The first official meeting of the newly expanded "Project Bald Cape" was not held in a sterile command center, but in a soundproofed, lead-lined bunker buried half a kilometer beneath Tachikawa Base. The air was cold, recycled, and thick with the smell of ozone from the humming servers. This was where the nation's deepest secrets were kept, and Anomaly-Alpha had just become the deepest one of all.
Kenji Tanaka stood before a semi-circle of the most powerful people in the country: Director General Shinomiya, the heads of Intelligence and R&D, and even a grim-faced liaison from the Prime Minister's office. He felt less like a lead analyst and more like a high priest trying to explain the whims of a new, inscrutable god.
"Our primary target, Alpha, remains a ghost," Kenji began, his voice echoing slightly in the stark room. A holographic display shimmered to life behind him, showing the grainy ATM footage of Saitama. "However, his companion, Beta, has provided us with our first tangible lead."
He gestured, and the display changed to a complex schematic of a city block, crisscrossed with glowing red lines. "Thanks to Beta's… unique financial activities, we were able to isolate a series of high-level cyber intrusions. They are elegant, untraceable, and move through our most secure networks like water. But they leave a unique digital fingerprint. A 'shadow,' for lack of a better term."
"Two days ago, that shadow appeared again," Kenji continued, zooming in on a specific building. "A five-year lease on a residential apartment was paid for in a single transaction. The apartment is in a quiet, largely ignored district. Low camera surveillance, easy rooftop access… strategically perfect for someone wishing to remain unnoticed."
Director General Shinomiya leaned forward, his eyes fixed on the building. "So we have a location. We move in now. Full tactical deployment."
"With all due respect, sir, I strongly advise against that," Kenji said, holding his ground. The pressure from the men in the room was immense, but his conviction was stronger. "Let me be blunt. We are not dealing with a terrorist or a Kaiju. We are dealing with a being who, according to all our data, can move faster than our sensors can register and neutralize threats our entire military cannot scratch. A direct, confrontational approach is not just suicidal—it's pointless."
He pointed to the blank psychological profile on the screen. "We know nothing about his motives. A frontal assault could turn an apathetic observer into a hostile entity. What happens then? How do you fight something your scanners can't even quantify?"
The word hung in the air, a silent testament to their predicament.
Quantify.
The liaison from the PM's office cleared his throat. "So what is your proposal, Mr. Tanaka? We cannot simply allow an unknown power of this magnitude to operate unchecked."
"Observation," Kenji said, his eyes gleaming with intensity. "We treat him not as a military target, but as a metaphysical phenomenon. Like studying a newly discovered force of nature. I've requisitioned our most advanced technology—quantum entanglement communicators, nano-drones that mimic dust motes, long-range esoteric energy sensors developed from Kaiju No. 6's organs. We will watch. We will listen. We will learn."
His gaze flickered back to the ATM footage. "He went grocery shopping. He stopped a petty crime. His cyborg companion set them up with a place to live. Despite their power, their immediate actions are… mundane. Almost human. We need to understand the human element before we can ever hope to understand the divine."
Shinomiya considered this, his fingers drumming a slow, steady rhythm on the table. Kenji's approach was cautious, unconventional, but it was also logical. The most powerful weapon in his arsenal wasn't a rail cannon or a numbered weapon; it was information.
"Approved," he said finally. "You will have your toys, Mr. Tanaka. Assemble your team. You will report directly to me. I want to know everything. Fail, and you will not only be out of a job; you will be the man who provoked Armageddon."
Kenji bowed his head, a surge of adrenaline washing over him. The weight of the world was now on his shoulders. "I will not fail, sir."
The line for the Defense Force entrance exam snaked around several city blocks.
Thousands of hopeful young men and women, all fire and ambition, stood anxiously, clutching their application forms. The air buzzed with nervous energy, a stark contrast to the quiet resignation inside Kafka Hibino's heart.
He stood near the back of the line, trying to make himself as small as possible. At thirty-two, he was a giant among children. He could feel the sideways glances, hear the whispered comments.
"Look at that old guy. Isn't there an age limit?"
"Maybe he's one of the instructors?"
"He looks more like one of the janitors."
Kafka winced at the last comment, its accuracy hitting a little too close to home. Reno Ichikawa stood a few places ahead of him, pretending not to know him, which Kafka was grateful for. Reno deserved a clean shot, unburdened by his "old man" partner.
What am I even doing here? The question screamed in his mind for the hundredth time. He was a monster trying to sneak into the monster-hunting club. It was the stupidest, most insane plan in history.
The line shuffled forward. They were herded into a large gymnasium for the first phase: the physical fitness test. The room was dominated by imposing figures in crisp uniforms, their impassive expressions designed to intimidate.
Leading the examination was none other than Vice-Captain Soshiro Hoshina.
He stood on a platform, his presence sharp and focused, his eyes scanning the crowd of applicants like a hawk.
"Welcome to the first day of the rest of your lives," Hoshina began, his voice calm but carrying an edge of steel. "Or, for the vast majority of you, the last day of a foolish dream. The Defense Force is not a club. It is not a job. It is a vow. Look at the person to your left. Now look to your right. In a month, statistically, neither of them will be here."
A nervous silence fell over the applicants.
"The physical test is simple," Hoshina continued. "Push your bodies to their absolute limits, and then push further. We are looking for strength, stamina, and resilience. But above all, we are looking for potential. Your results will be measured, quantified, and judged. Let's begin."
The tests were a brutal gauntlet. Sprints, long-distance runs, weight lifting, obstacle courses. Kafka, thanks to his grueling years as a sweeper, was in better shape than most men his age, but he was struggling to keep up with the eighteen and nineteen-year-olds who were at their physical peak.
He grunted, heaving another sandbag onto a pile, his lungs burning. He could feel the familiar, insidious pull from within. The temptation to let just a tiny fraction of the other power out. A little bit of Kaiju strength would make this a cakewalk.
No, he told himself, his jaw tight. I do this as Kafka Hibino. Or not at all.
He finished the task, his score firmly in the mediocre-to-average range, earning him an unimpressed glance from one of the proctors.
Then came the final physical test. The fortitude scanner.
A sleek, metallic arch stood in the center of the gym. It was the same technology used on the battlefield to measure Kaiju durability, recalibrated for human physiology.
"Each applicant will walk through the arch," Hoshina explained. "It will measure your baseline physical potential—muscle density, bone structure, cellular regeneration rate. A score of 1% is considered the minimum to qualify for basic training."
The applicants lined up, their faces a mixture of hope and fear.
The first one, a burly, confident young man, walked through. BEEP. "Result: 1.5%." A solid pass.
Another one. "Result: 0.8%." A crushed look. A proctor gently escorted the failed applicant out.
One by one, they passed through. Reno Ichikawa stepped up, his expression determined. He walked through the arch. There was a pause, and then a slightly louder beep.
BEEP-BEEP.
"Result: 8.3%."
A murmur went through the crowd and even the proctors. It was the highest score of the day by a wide margin. Hoshina made a small note on his datapad, a flicker of interest in his eyes.
Finally, it was Kafka's turn. He took a deep breath, trying to calm his pounding heart. Just be human. Just be normal. Please don't let it see what I am.
He stepped forward and walked through the arch.
The machine was silent.
The small screen on the side didn't display a number. It just flickered, the green text turning a garbled red. Kafka felt a cold dread wash over him.
One of the proctors frowned, tapping the side of the machine. "Huh. Must be a glitch. Go through again, old man."
Kafka swallowed hard and walked back through the arch.
This time, the result was even stranger. The machine let out a low, warbling groan, like metal under stress. The lights on the arch flickered wildly.
And the screen displayed two simple, terrifying words.
SCANNER ERROR.
Hoshina looked up from his datapad, his sharp eyes instantly fixed on Kafka.
The words echoed in his memory, a ghost from the day the world broke.
He had heard those words before. Just once. They were from a report, detailing the moment all the battlefield scanners in Shinjuku had pointed at a single, bald man in a cape.
ERROR: FORTITUDE CANNOT BE CALCULATED.
The parallel was faint, absurd even. One was a god, the other was a worn-out looking man in his thirties. It had to be a malfunction.
And yet... for a single, fleeting second, as Hoshina stared at the average-looking applicant, he felt a flicker of that same unnerving sensation he had felt on the rooftop.
The feeling of looking at something that didn't quite fit the rules of the world.