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Note: Yes, this chapter will be much longer, but very worth reading!
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Morning arrived bright and clean, the pale light of dawn spilling through the tall windows of the Wingarde Family House. The corridors were quiet—too quiet for what was supposed to be Section 7's testing and training day.
Inside Room 7-3, one half of the shared space was very much awake.
Nichola Amacaria stood by his open bedroom door, adjusting the collar of his freshly pressed shirt. He straightened his necktie, fastened the red Wingarde armband securely around his arm, and took a steady breath. His movements were calm, deliberate—someone who preferred preparedness over panic.
The other half of the room?
Dead silent.
Nickle glanced toward Arty's closed door.
Then—
Knock! Knock! Knock!
"HEY! ARTY! WAKE UP!"
The shout echoed through the room.
A moment passed.
Then chaos exploded behind the door.
"Huh—? HuH—? OH SHIT!"
The door flew open as Arthur McAlahad stumbled out, hair a mess, eyes wide with horror as realization hit him all at once.
"HOW THE HELL DID I FORGET?!" Arty yelled, scrambling around his room. "I'M LITERALLY THE ONE WHO REMINDED YOU—OH MAH GAHD!"
Nickle couldn't help it. A short, quiet chuckle slipped from him as he finished straightening his sleeve.
"I made some toast already," he called out.
"YUP—GREAT! THANKS, BUD!" Arty shouted back, half pulling on his clothes, half tripping over himself. "YOU CAN HEAD TO TRAINING ROOM 5 FIRST! I'LL CATCH UP ONCE I'M READY!"
"Alright," Nickle replied easily. "See you there, man."
With that, he slid his room keycard through the scanner, the door unlocking with a soft chime. He stepped out into the hallway, the door closing quietly behind him.
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The northwest wing was already stirring with life.
Nickle walked at an easy pace, taking in the early-morning atmosphere when he noticed Room 7-6 opening ahead of him. Two figures stepped out together.
The first was a short girl with black hair cut neatly, her bangs falling low—almost completely covering her eyes. Her skin was pale, her posture reserved, shoulders slightly hunched as if she were trying to take up as little space as possible.
The second was her complete opposite.
A taller, toned girl with tanned skin and a confident stance stepped forward protectively, boots clicking against the floor. She noticed Nickle immediately and offered a friendly, unhesitating smile.
"Hiya," she said. "You a newbie too, huh?"
Nickle slowed to a stop.
"I'm Azzmina," she continued brightly, extending her hand. "Azzmina Ers'heid—yeah, it's a pain to say. Just call me Azzie."
Nickle accepted the firm handshake.
She then tilted her head slightly and pointed her thumb backward.
"And this lil' shortstack hiding behind me?" she added with a grin. "That's Enbi Morells. You can call her Enbi."
The shorter girl peeked out from behind Azzie's shoulder and gave a small, hesitant wave—quick, almost reflexive—before retreating back into partial cover.
"Nice to meet you," Nickle said warmly. "I'm Nichola. Nichola Amacaria. You can call me Nickle."
Azzie nodded approvingly. "Solid name."
"You guys heading to the testing room too?" Nickle asked.
"Mhm," Azzie replied. "Today's the big day. They test our skills, see what kind of missions we're suited for, and train us up a bit before tossing us into the real stuff."
Enbi nodded quietly in agreement, her movements subtle but certain.
"Then shall we?" Nickle asked.
"Duh," Azzie said with enthusiasm, already turning on her heel. "C'mon!"
She started off ahead of them toward the North Wing, boots moving with confident rhythm.
Nickle noticed something then.
Enbi had fallen a step behind.
She lingered, glancing between Azzie's back and Nickle, her hands fidgeting slightly at her sides. There was hesitation there—nervous energy that hadn't yet settled.
Nickle slowed his pace.
"Enbi, right?" he asked gently.
She flinched for just a second, then nodded—quickly at first, then again, more deliberately.
"It's okay," Nickle said calmly. "You don't have to be nervous around me."
Her shoulders eased, just a little.
"We… could be friends," he added, after a brief pause. "Yeah?"
Enbi looked up—just enough for him to glimpse her eyes beneath her bangs. After a moment, she nodded again. Slower this time. Calmer.
A very small smile appeared.
"That's good," Nickle said with a light smile of his own. "Then let's go before Azzmina leaves us behind, yeah?"
A soft, quiet chuckle escaped Enbi as she stepped forward.
Together, the three of them followed the corridor toward Testing Room 5, where the rest of Section 7 was already beginning to gather.
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~{North Wing - Testing Room 5}~
The doors to Testing Room 5 slid open with a low mechanical hum.
Nickle stepped inside alongside Azzie and Enbi, immediately met by the sharp scent of polished metal and reinforced flooring. The space was vast—wide enough to host multiple combat simulations at once—with clean white lighting overhead and holographic panels lining the walls. Several members of Section 7 were already present, all clad in standardized training combat gear, weapons in hand, quietly stretching or testing their grips.
At the center of the room stood a man with a calm, commanding presence.
His posture was relaxed but authoritative, his sharp eyes scanning the arrivals with practiced ease. A red armband marked with the Wingarde insignia rested on his arm—distinct from the others.
"Ah," he said, voice steady. "You've arrived."
This was Micah fau Wingarde, the Vice-Captain of Section 7.
He lifted his arm and gestured toward a reinforced doorway on the side of the room. Above it, glowing letters read:
TRAINING ARMORY
"Please head over there," Micah instructed. "Change into combat training gear that suits you, and select a weapon appropriate to your combat style."
Nickle, Azzie, and Enbi all nodded firmly.
Without further delay, they turned and entered the armory.
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The training armory was divided cleanly by gender. Nickle veered toward the men's section, where rows of lockers and benches lined the walls. The air was cool, carrying the faint hum of embedded security systems.
He located an empty locker and set his belongings inside, methodically removing his everyday clothes. As he pulled off his shirt, the overhead lighting revealed a built frame etched with countless healed scars—thin lines, jagged marks, old burns—each one silent proof of rough battles long past.
A sharp inhale sounded nearby.
"Damn."
Nickle glanced to the side.
Another recruit stood a few lockers away, halfway dressed in his combat gear. He looked at Nickle with wide eyes, then quickly raised a hand in apology.
"Oh—nah, nah," the man said quickly. "I didn't mean it like that. Just… you must've had a rough life, y'know?"
Nickle paused for a moment, then gave a small nod.
"Yeah," he said quietly. "Troubling past."
The man tilted his head. "Old job?"
Nickle slipped on a black, skin-tight long-sleeved combat shirt, the fabric conforming snugly to his frame.
"…Not really," he replied. "More like old grudges."
The man let out a low whistle.
"Must be one helluva past, bruv."
By the time Nickle finished pulling on his combat trousers and adjusting his footwear, the other man was fully geared. He stepped forward and extended his hand.
"Name's Albin. Albin Hyregard," he said with a firm, respectful smile. "I respect the grind. Nice to meet you, comrade."
Nickle accepted the handshake, his grip steady.
"Nichola Amacaria," he replied. "You can call me Nichola—or Nickle. Either's fine."
"Alrighty," Albin said with a nod. "Hope we get to know each other well."
They exited the armory together.
Nickle now wore standard training combat gear, lightweight yet reinforced, designed for mobility and impact absorption. In his hand rested a blunt training sword, its retractable blade built for controlled sparring.
Beside him, Albin stepped out wielding a training spear, resting it casually across his shoulder.
Ahead of them, Azzie and Enbi were already waiting.
Azzie stood confidently, sporting training brass knuckles, flexing her hands as if testing their weight. Enbi stood just behind her, quietly adjusting her grip on dual training daggers, her stance cautious but balanced.
Azzie grinned when she spotted Nickle."Yo. Lookin' great in that gear, man."
Enbi nodded in agreement, her expression soft but approving.
"Thanks," Nickle replied with a small smile.
He gestured beside him. "This is Albin. Albin, meet Azzie and Enbi."
Quick introductions followed, firm handshakes exchanged, the faint beginnings of camaraderie forming.
Before anything else could be said, the doors slid open again.
Two more figures entered.
Arthur McAlahad—finally awake—strode in with his usual energy, accompanied by another unfamiliar recruit. Arty immediately spotted Nickle and made a beeline for him.
"Yo!" Arty said. "What'd I miss?"
Nickle gestured toward the armory. "Change into combat gear. Pick a training weapon you're comfortable with."
Arty nodded rapidly. "Got it!"
He turned to the other recruit and clapped him lightly on the shoulder. "Same for you, man. Let's move."
The two headed off toward the armory, leaving the rest of Section 7 gathered and waiting.
The atmosphere in Testing Room 5 grew heavier—anticipation thick in the air.
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A few minutes later, the atmosphere inside Testing Room 5 shifted.
The casual murmurs and light movements died down the moment Vice-Captain Micah fau Wingarde stepped forward. His expression hardened, his voice carrying the unmistakable weight of command.
"Line up," he ordered. "Four straight lines. Equal spacing."
The recruits moved at once.
Boots struck the reinforced floor in unison as Section 7 formed into clean, orderly rows. Nickle took his place among them, posture straight, training sword resting calmly at his side. The hum of the room's systems felt louder in the silence that followed.
Micah stepped before them.
"Everyone," he began, voice firm, "welcome to the Wingarde Family. You are now part of our newest unit—Section 7. This section is intended to operate as a flexible mission and job-taking team, assigned work both within and outside the Wingarde House."
He paused, letting the weight of those words settle.
"I am Vice-Captain Micah fau Wingarde."
He turned slightly, gesturing toward the entrance.
"And this is my older sister-in-law—your Section Captain."
Footsteps echoed as a woman stepped into view.
She was tall, her presence immediately commanding attention. Long, curly dirty-blonde hair fell past her shoulders, and her posture was straight, confident—refined through experience rather than arrogance.
Nickle recognized her instantly.
She was the same woman who had exited Room 7-1 before.
"Hello, everyone," she said, her voice calm yet resolute. "I'm Enistia fau Wingarde. You may call me Enistia—or Ms. Enistia, if you prefer."
Her sharp eyes swept across the lines, taking in each face.
"Today marks Section 7's testing and training day," she continued. "We'll be evaluating your skills and overall capabilities to determine which types of missions and jobs suit you best. After that, we'll begin refining those abilities—through solo training or duels—before assigning your very first missions."
She raised a small remote in her hand.
"We'll start with testing."
With a press of her thumb, the air to their right shimmered.
A projection of the simulation zone materialized.
Holographic structures rose from the floor—towering buildings, narrow alleyways, rooftops stacked at varying heights—forming a dense cityscape enclosed by glowing boundaries.
Enistia gestured toward it.
"You will all complete three tests."
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She held up one finger.
"Test One. Within this simulated city, your objective is to retrieve or rescue three targets:– A delivery package– A cat– A hostage
"All three are located outside buildings—some may be in streets, alleyways, or on rooftops. Their exact locations will not be disclosed."
Holographic figures flickered into existence—thugs, patrolling routes across streets, climbing fire escapes, watching from above.
"Thugs will be actively patrolling the area," Enistia continued. "Avoid them, disable them, or engage them—your approach is your choice. Once you secure the targets, return them to the designated drop-off point."
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She raised a second finger.
"Test Two. You will be placed in an unfair combat scenario. Surrounded by hostile thugs—with or without weapons—you must either eliminate all threats or survive for five full minutes."
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A third finger followed.
"And finally, Test Three. You will face an Offensive Asten-Drive User. We will evaluate how you adapt, react, and survive against one."
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A murmur rippled through the lines.
At the mention of an Asten-Drive User, Arty glanced sideways at Nickle.
The look was obvious—almost teasing.
Amanthus Scrapyard.
Nickle felt it immediately.
He shifted his gaze away, pretending intense interest in the simulation zone.
Enistia lowered her hand.
"All right," she said. "We'll begin with Test One."
She checked the display on her remote.
"Calling… Ilyne Corvessa..."
One by one, the tests began.
Recruits entered the main simulation individually. The others watched from the sidelines as each member demonstrated their approach—some relying on stealth, slipping through alleys and rooftops unseen; others confronting thugs head-on with decisive force.
Out of the fourteen members of Section 7, only a handful managed to retrieve all three targets. Most succeeded in securing two before time ran out or pressure forced a retreat.
The evaluations were swift, precise.
Then—
"Next," Enistia said calmly.
"Nichola Amacaria."
Nickle stepped forward.
The room fell into attentive silence as he approached the simulation entrance, every pair of eyes in Section 7 now focused on him.
The cityscape awaited.
And so did the first test.
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~{Test 1 - City Simulation}~
Nickle's form materialized at the drop-off point in a flicker of pale light.
The simulation loaded instantly around him.
Narrow alleyways branched in every direction—tight, winding intersections boxed in by semi-tall concrete buildings, fire escapes zigzagging overhead, rusted pipes running along damp walls. The air felt heavy, artificial rain residue slicking the ground, reflections glimmering faintly under simulated streetlights.
Nickle didn't move right away.
He took a breath.
Eyes scanning. Angles. Elevation. Lines of approach.
Then he moved.
He broke into a sprint, boots absent—shoes striking the pavement with light, controlled steps, far quieter than the heavy footfalls most recruits carried. He turned into the first alley—
—and nearly collided with a patrolling thug.
Nickle reacted without hesitation.
One step to the wall.
A sharp wall jump, heel planting briefly against concrete—
His body inverted mid-air.
The training sword snapped free as he rotated upside down, momentum carrying the blade in a clean, descending arc.
The strike landed flush against the thug's head.
The man dropped instantly.
Outside the simulation, several spectators stiffened in surprise.
"That was fast," someone muttered.
Nickle landed smoothly and didn't stop.
He flowed through the alleyways, engaging only when necessary—quick strikes, efficient takedowns, never lingering longer than needed. A baton-wielding thug went down to a low sweep and pommel strike. Another was disarmed and dropped with a precise elbow to the jaw.
Left turn.
Right turn.
He found the delivery package first—secured it, marked the location.
Moments later, a soft meow echoed from beneath a toppled crate.
"The cat," Nickle murmured.
He retrieved it carefully, ensuring no unnecessary force, then moved on.
But something was missing.
He returned to the drop-off point and placed the delivery and the cat down. Both targets dematerialized in a soft green glow, confirmation clear.
Two out of three.
Nickle frowned slightly.
Outside the simulation, Enistia folded her arms.
"For Nichola," she said calmly, eyes fixed on the display, "the hostage is located on the rooftops."
A pause.
"I wonder when he'll notice."
Back inside—
Nickle stood still for a moment, gaze lifting instinctively upward.
Fire escapes.
Pipes.
Roof access.
"…Of course," he muttered.
He sprinted toward a nearby wall, jumped, caught a vertical pipe, and climbed with efficient, practiced movements. He transitioned to a fire escape and ascended rapidly.
Above, the city opened up.
Rooftops stretched across the simulation—some flat, some staggered, all crawling with movement.
Thugs.
More thugs.
Armed thugs.
Then—
"There."
The hostage.
Nickle spotted them immediately, tied near the edge of a higher rooftop.
He moved.
Leaping gaps. Vaulting railings. Simple, efficient parkour, nothing flashy—just speed and control.
But the rooftops weren't undefended.
A thug stepped into his path, swinging a metal bat horizontally.
Nickle ducked beneath the swing, stepped inside the guard, and drove a straight kick into the thug's gut, knocking the breath from him.
Before the man could recover—
Nickle jumped.
A Superman punch, full momentum carried downward.
The thug collapsed.
Nickle didn't slow.
He climbed onto the final rooftop—
Two guards waited.
One with a knife.
One with a pistol.
The knife-wielder lunged first, blade flashing toward Nickle's torso.
Nickle sidestepped at the last instant and thrust his training sword forward, the blunt force slamming into the thug's abdomen hard enough to send him sprawling backward across the concrete.
Nickle followed immediately—overhead strike, decisive, ending the threat.
Gunfire erupted.
The pistol thug fired.
Nickle dropped low—one shot passed overhead.
A second skimmed past his shoulder.
The rest—
He met them.
Steel flashed as Nickle deflected and parried the shots, blade movements sharp and controlled, each impact ringing through the rooftop as he closed the distance in a straight line.
The thug panicked.
Too late.
Nickle reached him.
A spinning diagonal slash came down hard—shattering the pistol and the thug's fingers in a single motion.
Before the man could scream—
Nickle completed the rotation.
A full 360-degree turn into a brutal side kick.
The impact sent the thug flying backward, body clearing the edge of the rooftop before plummeting out of sight.
Silence followed.
Then—
Applause.
Impressed murmurs echoed through the testing room.
A few recruits crossed their arms, unimpressed, muttering about showing off—but even they couldn't deny what they'd seen.
Micah's gaze was sharp.
Enistia's expression was unreadable—but her interest was unmistakable.
Back in the simulation, Nickle exhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling once.
He approached the hostage, cut the restraints, and lifted them carefully over his shoulder.
No rush now.
He slid down a pipe, dropped cleanly to the ground, and jogged back to the drop-off point.
The moment he crossed the boundary—
A clear announcement rang out:
"Nichola Amacaria — 3/3 Targets Saved."
"Test One Result: Perfect."
Nickle brushed a bead of sweat from his forehead, a small, genuine smile breaking through his calm exterior.
Then his form dematerialized, light dissolving into particles—
—and he slowly reappeared in Testing Room 5, the echoes of his performance still hanging heavily in the air.
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The moment Nickle fully dematerialized from the simulation, the sterile lights of Testing Room 5 rushed back into clarity.
He barely had time to steady his breath—
Before he was surrounded.
"YO! Great job!" Arty's voice rang out first, loud and unmistakable. He slung an arm over Nickle's shoulder in an easy, familiar way. "I knew you were gonna ace that test, my guy. That was clean as hell!"
Nickle let out a short breath of laughter, still riding the fading tension from the simulation.
Albin stepped in next, arms crossed but a grin tugging at his face. "Yeah, yeah—real solid showing," he said, shaking his head. "Bit of a showoff though, aren't you?" His tone was light, teasing—but the respect was obvious. "Still… impressive."
Azzie planted her hands on her hips, posture confident, a wide toothy grin stretched across her face. "Very nice! Your movement was sharp, flexible—clean execution all the way through." She gave an approving nod. "You definitely know what you're doing."
Beside her, Enbi nodded quickly, excitement clear despite her usual reserve. She didn't say anything, but the admiration in her eyes spoke just as loudly.
"Thanks, guys," Nickle replied, offering a warm, genuine smile. Compliments still felt… unfamiliar. He wasn't used to being praised so openly.
Then the group shifted slightly.
Captain Enistia fau Wingarde approached.
The room seemed to quiet on its own as she stopped in front of him.
"Nichola Amacaria," she said, her voice calm but unmistakably impressed. "The skills you displayed were exceptional."
Nickle straightened instinctively. "Ah—thank you, ma'am," he replied respectfully, a small smile forming.
Her lips curved upward just slightly. "I look forward to seeing how you perform in Tests Two and Three."
With that, she stepped away—leaving behind an expectation that settled heavily in the air.
Nickle exhaled.
It felt… good.
Encouraging.
But not everyone saw it the same way.
Across the room, three members of Section 7 watched him in silence. Their expressions were tight—eyes narrowed, jaws set. To them, Nickle hadn't simply performed well.
He had shown off.
They didn't see the instinct, the training, the habits etched into muscle and memory. They saw only someone who made it look easy.
And that stung.
Unaware of the brewing resentment, Nickle remained where he was as the next recruits stepped forward to attempt Test One. One by one, simulations played out—some efficient, some chaotic, most falling short of perfection, but all are good at their own things.
Time passed.
Then—
Vice Captain Micah's voice cut through the room.
"We will now proceed to Test Two."
The atmosphere shifted immediately.
The air grew heavier.
This time, it wouldn't be about precision or retrieval.
It would be about survival.
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~{Test 2 — Closed-Off Area Simulation}~
It unfolded in fragments—overlapping moments, intersecting battles, and shifting perspectives—a compilation of survival and combat stitched together inside a sealed arena.
Arty materialized first.
Cold metal flooring beneath his boots. Dim industrial lights humming above. Concrete walls sealed tight on all sides.
No exits.
His training metal bat rested easily in his grip as his eyes swept the area.
"…Thirty," he muttered.
Roughly thirty simulation thugs circled him, some armed, some not. Their spacing was loose, confident—like predators certain the room itself was on their side.
Arty's grin widened.
"Alright," he said, cracking his neck. "This is that moment, yo."
He dug into his pockets.
Five marbles.Five jagged pebbles.
They clinked softly as he gathered them into his left hand.
The announcement boomed overhead.
"Arthur McAlahad. Test Two—beginning in three… two… one—"
Arty bent his knees slightly.
"—START!"
"Y'ALL BETTER DUCK!"
He slammed his clenched fist straight down.
"Rimbalzante! Let's say—TEN!"
The marbles and pebbles struck the floor—
—and exploded into chaos.
They bounced.
Ricocheted.
Skipped off walls, pillars, and bodies at impossible angles, each impact accelerating them further. Pebbles pierced like bullets, snapping skulls and punching through torsos. Marbles cracked heads with blunt, concussive force, knocking thugs cold mid-charge.
Arty dropped low, crouching as the storm raged above him.
This was Asten-Drive: Rimbalzante.
Anything thrown by his left hand would never simply stop.
Every bounce amplified its momentum. Every ricochet sharpened its lethality.
Living targets strained his arm.Non-living ones only numbed it.
As the echoes finally died out, bodies littered the floor.
Arty rose slowly, flexing his left hand.
"…Still good," he muttered. Numb, but responsive.
He scanned the room, estimated.
Ten down.Ten wounded.Ten still standing.
Didn't matter.
His grin burned brighter.
Bat up.Weight forward.
The survivors of the storm rushed.
One came straight in—Arty stepped back and snapped a kick to the gut, then brought the bat down in a brutal overhead strike.
Three more closed in.
A full 360-degree swing sent them crashing back like broken pins.
Another lunged from the side—
THUD.
A ramming thrust to the stomach, followed by a step-in pivot and a crushing downward blow to the back of the skull.
Arty didn't slow as the rest rushed in.
He was momentum incarnate.
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Perspective shifted.
Steel flashed.
Enbi ducked beneath a downward strike, her boots skidding across the floor as both daggers moved as one. A clean stab into the gut—she was already jumping back as the thug collapsed.
Mid-air, she twisted.
A spinning kick snapped into another thug's temple.
A third rushed low—
She vaulted over him, landed briefly on his back—
"Technique: Deep Black Plant."
Black, ink-like splatters flared visually as both daggers plunged deep into his spine. She flipped off, landing cleanly as the body dropped.
Without hesitation, Enbi turned and flicked her wrist as one dagger left her hand—
—and buried itself in another thug's throat.
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Azzie was already moving.
A barrage of punches hammered one thug backward before she finished it with a vicious haymaker to the face.
Another charged low.
She caught him.
Stopped him dead.
A knee drove into his gut hard enough to fold him in half. Grabbing his arms, she spun her entire body and threw him—his body crashing into two more thugs like a human battering ram.
She turned—
Another haymaker.
A knife slashed toward her neck—she ducked, weaved, slipped the second strike—
"SPINSTA ROCK!"
A technique where practically the air twisted around her fist as she unleashed a rolling hook punch that detonated against the thug's side as she finished him with a leaping knee strike.
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A spear thrust pierced a thug's face.
Albin stepped in, slammed the shaft into the side of the skull, and pivoted.
Three rapid thrusts drove into another attacker's torso—precise, controlled, lethal.
He spun, sweeping the spear low and knocking multiple advancing thugs off their feet.
"Technique: Rising End."
The butt of the spear snapped upward in a clean rising strike, lifting another thug off the ground before dropping him limp.
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Nickle moved differently.
His training retractable sword flowed in both hands—firm when striking, loose when transitioning.
Two swift slashes carved across one thug's chest.
A roundhouse kick sent the body spinning away.
Another rushed—
A pommel strike drove deep into the gut, followed by a clean overhead slash.
Steel flashed toward him—
Nickle ducked.
Spun.
A sweeping kick tripped the attacker, and the momentum carried into a diagonal overhead strike that ended the fall permanently.
He sprang up.
A haymaker came in—
Parried.
"Technique: Fulcro Spike."
A rocket-like knee slammed into the thug's face.
Nickle didn't stop.
"Technique: Quad Quazar."
Four lightning-fast left-handed jabs cracked against the thug's face—then a driving straight punch blasted through the gut, sending the body flying.
Nickle turned.
One remained.
His focus sharpened.
The world narrowed.
"Main Technique: Pinpoint Hit."
He saw it—the red.
In a single burst of speed, Nickle darted forward and drove his blade precisely into the critical point.
The thug couldn't even act as he collapsed instantly.
Test Two — Complete.
Across the sealed simulation, one by one, the rest of Section 7 finished their trials.
Most by endurance.
Some by domination.
Some by total annihilation.
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Azzie was the last to emerge from Test Two.
Her form solidified at the edge of the simulation gate, breath steady, shoulders loose—like someone who had just finished a hard workout rather than a closed-off brawl against overwhelming numbers. Applause broke out almost immediately from those who had stayed to spectate, sharp claps echoing through Training Room 5.
Vice Captain Micah stood a short distance away, clipboard tucked against his chest, pen moving without pause as he finalized notes and performance metrics. His sharp eyes flicked from Azzie to the data feed and back again, methodical as ever.
Captain Enistia, however, didn't bother hiding her approval. She clapped openly, a small impressed smile tugging at her lips.
"Nice fightin', yo!" Arty said, stepping in and thrusting out a clenched fist.
Azzie grinned and bumped it back without hesitation."Thanks! Not too bad yourself. Pretty unique Asten-Drive you got."
Enbi approached next, offering a silent high five.
Azzie met it easily. "You did great too, Enbi."
Micah gave Enistia a firm nod.
She returned it once, then stepped forward, her presence alone quieting the room.
"Everyone," Enistia called out, voice clear and steady. "You all did well. We've analyzed the data from your previous tests and determined which type of Offensive Asten-Drive User each of you will face."
The room stilled.
"We'll begin the final test shortly," she continued. "Prepare yourselves."
This—
This was where the real test began.
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~{Test 3 — Rooftop Asten-Drive User Engagement Simulation}~
One by one, Section 7 entered Test Three.
The simulation always loaded the same way:a towering rooftop, sheer drops on all sides, wind howling past concrete and steel as the city sprawled far below. No walls. No safety nets.
Only space—and consequence.
They watched each other fight.
Arbin and Enbi were overwhelmed, unable to fully eliminate their opponents before the simulations ended. Arty forced his match into a brutal draw, proving endurance alone could be a weapon. Azzie crushed hers outright through sheer physical dominance.
Some survived by grit alone.Some were blasted or thrown from the rooftop entirely.
Only a few truly won.
And then—
Nickle's fight continued.
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The rooftop was already scarred when the feed focused on him.
Nickle moved in tight arcs across the concrete, shoes skidding slightly as he kept his momentum light and unpredictable.
His opponent stood near the center of the rooftop.
An Offensive Asten-Drive User whose body warped and reshaped into firearms at will.
Guns formed from flesh.
Fingers elongated and hardened into barrels—finger guns snapping shots in sharp succession.
Nickle couldn't close the distance yet.
Every time he tried, bullets forced him wide.
He circled his opponent.
Ran.
Changed angles.
Shots cracked past him, grazing air where his head had been a heartbeat earlier.
Nickle waited.
Then—
He tilted left.
Changed direction instantly.
And rushed low.
Three shots fired in rapid succession.
Nickle weaved the first.Slipped past the second.The third came too fast—
CLANG.
His blade snapped out, slashing the bullet mid-flight as sparks burst inches from his face.
He didn't slow.
The opponent reacted fast—his right leg reshaped mid-motion, metal and bone fusing into a pump-action shotgun. He kicked forward—
Nickle jumped back, skidding as the shotgun leg fired.
The blast tore past his chest.
Nickle leaned backward into a near-horizontal dodge, spine arched, feet barely scraping concrete—then snapped forward.
Low.
Fast.
"Pinpoint Hit."
The world narrowed.
He saw it.
The red, glowing along the shotgun leg.
Nickle slashed.
The leg came off clean.
The Asten-Drive User staggered.
Nickle didn't give him time.
Using the momentum, he rocketed upward as the opponent's arms twisted, reshaping into rifle barrels—
Too slow.
Nickle unleashed a precise flurry of slashes across the torso and arms, steel biting into unstable flesh and metal alike. The transformation failed mid-shift, leaving the opponent stunned.
Nickle kicked off the opponent's chest—
Launched himself high.
Blade pointed straight down.
Gravity did the rest.
But—
The opponent's forehead warped.
A desert eagle barrel formed between his eyes.
A shot fired.
Nickle snapped his head aside—
The bullet grazed his cheek, burning skin as it passed.
He landed.
And drove his blade down through the opponent's skull.
The rooftop went still.
The Asten-Drive User dematerialized in fragments of light.
Test Three — Complete.
Nickle dropped to one knee, breathing hard.
"Woo…" He wiped sweat from his forehead, chest rising and falling. "Too damn close…"
He exhaled and chuckled weakly.
"…I really need to brush up more. I'm way too rusty."
The simulation began to dissolve.
Light swallowed the rooftop.
And Nickle's form dematerialized—
Returning him to Training Room 5, where Section 7's final test had come to an end.
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Nickle's form reassembled within the Testing Room in a soft cascade of fading light, the simulated rooftop dissolving behind him as reality snapped back into place.
For a brief second, the room was quiet.
Then applause broke out.
Not loud enough to be overwhelming—but sincere. Respectful. Earned.
Nickle exhaled, shoulders lowering as the tension finally left his body. He reached up almost instinctively, brushing his fingers along his left cheek where the bullet had grazed him moments earlier. The sting was gone, but the memory lingered.
"That was close," Albin said as he stepped up beside him, arms crossed, expression impressed rather than amused. "Real close. If you hadn't shifted your head even a fraction, that desert eagle would've ended it right there."
Nickle nodded, eyes lowered for a moment."Yeah," he admitted honestly. "Too close. I can't rely on luck like that—I've got a lot to polish."
Azzmina approached next, hands resting on her hips, boots heavy against the floor."Still," she said with a grin, "you cleared all three tests clean. That wasn't luck."
Arthur followed immediately after, slinging an arm over Nickle's shoulder without hesitation."Seriously, man. You crushed it. All three tests," Arty said with a wide smile. "I'm just hopin' we end up in the same squad."
Nickle tilted his head slightly, caught off guard."You really want that?"
"Yeah," Arty replied without missing a beat. "You're my new buddy. And you're… interesting. In a good way."
Nickle let out a small, awkward breath of a laugh, the corner of his mouth lifting."Well… thanks."
Enbi slipped in quietly, lifting her hand hesitantly.
Nickle noticed immediately and returned the gesture, their palms meeting in a light high-five. Her eyes lit up just a little.
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Before any more words could be exchanged, the room's atmosphere shifted.
Vice Captain Micah stepped forward, tablet in hand, its surface glowing with layered data. He passed it smoothly to Captain Enistia, who accepted it with a nod.
The low hum of the room faded as everyone straightened.
Enistia stepped forward.
Her presence alone was enough to command silence.
"Everyone," she said evenly, her voice calm but carrying weight, "we've gathered and analyzed all of your performance data from today's evaluations."
Her gaze swept across them—not missing anyone.
"As of this moment, Section 7 will no longer function as a single unit."
A faint ripple of tension passed through the group.
"You will be divided into four specialized squads," Enistia continued, tapping the tablet. A holographic display flared to life beside her. "Each squad is designed for specific mission environments, threats, and operational demands. These assignments are not arbitrary. They are based on what you've shown today—your instincts, your limits, and how you move under pressure."
She paused.
"First—Break & Assault Squad; Talon"
Her tone sharpened.
"This squad serves as the spearhead. Forced entry. Frontline suppression. Overwhelming hostile forces. You move fast, hit hard, and draw attention where it's needed most."
Names appeared on the display.
"Azzmina Ers'heid.Kaelis Viremont.Braxion Thornid.Torren Feldrake."
Azzmina cracked her knuckles once, grinning.
Enistia continued without pause.
"Second—Recon & Infiltration Squad; Wings"
Her voice lowered, precise.
"This unit operates ahead of the main force. Intelligence gathering. Silent movement. Sabotage. Extraction. Elimination without detection. Precision over power."
The display shifted.
"Led by Vice Captain Micah fau Wingarde.Enbi Morells.Seyra Lunexis.Maelis Nyxara."
Enbi stiffened slightly—then nodded, resolve settling in.
"Third—Save & Support Squad; Core"
Enistia's expression softened, though her voice remained firm.
"These members ensure missions don't collapse. Recovery, evacuation, defensive holding, sustained support. You keep your allies standing."
The names followed.
"Albin Hyregard.Dorian Velkryn.Ilyne Corvessa.Veyra Solmyr."
Albin let out a slow breath, shoulders squaring.
Finally, the display shifted one last time.
"And last—Control & Counter Squad; Beak"
Enistia's eyes lingered here longer than the others.
"This unit handles high-risk engagements. Counter-Asten-Drive combat. Battlefield control. You adapt, analyze, and end situations that brute force cannot."
She straightened fully.
"Nichola Amacaria.Arthur McAlahad.Rynel Ashkorr."
A brief pause.
"And myself—Enistia fau Wingarde."
The room fell silent.
"These squads are not rankings," Enistia concluded calmly. "Each role is critical. From this moment on, you will train together, bleed together, and succeed together."
Her gaze hardened just slightly.
"This is how Section 7 operates."
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