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Note: This chapter is shorter, but I guess you could call it action-packed ;D
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~{Still Inside Training Room 5}~
The trials were finally over.
Every newcomer of Section 7 had survived all three tests.
And now, under Vice Captain Micah's command, the real work began.
Across the enormous room, recruits spread out in clusters—some practicing hand-to-hand drills, others activating flickers of Asten-Drive abilities as instructors observed and corrected posture, timing, and control. Even those who already wielded awakened powers weren't spared; every motion was refined, every flaw targeted.
This wasn't about raw strength anymore.
It was about mastery.
Near one corner of the room, Nickle stood alone for just a moment.
Sweat glistened faintly on his skin.
Before he could switch to leg stretches, a sudden weight dropped across his shoulders.
"Yo, Nicky!"
Arty's arm hooked around Nickle's neck in an easy, friendly hold, his grin wide enough to be seen from halfway across the room.
"Honestly glad we ended up in the same squad!"
Nickle let out a small breathy chuckle, adjusting his footing while continuing to stretch.
"Yeah," he replied calmly, rolling his shoulders. "Your Asten-Drive's actually perfect for laying out the battlefield. Control like that can change an entire fight."
Arty puffed his chest proudly.
"You got that right! Haha!"
He dropped into rapid squats beside Nickle, boots thudding rhythmically against the floor as his energy refused to stay contained.
After a few reps, Arty glanced sideways, curiosity creeping into his expression.
"By the way…" he said casually, though his tone softened just a little, "what's your reason for joining the Wingarde Family anyway?"
Nickle froze mid-stretch.
His hands slowly lowered.
For a moment, the surrounding noise of training blurred into the background—the shouts, impacts, mechanical hums fading into something distant.
He stared forward, thinking.
Then quietly answered.
"Honestly…"
A breath.
"…to get rid of old grudges."
Another pause.
"And... to find happiness... I guess?"
Arty stopped squatting.
His loud presence softened instantly.
"Happiness, huh…?" he murmured, lips curling into a warm smile—one far gentler than his usual loud grin.
"That's… actually admirable."
Nickle turned slightly, noticing the sincerity in Arty's face—something rare and unguarded.
He raised a brow.
"Well then," Nickle said, "how about you? Why'd you join the Wingarde Family?"
Arty opened his mouth.
"Th-that's uhh—"
His words cut off.
"HEYYYYY—!"
A sharp, mocking voice echoed across their section of the training room.
Both of them turned.
Two figures approached with deliberate confidence—boots heavy against the reinforced floor.
Leading was a slightly tall boy with swept-back hair and a smug, self-satisfied grin plastered across his face.
Dorian Velkryn.
Member of the Wings Squad.
Right behind him walked a broader, more solid figure—shoulders squared, eyes sharp and serious.
Torren Feldrake.
Talon Squad.
Dorian lazily draped his hands behind his head as he strutted closer, eyes locked onto Arty with thinly veiled amusement.
"Well I'll be damn~" he drawled. "You're the brother of that egoist tyrant member—Isaiah McAlahad—"
Arty's posture stiffened.
Dorian's grin widened cruelly.
"—from that under-the-radar crime syndicate, Vunderigdt… riiiiiiight~?"
To Arty, the name struck like a blade as his usual bright smile drained from his face.
Gone.
His jaw tightened.
His eyes darkened.
Nickle noticed instantly.
The energy beside him had changed—like air before a storm.
And in that moment, Training Room 5 suddenly felt much smaller as the air shifted.
And Dorian didn't stop.
He began circling Arty slowly, boots scraping against the reinforced floor, each step deliberate—predatory.
His shadow dragged across Arty's tense frame.
"So tell me," Dorian drawled mockingly, eyes half-lidded with amusement, "what's someone connected to a tyrant killer like that…"
He leaned closer.
"…doing joining a righteous family like Wingarde, huh?"
Arty's hand clenched the hand of his bat, hard.
His breathing tightened.
Before he could speak—
A sharp metallic whisper sliced through the space between them.
Nickle stepped forward.
No hesitation.
His training sword rose smoothly and planted itself between Dorian and Arty, the blunt blade leveled straight at Dorian's chest.
Nickle's eyes burned with quiet warning.
Not a word needed to be said.
Stop.
Dorian froze.
For half a second.
Then clicked his tongue in irritation and backed off a step.
"Tch. Mr. Showoff…" he sneered. "And what's your deal, huh?"
Nickle didn't lower his weapon.
Instead, he angled the blade forward slightly—sharp, deliberate.
"We were minding our own business," he said coolly. "What's your deal? You starting something?"
Dorian lifted both hands slowly in mock surrender, boots dragging backward as he smirked.
"Oh relax~ I wasn't trying to start anything…"
His eyes glinted.
"…unless you want to."
Nickle's glare hardened.
"You know full well that's bullshit after what you said about Arthur."
A vein pulsed at Dorian's temple.
"Hmph… kinda sounds like you wanna make it a damn problem, Mr. Showoff!~"
His grin stretched wider—cocky, taunting, full of challenge.
Nickle tilted his head slightly.
Expression flat.
"Wow," he said calmly. "Is that really the only insult you've got in that tiny head of yours?"
Silence.
Then—
Dorian's face twisted.
"OH SHUT YE TRAP!"
The words tore out of him like a snarl.
He dashed backward—
CLAP!
His hands slammed together sharply.
Nickle instinctively raised his training sword—
But—
BOOM.
From Dorian's side, Torren rocketed in.
Boots thundered.
Training greatsword raised high.
A massive overhead diagonal slash came screaming down toward Nickle and Arty.
"MOVE!" Nickle barked.
He shoved Arty aside—
Shoes screeching—
And pivoted back just in time.
CLANG!
The impact exploded through his arms.
Nickle barely held the parry, knees bending under the force as steel rang violently through Training Room 5.
Torren's strength was monstrous.
But Nickle's eyes sharpened.
Now.
He swiftly parried the attack off and delivered his Fulcro Spike technique.
His body surged forward.
A rocket-like right knee slammed straight into Torren's face.
CRACK.
Torren's head snapped back.
Before he could recover—
Nickle spun.
A vicious right roundhouse kick smashed into Torren's jaw—
Flowing instantly into a left side kick that detonated against Torren's gut.
BOOM!
Torren was blasted backward.
Boots scraped lightly as he skidded across the floor before catching himself in a low halt.
The room went quiet.
Torren straightened slowly.
Blood trickled from his nose and mouth.
He wiped it both away with his thumb… then grinned.
"Not bad…"
He rolled his neck once.
Twice.
Bones cracking.
"Do it again."
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Nickle exhaled slowly.
His grip tightened on the training sword.
"The hell…"
His brows knit together as he watched Torren's grin widen, eyes lit with unsettling excitement.
"Is that guy getting off on this or something?"
A chill crawled up his spine.
Not really fear.
Just discomfort.
"Whatever…"
Nickle shifted his stance and rolled his shoulders once.
Then twice.
Technique activated.
Unlock Stretching.
His body flowed into a series of sharp, efficient stretches—arms extending, spine twisting, calves flexing, joints loosening with practiced precision.
Muscles relaxed.
Breathing steadied.
Tension drained.
Power sharpened.
His movements grew lighter.
Faster.
Controlled.
The air around him felt thinner—like his body was suddenly moving half a step ahead of the world itself.
He dropped into a low, battle-ready stance.
One foot forward in shoes scraping softly against the floor.
Training sword angled downward.
Eyes locked.
Torren inhaled deeply.
Then grinned wider.
"Now that's a nice look…"
He raised his training greatsword again, boots shifting as his weight coiled like a spring ready to explode forward.
For a single heartbeat—
Silence swallowed Training Room 5.
No movement.
No sound.
Just two fighters facing each other...
Then—
Footsteps echoed.
More presences gathered.
Members of Section 7 began forming around the edges of the room—some leaning against walls, others folding their arms, eyes sharp with interest.
Whispers stirred.
A duel.
Right here.
Right now.
The tension thickened like storm clouds before lightning.
Nickle's gaze never left Torren.
Torren's grin never faded.
The next clash was coming.
And it would be faster.
Heavier.
More brutal...
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The silence then shattered.
Torren and Nickle exploded forward.
Their blades met with a thunderous crack.
Steel screamed.
Wind tore outward.
Sparks scattered like fireflies as their training weapons collided again—
—and again—
—and again.
A storm of motion erupted and rang across Training Room 5.
Torren's greatsword carved massive arcs through the air, each swing carrying crushing force, each slash aimed to cleave straight through Nickle's guard.
Nickle didn't block most of them.
He weaved.
Slipped.
Turned sideways as blades skimmed past his chest.
Dropped low as air pressure ripped over his head.
Twisted mid-step as a slash burned past his ribs.
Every dodge was razor-thin.
Every movement precise.
Between those near misses—
Nickle struck back.
Quick counter slashes flashed like lightning.
Parries rang sharply.
Short bursts of steel against steel.
Their clash became a blur of intersecting arcs—whirlwinds of cutting force colliding in rapid succession, neither gaining ground, neither yielding.
The spectators barely followed the motion.
It was too fast.
Too violent.
Too clean.
Then—
Torren powered through.
With a roar of momentum, he twisted his hips and unleashed a brutal rising diagonal slash.
Nickle barely raised his blade in time.
BOOM.
The impact detonated.
Shockwave rippled across the floor.
Nickle was blasted backward—his body lifting off the ground as if hit by a speeding truck.
Before gravity could claim him—
Torren flickered forward.
In an instant, the greatsword was already overhead.
A crashing execution about to descend.
Nickle's instincts screamed.
Mid-air, he forced his body to twist right with everything he had.
The blade smashed down where his head had been a split second ago—cracking the floor in a violent burst.
And Nickle struck back.
His left leg snapped outward—
BAM!
A mid-air turning kick slammed into Torren's face.
Before Torren could recover—
Nickle slashed across his left side in one smooth motion.
The force sent Torren spinning violently through the air.
Torren slammed both boots into the ground in a dramatic skid, carving lines across the floor before stopping himself with sheer strength.
Nickle landed lightly, bouncing once into position, breathing hard.
His chest rose and fell.
"This guy's hella rough…"
His eyes narrowed.
"It feels like my hits barely shake him... but I know damn well I'm landing them."
He lowered into a crouched stance.
Training blade drawn back.
Muscles coiled.
"Nah. Can't let up... I ain't letting up."
Nickle launched forward.
A low rocket of motion.
His blade flashed—
SHHHNK!
A speeding slash tore straight through Torren's left gut.
The impact blasted through clean.
Nickle skidded past him—too fast—trying to stop and turn—
Then—
Torren was already there.
Standing in front of him.
Unsmiling.
Eyes burning.
Nickle's breath hitched.
"What—?"
This wasn't speed.
This was intention.
Torren's Main Technique had activated.
Self-Sacrifice Sinker.
Basically, pain taken, power of next attack doubled.
Torren raised his greatsword high.
Every ounce of impact Nickle had dealt now fed into it.
The blade descended like a falling building.
Nickle's heart slammed.
For one terrifying second—
He thought he was finished.
Then—
Something surged.
Adrenaline.
Instinct.
Focus.
His foot slammed into the floor.
Cracking it.
Rooting himself in place.
Power flooded his limbs.
He snapped into a piercing stance.
Eyes flaring.
Main Technique: Pinpoint Hit.
The world through his eyes, darkened.
Time slowed.
Torren's form burned white—
Nickle searched—
Searching—
Searching—
There!
Not red.
A flash of orange—
Right along the center of the descending blade.
"That's all I get…"
"Then I'll make it enough."
Nickle stomped forward.
And thrust.
Their attacks collided.
The impact exploded.
A violent combustion of sparks and compressed air blasted outward like a grenade.
Both fighters were hurled away—rolling, tumbling, crashing across the floor.
The spectators froze.
No one spoke.
Dust hung in the air.
Nickle's body skidded to a stop, panting hard, muscles shaking.
"That… was way too close…"
"His strength is suffocating…"
A shadow fell over him.
Hands clasped together calmly.
"Well well… not bad."
Dorian's smug grin curved upward.
"Not bad at all, Mr. Showoff."
Nickle barely lifted his gaze.
Before Dorian could move—
CLINK.
A metal training bat rested on his shoulder.
Pressure heavy.
Danger close.
Dorian stiffened.
Slowly turned.
Arthur stood behind him—eyes sharp, expression deadly serious.
Just behind Arthur—
Azzmina rolled her shoulders, fists tightening.
Ready.
To the other side of Nichola—
Enbi crouched low like a predator, training dagger gleaming in her grip, eyes flashing with lethal focus.
One step.
One word.
And Dorian would also be on the floor.
The room crackled with tension.
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