They moved across cracked bridges and broken platforms,
metal ringing under their feet
like the base itself was complaining about pain.
Corridors stretched empty—
broken panels, flickering lights,
architecture straight out of “map generator stuck at 12%”—
until they reached the control block.
Just as boring, gray, and empty
as any final hallway that only leads upward.
Blindy, shaking like a man on the edge,
pulled out his blaster,
aiming at every shadow.
He had a plan—
shoot everyone first
so his insane partner
wouldn’t decide to clap again
and send the other half of the planet into quarks.
But inside—
nothing.
Time to move up.
They climbed the stairs—
Blindy breathing heavy,
Zeros moved so quietly it felt like he wasn’t even there—
and stopped at a massive platform door.
Blindy let out a breath—too sharp, too quick—like his lungs were still catching up with reality. He tightened both hands around his blaster, gripping it harder than necessary, as if pressure alone could steady him.
“Zeros.”
He glanced at him, eyes still a little too wide to pass for calm.
“I go out first—yeah?
I take ’em all down.”
He nodded to himself, a bit too eager.
“And you…”
There was a slight hitch in his voice, quickly buried under forced confidence.
“You just—stand there.
Do nothin’.
Don’t clap, don’t blink, don’t—don’t even THINK about helpin’.
Got it?!”
Zeros looked at him
like he was trying to figure out
if this was a plan—
or just another human short-circuiting under pressure.
Blindy nodded again, faster this time.
“Yeah.
Yeah, alright. Good.
Great talk.”
He shifted his grip.
“Plan’s solid.”
He adjusted his grip again, shoulders tightening instead of relaxing.
“Let’s go.”
He slammed into the door.
The door burst open outward.
Blindy shot through it screaming—
like a siren nobody remembered to turn off—
took one step,
and instantly launched into a side jump,
flying up about fifteen feet,
spinning horizontally mid-air,
and pulling off another completely unhinged Blindy-roll—
that somehow actually WORKED.
With his eyes shut, he started firing in all directions:
pew-pew-pew-pew-pew—pew—pew—pew—pew
When he finally landed on his feet,
he opened his eyes—
and went cold.
Five men stood in front of him.
One in the center.
Two on the right.
Two on the left.
Balanced. Aligned. Controlled.
With expressions that clearly said:
this idiot just fired twenty-seven shots
and hit exactly one thing—a pipe.
From the ruptured pipe, steam burst out under high pressure,
hissing loudly between them,
like a sarcastic special effect.
The five men just looked at him.
No emotion.
No fear.
No surprise.
Like they were looking at a problem so small
it should remove itself.
The central figure—
Nobuhiro Kanzaki.
Slim. Tall.
Every muscle like a tightened string—
not bulging, not showing off—
just functioning perfectly,
like a mechanism built not for strength,
but for precision.
Every movement economical, pre-calculated—
as if he already knew
what his next move would be…
and what yours would be.
His black hair was tied in a modernized chonmage,
nano-threads holding its form,
faintly shimmering with blue light.
His face—sharp.
His eyes—calm,
like the surface of a lake before an earthquake.
No anger. No fear.
Only calculation.
And that cold, quiet Japanese strength
that doesn’t shout—
it simply exists.
He wore:
A light tactical hakama, the color of night metal.
Shoulder guards lacquered in Kanzaki red and black.
A chest plate bearing the “karyu-mon” pattern.
A belt with mag-clamps and energy cylinders.
At his side—
a katana.
Similar to Shiori’s.
But older. Thinner. Quieter.
And far more certain.
Even inside its sheath,
the blade emitted a faint ultrasonic hum—
like it was asking to be drawn.
Gravity-alloy edge—
cuts steel like wet rice.
The four beside him—
were his blades.
His school.
His students.
His continuation.
Hybrid form:
traditional hakama reinforced with carbon-fiber matrices.
Ceramic chest plates based on gusoku principles—
ultra-light,
capable of withstanding plasma fire.
At their sides—katanas.
Not copies. Not replicas. Each blade—tuned to its wielder,
balanced for speed, control, and kill distance.
Their faces—
like they were carved by the same master.
Strict. Stone-like. Emotionless.
Eyes—
predatory.
Unblinking.
Not searching for a target.
They had already chosen one.
Shit… they look like Shiori…
Blindy thought.
And he was right.
They were forged by the same school.
The same code.
The same quiet rage of people who were raised hearing: “You don’t train to win. You train so you don’t disgrace your house.”