fight, snorted. "Took you long enough to get a real weapon. I've had mine since I was ten." The arrogance was a familiar shield, but her eyes held a new, grudging respect for the strategy she'd just witnessed.
On another part of the field, Kikoru Shinomiya was venting her own frustrations. The memory of her powerlessness against the kaiju fueled a fierce need to ensure no one else on her team would ever feel that way.
"You call that coordination?!" she barked at a group of five recruits, including a scowling Aoi Kaguragi. "A real kaiju would have torn you apart! Again! All of you at once!"
They charged. Aoi led with a powerful swing. Instead of meeting it, Kikoru flowed around it like water, using her spear's haft to hook his ankle and send him crashing into two others. Before the remaining two could react, the butt of her spear tapped their helmets with two sharp THWACK!s.
"Predictable! Slow! You fight like individuals!" she scolded, her voice sharp but laced with a desperate urgency. "My father's division would be ashamed! We have to be better!"
While the flashy fights drew eyes, the most profound growth was in the tactical sims. Reno Ichikawa, his body still aching with every move, was a man possessed.
Paired with Kafka for a defense drill, their task was to protect a static target from drone swarms. Kafka was the bulwark, his role to absorb and block. Reno was the strategist.
"Left flank, senpai! Two converging, one hanging back as a finisher!" Reno called out, his voice calm and clear over the simulated gunfire.
Kafka moved to block the first two. He was still clumsy, his control shaky. He overcompensated, leaving a tiny gap. The third drone shot through. But Reno was already there. He didn't shoot it; he sidestepped and used his rifle like a staff, deflecting it directly into Kafka's waiting, if surprised, block.
His movements were no longer just passionate; they were preternaturally aware. He was constantly analyzing, predicting, and compensating—not just for his own weaknesses, but for Kafka's. His driving force was visible in every calculated dodge and perfectly timed shot: a burning vow to never be protected again, to become the steadfast guardian of his friends' dangerous secrets. His release force was a solid 25%, but his tactical support score was the highest in the recruit cohort.
Far from the dust and noise, in a sterile HQ briefing room, Mina Ashiro faced a different battle. Holograms of the twin Kaiju No. 9s rotated slowly.
"The telepathic link suggests a distributed consciousness model," a senior analyst stated.
Mina listened with half an ear, her focus on her data pad. She pulled up two files side-by-side: the catastrophic energy readings from the chemical plant, and the impeccably bland, hopelessly ordinary personnel file of Kafka Hibino.
The evidence was a screaming alarm. The instinct forged over a decade of command was a quiet, steady hum.
He's hiding something. But he's not the enemy.
The memory of a young boy with determined eyes on a dusty street surfaced, unbidden. "I promise!"
The contradiction was a splinter in her mind she couldn't dig out.
Back at the training grounds, Hoshina clapped a hand on Akira's shoulder, his grin returning. "Get used to the weight of that blade. Starting tomorrow, we put it to the test. Your training's going up a level. That weapon isn't a prize. It's a tool. And we're gonna see what it—and you—are really made of."
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T/N :
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