The Elite Corps

Two new creatures close in, their arms like blades. I think fast. That’s when it hits me: I haven’t used my katana once.
I’ll bring it in—with my power.

Time to burn—me and you, katana.

I kindle the flame as a short pulse in my body and along the blade. I glance at Ayame.

Kiyoshi: “Ayame, buff me. The other three can’t handle these two.”
Ayame: “Understood. Buffing now.”

Heat races through my veins; my speed and power spike. As the blade-arms rush us, it’s time to show them the gap between us.

I slide a step and slip the katana in at a shallow angle. The tip bites with a tiny flare—tch. The first creature’s joint seam scorches black. The second swings; Ayame’s glow trails like a shield, and the hit dulls.
“Keep going,” I say, drawing back and taking a half-step in.

They split like lines on a page—one cuts from the right, the other darts low. I skim the edge of a stone platform with my foot.
No long flame. Short pulses, deep cuts.

The first drops onto me. I hold the katana flat, heat it with a spark-pulse, and rake its sword-wrist.
Screee! The seam goes black; a red glow leaks under the metal.

“Film!” I call.
Blue lays a thin water skin over the ground. The second can’t brake; it slides—torso wide open.
“Now!” I wedge the katana in low and—PATT!—one clean burst. Rib plates crack. It scrapes the wall and staggers back.

Ayame’s glow runs down my shoulder; my breath snaps into rhythm.
[BUFF: 100%]

The first comes again, blade-arm chopping down. I dip my knees, step inside—left shoulder rams its chin—and my right hand carves a half-moon slash.
THOK—PARR! A mask-like plate pops free; it shrieks and reels.

A corner alert blinks: [HEAT +1]
Fine. Hold the line.

“Set!”
Brown raises a hip-high stone shoulder ahead of me. I spring off it, land on the creature’s shoulder, and brand the neck joint with a heated line.
Skrit. The plate separates. It swings like a pole; I flip off its back and drop behind.

The second lunges from the rear; its shadow splits on the water film.
Ayame: “Right!”
My hands move on their own; I sweep the katana back—micro-burst on contact.
Clink! The blade-tip shears off; sparks and steam kiss my face. Ayame’s heal snuffs the burn instantly.

“Mud lock!”
Blue thickens the water at its ankles; Brown heaves the ground—rising mud clamps half-rings around its legs. It thrashes, trying to rip free.
I square up, draw a breath, and fire a two-beat combo: left feint, right cross.
PATT—KRAK! The neck seam pops; it drops to a knee.

Another flash: [HEAT +2]
My palms burn. I ease my grip, cycle air through my lungs. Ayame’s hand touches my scapula.
“Keep going,” she says, calm. [MICRO-HEAL]

The first makes one last furious rush. Its foot catches the stone set—there’s that single-tier stutter I was waiting for.
Now.
I draw the katana low, like sliding it along a sheath—needle hot at the edge.
CRACK! The lower chest plate opens. I lock my stance and drop the finish with a tight pulse.
BOOM! The torso buckles backward; dim light bleeds from its joints. It falls.

The second breaks the lock and barrels at me. Blue flicks a “water whip” from my side—slaps its face like a shawl. I follow the trail: elbow—knee—head chain, half-pulse on each touch.
THOK—PATT—TACK! The helm splits. One last turn of the katana, a thin rising cut from the chin—
Tiink. It takes two steps and collapses in silence.

The screen goes green: [WAVE 2 CLEARED — 00:49]
Ayame exhales; I lower the katana. Steam ghosts from my hands as the warning fades.

There’s a stir in the stands—I lock eyes with Red-hair. He drags a finger across his throat and grins.
Don’t miss your turn.

The ceiling ports open again. The light changes; the vibration runs deeper. A metal shadow descends, slow and heavy—rotary blades on its shoulders, heat-sensor icons across its core.
Ayame whispers, “Long flame is definitely banned on this one.”
“I know,” I say, gripping the spine of the katana. Short pulses. Close. Clean.

3… 2… 1… The new wave starts.

It hits the floor hard. Shoulder saws whirr to life. Hairline cracks web the ground; the tremor punches my gut.

No long flame. Short pulse, close contact.

“Tight formation,” I call. “Brown, platform—Blue, slick it!”
Stone step rises; Blue lays the film. I sprint up. The blade’s tip warms with a small heartbeat of heat.

The machine fires the shoulder saws—Viiiin!
I cut in from the right first, drag steel along the wrist actuator, and leave a tiny PATT!
Tick. Paint blisters—armor’s thick; just a mark.

“Left!” Ayame warns. Her shield brushes my shoulder. The hit is absorbed, but the force shoves me back.
A yellow corner alert: [HEAT +1] Still fine.

Now the machine lights the floor grates; sensor LEDs flip red. Heat-sensitive pattern—wrong strike and the ground will blow.

“Set!”
Brown opens a waist-high wall; I vault over and land left. Blue lashes its knee with a water whip—half a second. Enough.
I press low at the joint—short burst.
KRAK! A guard plate fractures… but the machine mulches the stone set with its saws. The first Brown sails back.

“A little help!” Ayame calls.
My eyes flick—another Brown gets scooped and tossed by a knee-high blade sweep. Blue steps in to cover; his water curtain flashes to steam. The world goes white.
Damn. The fog works against us.

The machine lunges through the whiteout. One arm takes a cut at me; I bring the katana up like a shield.
CLANG! My arms go numb. [HEAT +2] blinks. My hands burn; my grip slips.
Ayame’s palm finds my scapula. [Micro-Heal] Pain dies; the heat remains.

“Wrist! Wrist!” I shout.
Blue spins water across the joint; the machine skids—balance lost. That’s the angle I want. I move in—
And the floor sensors flip from red to violet. OVERHEAT. The ground sinks an inch.

I hold my step; the machine doesn’t. Its rotary blades plane the stone like a grater. Grit rains over me. I rake the katana flat and stamp a tight burst under the chest.
BOOM! Metal caves in—but it fires a shock pulse in return. My body jolts; my ears ring. Blue drops behind me.

[HEAT +3] – GRIP 70%
Any more and I’ll lose it.

Ayame’s breathing shortens. “Shield’s failing!” Her glow thins; she diverts power from me to the fallen.
“I… can hold,” I grind out. “Give the shield to Blue!”

The machine pivots into a sweeping attack. Sparks spray the edge of the deck. I duck, skid on a knee, scrape the katana along the floor—letting it spark like a filament. When it kisses the blade spindle: tink, tink—micro-bursts. The axle locks.
Half a second.
Elbow to the chest plate, then knee—then head. Half-pulse on each.
THOK—PATT—TACK! One coil tears loose.

It recoils—but now the sensors pin me. It tags my heat. Shoulder saws cross; speed spikes.
Ayame: “Heads up!”

I slide-step out—and a line of floor grates flashes red and detonates.
BOOM—BOOM—BOOM!
Air slams my chest; stone dust fills my mouth. I refuse to drop the katana, but my fingers tingle. A big warning shudders: [HEATING LIMIT — POWER REDUCED]

The machine seizes the opening and turns toward Ayame. I stomp, accelerate—have to cut it off.
“Not letting you!” I snarl.
I make it—but I’m late. The shoulder blade catches Ayame, hurling her sideways. She skids on her back; her glow flickers out.

The second Brown rallies and rams it; the machine stumbles a step—then scythes him like a bulldozer and pins him to the wall. Blue is gasping. My forearms shake.
[Stamina 05%]

One strike left in me.
I lock the katana, one line, one burst. Wrist of the neck—perfect line, perfect timing.
I step in.

The machine pops a counter-shock from its core—expanding like a ring.
VWUM!
Air leaves my lungs. My knees give. The katana tip kisses the floor.

The screen blares red: [STAMINA 0]
A siren. Green lights flip to white.

[SYSTEM]: WAVE 3 FAILED. SIMULATION TERMINATING.
[SYSTEM]: PART THREE COMPLETE. NEXT PHASE PREP: WAITING ROOM.

The blades wind down. The floor levels.
Ayame pushes up by my side—pale, but smiling. “You’re okay,” she whispers.
I nod. Steam curls from my palms; my heartbeat steadies.

Scattered whistles, mixed applause from the stands. Red-hair is on his feet, lip curled.
Not over.

The doors slide. Cold air pours down the corridor. The waiting-room light blinks.
I sheath the katana. “Form up,” I say. “We’ll make it up next phase.”

Ayame stands; Blue and the Browns haul each other upright.
Shoulder to shoulder, we walk into the light. A small flame inside me, controlled. The next door opens.

While we wait for the final stage, the previous round’s time board pops up.
Out of twelve teams, we’re 2nd. Red-hair’s team is 3rd.
Us: 4:00 — Them: 3:47 — 1st: 5:10.
They beat what we couldn’t; they lasted longer.

Our three extras scatter immediately. They didn’t contribute much anyway. Ayame steps up beside me.

Ayame: “We did good. The other three didn’t do much, but you carried.”
Kiyoshi: “Wouldn’t have lasted this long alone. You really are a lifesaver.”

Her cheeks tint as soon as the words leave my mouth. “Thanks,” she murmurs. “Good luck in the next stage.”

That’s when the proctor returns.

Proctor: “Congrats to those who cleared Part Three. Next is Part Four. You’ll spar one-on-one in turn. Win or lose isn’t everything; we’re gauging your solo skill. Return the suits—they’re only for Part Three. Questions?”

Silence from the hall.

Proctor: “If everything’s clear, enter when your name lights up.”

Half an hour later, my name glows. Another name alongside it: Rory Miles.

So that’s who I’m sparring.

As I head for the door, Red-hair shows up too.

Kiyoshi: “What are you doing here? My name lit up.”
Rory: “So did mine.”

So that’s his name…

Rory: “Spar with you, huh. Can’t wait. Drop quick.”
Kiyoshi: “Get in the ring. I’ll answer you there.”

A short stare-down. We step through the door and climb into the ring.

Proctor: “Five minutes to prepare. You start on the gong. Three-minute round. The ref will stop the match if needed. Questions?”

Both of us: “None.”

Gong. 3:00

Rory takes center with a high guard. Shoes hiss on the canvas.
Close range. I’ll take the first exchange.

“What’s wrong, hero?” he grinds through his teeth. “Still got mouth?”
“I don’t talk,” I say. “I shut you up in the ring.”

2:45
I feint the left; Rory doesn’t bite. My right jab scrapes his shoulder; his head tilts. He fires back—a body shot from below.
THOK! My gut flares; I breathe out. “That it?” I say. “Gentle tap.”
Rory grins. “Now we start.”

2:30
Footwork now—he flashes the left upstairs and whips a low right kick. I drop my knee to block; shin-on-shin lights a sharp pain.
“Nice try,” I say, and sling a right hook. Short range—glances.
PATT! It grazes his chin. The ref slides aside, checks: “Fight!”

2:15
Rory drives the body. He shoves, hunts a collar tie. “Fall already,” he snarls. “Your gas is gone.”
“Yours never started,” I say, nudging his chin with a short upper to break the clinch.
He curses and charges. “If you dare, don’t run!”
“I don’t run,” I say. “Come.”

2:00
Mid-range. He tries a one–two—then a digging hook. I parry the first two; blunt the hook with my shoulder.
Me: left–right—low-kick feint—then right cross.
KRAK! His head snaps back. A ripple of “oooh” from the seats.
Rory squints. “Luck.”
“Luck doesn’t land like that,” I say.

1:40
He smartens up—backs out, darts in again—this time dangerous. The left’s empty, the right’s nailed in. He brings the overhand all the way.
I bury my head inside—slip; the punch shaves past my ear like wind. I ready the counter, but his knee bangs in.
WHUMP! Fire lights my ribs. Two steps back. I see Ayame in the stands holding her breath.
Rory: “Come on, hero—kneel.”
“You kneel,” I say. “Start with your ego.”

1:20
Rory pours it on—combinations rain. My hands run automatic: guard, parry, step in—out.
We crash for a second, chins close. He whispers, “I’m putting you down.”
I whisper back, “Try me.”
I flick a fake headbutt—he flinches. The ref barks, “Keep it clean!” and separates us.

1:00
Back to mid-range. Time’s thinning. Need something to steal the round…
Rory extends his left; I catch the fingertips and snap it off-line, breaking timing. I throw the right overhand.
PATT! A slice opens near his brow. A hint of blood.
Rory seethes. “Let’s play then!” He fakes high, sinks two nails into my body.
THOK—THOK! My stomach burns. “Good shots,” I say through my teeth. “But no flavor.”

0:40
He cranks the tempo, walks me toward the ropes. “You can’t run.”
I’m not on the ropes—I turn him instead. Shoulder to shoulder.
“It’s over,” he says.
“It’s not,” I answer. Knee—elbow—short chain. TOK—TAK! The ref wedges in: “No elbows! I warned you!”

0:30
Center again. Sweat drops off both of us; chests heave.
Rory flips to “feral”—windmill-fast. I wait for the dirtiest shot.
Here it comes: right overhand. I slip, rotate from the waist—counter cross.
KRAK! Clean this time. His knees flicker.
“Talk,” I say. “Weren’t you excited?”
“I’ll talk,” he pants. “While I bury you.”

0:15
Both of us lit. He rushes wild; my steps trace half-moons. He from the right, me from the left—hands, elbows, shoulders—whoever claims the beat.
Ref: “Clean! Clean!”
Final weave: I go jab—cross—low; he goes cross—hook.
We crash. PATT—THOK—CRACK! We both wobble—and both smile.
“Not bad,” he says.
“You too,” I say. “But not enough.”

0:03
Rory gathers everything—tries a spinning backfist. I read it from the shadow.
I duck under and staple a short body cross.
WHUMP! Breath leaves him.

Gong. 0:00

We each take a step back. No hands raised, but eyes locked. Mixed applause; some whistles. We steady our breathing.

The ref steps between us. “Good spar. Mostly within the rules.” He smirks. “No points—exhibition. But I’ve made my notes.”

Rory offers his hand. “There’ll be a next time.”
I shake it. “Anytime.”
As I pass him, I whisper, “Don’t miss your turn.”

Climbing down, Ayame appears at my side. “You were good,” she says.
“So were you,” I say.

Rory lingers in the stands, watching. His lip twitches. “Don’t think it’s over.”
I shrug a shoulder. It’s not. It’s just starting.

Everyone finishes their spar, and the exam wraps.

Proctor: “Results will be sent to you tomorrow. You can go home for today.”

The crowd thins. I head for the front gate—and find Ayame waiting there.

Kiyoshi: “Ayame, why are you here?”
Ayame: “Waiting for you. Thought we could leave together.”
Kiyoshi: “Alright then, let’s go.”

We talk about the exam on the way; hers went well too. Before we part, she turns one last time.

Ayame: “I hope you make the Unit.”
Kiyoshi: “I hope you do, too.”

I crash at home and sleep hard. It really did go well.

The next morning, a letter drops through the door. I open the envelope:

“Congratulations on passing the exam. You are eligible to join the Unit. Be at the base gate at the following time.”

A spark inside me. I’m happy, but I hold back. It’s not over. Those alien filth are still alive.

I gear up and arrive at the base right on time. They hand me a military ID. The proctor meets me at the gate.

Proctor: “Congratulations, Kiyoshi. You did good work in the exam. My name is Rodney Roger. I’ll be your sergeant and your instructor.”

My voice booms without thinking:

Kiyoshi: “Understood, sir!”

Rodney: “Time to receive your color. Follow me—I’ll show you the way.”

Our steps echo down the corridor. What will my color be? Hard to hide the excitement. As I step through the lab door, a single line burns in me:

One step closer to revenge.