Chapter song: Want Me Dead - Foogiano
Kenneth started with simple hand-to-hand combat to deal with the first few dummies, building a steady momentum.
He moved with precision at first, quick, efficient, but restrained. He was a strategist first and foremost, and didn't like wasting his energy on showy moves, especially when it wasn't needed. He had a slower start compared to the other students, and his technique was standard. Nothing impressive or worthy of reaction.
He kept his center of gravity low, testing how this new body responded to pressure, to force, and speed. The first dummy lunged, its metallic fist slicing through the air. Kenneth deflected it with his forearm, twisted his hips, and drove a clean elbow into its neck joint. The dummy's head snapped to the side, sparks flying. Another came at him, and he decked beneath the blow, using his momentum to sweep its legs out from under it before finishing with a sharp kick to the chest.
By the fifth opponent, he'd begun to push harder. His body still felt foreign, like a weapon that didn't quite fit his grip. His punches landed a little too heavy; his footwork lagged behind the rhythm he wanted. His moves felt awkward, and the stiffness in his shoulders annoyed him to no end. It was preventing him from moving the way he wanted to and using the amount of force he deemed necessary to get rid of these annoying buggers. But despite these annoyances, Kenneth didn't back down. He kept going, adjusting on the fly, compensating for imbalance with sharper angles, shorter bursts of movements.
To the others watching from the sidelines, Kenneth looked like he knew exactly what he was doing. His hits, his jabs, and kicks lined perfectly, but to those with more experience, they could see slight inconsistencies when he connected some of his attacks.
It's like watching a muppet master having to move the strings forcefully, Instructor Matthews noted.
Sweat began to gather at the base of his neck, more quickly than usual, which was to be expected from a body that wasn't used to kinetic movement like this. His breath came in even bursts, timed and measured. The next wave came faster. Three dummies at once. He caught the first one's arm, twisting it behind its back as he pivoted and slammed it into the ground. The second came from the side; he sidestepped, using his knee to drive into its torso before spinning and using the first dummy's fallen body as leverage to vault into a high kick.
The motion was messier than he'd wanted, but it was effective. The dummies dropped.
Kenneth exhaled through his nose. His hands flexed; his knuckles turning white from how tightly he had them gripped. Slowly, his body was learning, recalibrating to his rhythm.
Better, he thought, but still not perfect.
The timer on the far wall ticked down, and more dummies emerged, their speed increasing. Kenneth widened his stance, rolled his neck once, and charged.
He moved through them like a possessed tactician. He used every part of himself, elbows, knees, shoulders, even the heel of his boot. His style wasn't pretty, wasn't elegant, nor graceful, but it was efficient. And that's exactly what he needed at that moment. He needed to be quick so he could end all of this quickly. Every move connected to another, his adaptability sharpening with each strike until it looked less like a painter testing their tools, but more like one who glided their brush against their canvas like a dance. He used one dummy's momentum to fling it into another, grabbed a third by the neck, and slammed it into the floor so hard the impact cracked the tiles.
Gasps erupted in the room, with a few students gathering closer, drawn in by the mastery and brutality of his movements. Durian, who'd been bored initially, started to pay more attention the longer Kenneth's battle went on.
Up above, near the observation deck, Lucien happened to be passing through when the rhythmic clangs and thuds from below caught his attention. He stopped, eyes narrowing as he turned toward the glass. Below, a lone figure was moving fast, surrounded by the flicker of training drones.
"Looks like the recruits are undergoing their first TTC."
For a moment, he simply watched, his expression unreadable. Then, recognition flickered in his features. "...That guy…what was his name again?" he murmured under his breath.
The memory finally resurfaced: the camp, the training area, the Anchor who moved like a Striker, looking at him straight in the eye without flinching.
"Right. Kenneth."
The name rolled off his tongue easily, almost instinctively. Lucien frowned slightly, as though caught off guard by how natural it felt. He continued watching, unable to tear his gaze away.
Down below, Kenneth shifted mid-fight, planting his hand on the floor and kicking up with both legs, catching two dummies square in their chests. He spun back onto his feet and ducked another strike, his body flowing now, feeling looser, more assured. The stiffness he felt earlier had given way to something more uniform yet seamless.
Lucien's steely eyes softened, intrigued despite himself. "Not bad," he said quietly.
Kenneth exhaled sharply through his nose, twisting his body as he brought down another dummy with a swift palm strike to the chest. The metallic figure crashed to the floor. It tried to rise again, but Kenneth didn't give it a chance. His movements were becoming more refined, more deliberate. He was syncing with this new body, learning how it responded to weight, tension, and momentum.
Finally," he thought to himself.
Then, without hesitation, he transitioned.
As another wave of dummies lunged at him, Kenneth sidestepped the first, ducked under the second, and in one smooth motion reached into his pocket. His fingers brushed against cold steel, his hidden blade. He drew it in a single fluid motion, the blade's edge catching the dim light of the arena as if it were alive. The switch from fists to steel was so seamless that some students in the audience didn't even register the moment it happened.
The next few seconds were a blur.
He slashed cleanly through two dummies at once, pivoting on his heel and driving his elbow into another's chest plate before following through with a diagonal cut that severed its arm. Sparks burst around him as the sound of metal on metal filled the air. His form was sharp, lethal.
Up above, Lucien hadn't moved an inch. His eyes were fixed on the fighter below.
A familiar voice called from behind him. "Lucien?"
He didn't turn.
"What are you doing?" Alcione stepped beside him, following his gaze toward the training floor. When he realized where Lucien's focus lay, his brows lifted. "Wait a sec—isn't that the guy we saw earlier? The one from the other day?"
Lucien didn't respond. His jaw was tight, his expression unreadable, but there was a flicker in his eyes, something akin to fascination.
Alcione nudged him lightly. "You're really not gonna answer me?"
Still nothing. Lucien's focus was absolute.
"What the hell?" Why's he acting like I don't exist?
Below, Kenneth's breathing deepened as the intensity of the test increased. More dummies were released, faster and stronger than before, their coordination improving. They came at him in groups of four and five, forcing him to pivot and adapt. He slashed and weaved between them, using their momentum against them. His blade work wasn't flashy—it was efficient, purposeful, the kind born from someone who'd learned to fight for survival rather than showmanship.
The arena's timer blinked 6:30.
That's when the dummies changed tactics. Their mechanical joints whirred, and panels along their forearms snapped open to reveal retractable weapons—blades, batons, even stun rifles.
Kenneth immediately adjusted. He leapt back, widening the space between them. His expression hardened, gaze steady.
In one swift motion, he sheathed his blade, reached to his side holster, and drew a compact firearm.
"D-Did he just pull out a gun?!" Fae exclaimed.
Lennon frowned. "When did he have time to get a gun? I never even saw him reach for one."
His question was left unanswered as the training grounds echoed with sharp, controlled gunfire.
Each shot landed with frightening precision. Head, chest, heart. The weapon kicked lightly in his grip, but Kenneth's aim never wavered. He moved through the chaos with surgical calm, adjusting his position after every burst to minimize exposure.
One dummy down. Then another. Then another.
By the time the timer hit nine minutes, the training field was littered with shattered machinery and scattered sparks. The remaining dummies charged, their steps clattering across the steel floor, but Kenneth was already moving, rolling, firing, slicing through them with a fluid combination of gunfire and close-quarter strikes.
The counter at the edge of the arena glowed red: 129.
Only one left.
Kenneth caught it mid-lunge, drove his knee into its torso, and fired one clean shot through its chest. The dummy fell still, smoke rising from the hole where its core had been.
130 kills in ten minutes.
The entire hall was filled with stunned silence. For a moment, no one reacted, not even Instructor Matthews.
Then a low murmur rippled through the watching crowd, half awe, half disbelief.
Up above, Alcione whistled softly. "Holy shit….who is this guy???"
Lucien didn't move. His gaze lingered on Kenneth as the latter lowered his weapon, his chest rising and falling in a slow rhythm. There was a glint of something dangerous in Lucien's eyes now, a mix of intrigue and something far more personal.
"This kid is incredible. Is he seriously part of the new recruits?!"
Lucien nodded. "I met him at the registration camp. He's an Anchor too."
Alcione looked at him with wide eyes. "No shit! That's even more amazing! Whoever gets to be his exclusive Striker is one lucky person."
For some reason, hearing those words didn't sit right with Lucien. His blue-grey eyes turned stormy. This made Alcione eye him carefully before checking his watch. "Shouldn't you be heading to your anchoring appointment now? You know Eden doesn't like to be kept waiting."
Lucien checked the time before checking his level. 55%.
"I'm still in the green."
"Okay? You know you need to get stabilized regardless of whether you're in the green. The last mission we were on was tough. That monster—"
"Hey, do you realize where we are?" Lucien shot him a glacial look that shut him right up.
"Right, I forgot. This place is crawling with the First Division's newbies. Shit."
"You're lucky no one was around. Anyway, I'll go to my session, don't worry."
Alcione gave him a look but nodded. "Fine. I'm heading out then. Make sure you get a proper session. We need you at 85 at least."
Lucien waved him off. As soon as Alcione was gone, he turned his attention below.
Kenneth had since taken his spot back to the others who were hounding him with praise. The young man shook his head, assuring them that he didn't do much until he felt an electric shock at the base of his head.
The young man frowned, wondering what the hell was going on when he sensed it. A scintilla of mango mixed with the herbal notes of mint and coriander. It was a strange combination, one that he could recognize anywhere now that he was able to place the smell. It was Lucien. He looked up, his eyes darting everywhere until they landed just above him. The observation room. The walls weren't entirely opaque, and those from outside could be seen from the inside. The two made eye contact, and for a moment, neither man reacted.
After a long moment had gone by, finally, though faintly, Kenneth saw the corner of his lips lift in a barely perceptible smile. His mouth then opened entirely. Almost in a trance, Kenneth followed their movements.
"Good work, Anchor," the man mouthed.
Kenneth had heard a clangorous sound inside his head almost suddenly. He didn't know what this feeling was, but he knew it couldn't be anything good, that he was certain.
Burying the deep discomfort he felt, he mouthed an "Up yours, captain," in return, making Lucien laugh despite himself.
His eyes glanced at his watch. He was officially five minutes late and it would take him another five to get to the nearest Anchoring Centre which was across campus.
Toleran Academy had a total of five Anchoring Centres, scattered across the campus. Each of the major buildings was required to have one. Just like a clinic, they were reserved via appointment. For Strikers who didn't have a pair or an exclusive Anchor, it was the best place to go to get some Anchoring, especially on short notice.
He sighed, taking one last look at Kenneth before leaving.