Chapter 7: The Beach Offensive

The first week of training was, to put it mildly, a catastrophe. Their new coach, "Spicarie," communicated only through text in a private chat group. Her instructions were precise, insightful, and completely impersonal.

Spicarie: Mina, your aggression is an asset, but you run in a straight line. Use stutter-stepping to make your hitbox unpredictable.

Spicarie: Emi, stop scoping on empty hallways. A sniper controls sightlines; they do not admire architecture.

Spicarie: Akiro, your healing grenades are healing the enemy. Please stop.

The girls were bewildered by their silent, omniscient, and brutally honest coach.

"This is so weird," Mina complained after one session. "It feels like we're being trained by a high-level AI. She's a great coach, but she has zero personality!"

"Hmph. Her methods are efficient. I respect that," Emi said, though Shouka knew she was just as confused as everyone else.

Shouka, meanwhile, was playing the part of the dutiful middle manager, relaying messages and trying to keep morale up. His own skills were improving at an astronomical rate. Spicarie-the real Spicarie-was an incredible teacher, her advice cutting straight to the heart of his weaknesses.

After two weeks of relentless grinding, they were all showing signs of burnout. It was Akiro who finally put her foot down. "We need a break," she announced in the chat. "All work and no play makes us a dull team. We're going to the beach tomorrow. That’s an order."

And so, the five of them found themselves on the sun-drenched sands of the local beach. The change in atmosphere was jarring but welcome. Mina was immediately trying to build a sandcastle worthy of a MOBA fortress. Akiro was handing out juice boxes. Emi was standing under a large umbrella, declaring the sun to be "tactically disadvantageous."

Shouka watched them, a smile on his face. Then his gaze drifted down the beach, and his smile froze. Walking towards them was a girl he hadn't seen in years, not since her family had moved away at the end of elementary school. She was wearing a simple, cute swimsuit, her hair tied up in a messy bun. She had a shy but friendly smile and a mischievous glint in her eyes.

"Shouka?" she said, her voice hesitant but familiar. "Is that you? The clumsy kid who always scraped his knees?"

Shouka’s brain felt like it was buffering. It was her. The girl with the pigtails. The one he couldn’t quite remember, but whose memory was now flooding back in a dizzying rush.

"Kimi?" he breathed.

It was Kimi. His other childhood friend. The real one. Before he could even process the shock of seeing her, she was being absorbed into the group. He made the introductions, and the girls welcomed her warmly.

"Wait, you're a childhood friend of Shouka's too?" Yuki asked, a curious and unreadable expression on her face.

"The original," Kimi said with a playful wink, which only confused Shouka further.

The day grew even more complicated when a new group arrived on their stretch of beach. It was Kenji, Daichi, and Haru from Vortex Fury. They swaggered onto the sand like they owned it.

"Well, well," Kenji sneered, his eyes landing on Shouka's group. "It's the amateur hour. Taking a break from getting carried by Spicarie?"

His eyes then fell on Kimi, and his arrogant expression faltered, replaced by a look of pure, dumbstruck admiration. "Hey there," he said, his voice suddenly smooth. "I don't think we've met. I'm Kenji."

Kimi gave him a sweet, innocent smile. "Oh, I know who you are," she said. "You're Tempest. The guy who thinks trash talk is a substitute for talent."

The air temperature dropped by ten degrees. Haru choked on a laugh, and Daichi's eyebrows shot up. Kenji’s face turned a brilliant shade of red.

"I saw your challenge video," Kimi continued, her sweet smile never wavering. "Your recoil control is sloppy in the first clip, and in the third, you completely miss an obvious flank because you're too focused on showboating. You talk about ending a myth, but you play like a beginner. You should spend less time in front of a camera and more time in the training range."

She delivered the entire, devastating critique with the cheerful tone of someone discussing the weather. Kenji was speechless. He just stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish, before turning and stalking away, his teammates trailing behind him, trying and failing to hide their laughter.

Shouka stared at Kimi, his mind completely blown. The way she had just dismantled the world's cockiest pro-the tactical insight, the cold, cutting precision-it was all chillingly familiar.

He looked from the bewildered Yuki to the smirking Kimi, and a horrifying, impossible, and yet perfectly logical thought began to form in his head.

He had been wrong. So, so wrong.

It wasn't Yuki. It had never been Yuki.

It was Kimi.