After five years.
Yeah. Five whole years. That's 1,825 days of sweating, bleeding, and reconsidering career options.
The training of Racis and the others had finally ended.
They were all still in the basement and before anyone gets confused—yes, hi, I'm a new narrator. No, I didn't appear before this. No, I won't appear after this. I am only here because of the sudden time skip and the compulsory cool introduction of the MC.
Stronges Trum—yeah that name sounds like a steroid brand mixed with toothpaste used by Undertaker's exorcist father—stood in front of all her students. And damn, they were unrecognisable.
Well, except aliens. You can't miss them. Even god would look at them and say "nah, that's not my design." Cockroaches see them and go, "Bro… we deserved evolution, not these tangerine-looking jellyfish goats."
Anyway—Stronges had trained them like a bootleg Master Oogway running a military school and a yoga retreat at the same time.
