Chapter 42
Practice (2)
It had been three days since IAM had joined the team.
Only three days. Yet somehow, in that sliver of time, he had formed bonds—bonds woven not from comfort or long conversations, but from the sheer weight of shared purpose. Perhaps it was the looming presence of death, the ever-echoing truth that their next mission might be their last, that forced people to trust quicker, to care sooner, to depend deeper.
After all, when your life depends on the person beside you, there's no time for hesitation. You leap—hoping they'll catch you, or at least fall with you.
The days dragged with punishing slowness, but they were packed with pain, sweat, and effort. IAM had never felt so alive, or so close to collapse.
In the gym, the air was always humid with the scent of exertion. IAM's fists struck the boxing pads with tight, controlled fury—thump—thud—crack. His knuckles were red, sometimes raw, but he didn't stop. He unleashed combinations with increasing sharpness: jabs, crosses, elbow strikes, low kicks, spinning kicks, front kicks, knees. His body moved on instinct, muscle memory forming where none had existed before.
He panted heavily after each round, breath catching in his throat as if he were trying to drink air through a straw. Beads of sweat traced down his temples, soaking into the collar of his shirt, pooling at the base of his spine. The treadmill became both enemy and ally—his feet hammering the belt as the screen blinked red with intensity. He ran until his throat burned dry, until the metallic taste of iron filled his mouth and his legs felt like trembling tree trunks.
The weights felt alien in his hands at first—far heavier than anything he could have lifted back on Earth. His hands, once soft, were now calloused and lined. The bars, now warm from his grip, trembled slightly with each hoist. His arms twitched, his back spasmed, and every now and then his body locked up in protest. But he kept lifting—pushing through the ache in his shoulders, the burning in his thighs. Leg day had taught him new forms of hell.
Pull-ups, planks, squats, rollouts—he endured them all, his muscles protesting louder each time. With Bryan goading him, and Kon casually showing off, there was no time for weakness. Leovico would always offer an exaggerated wince or a smug grin, clapping theatrically when IAM improved.
When he wasn't in the gym, he was in the white space.
The sparring arena.
There, technique mattered more than brute force. IAM had learned to read body movement—Kon's shoulder twitches before a throw, the narrowing of Mia's eyes before a devastating kick. The fights were fast and often unfair, ending in taps or gasps or curses. Kon was infamous for aiming for the balls during grapples, but only against IAM... He was obviously still salty.
But IAM fought dirty too—he learned to. Elbows to the chin, stomps on the toes, sudden feints followed by vicious hooks. He grew sharper, less hesitant. His stance shifted, lower and more stable. His eyes locked in sooner, and his intent—his will to win—hardened.
When not bruised in combat, he was hunched over his mech. The room echoed with the sharp pop of shots as IAM practiced. Again. Again. And again.
The targets weren't kind. Each miss sounded louder than the last, ringing like failure in his ears. He grimaced after each shot, adjusting his grip, the biggest improvement he had in that room so far was the frequent checking of the tutorial screen. Sometimes he hit—one shot every fifteen. It was something. A start.
He hadn't dared to use mana-charged bullets yet. He needed to get better at these first.
Later, he drilled in the field with the others. Systematic training—learning to work as one unit. Mia barked orders like a drill sergeant, and they obeyed. Communication was the spine of their teamwork. Calculated moves, calling for cover, tracking positions.
He began to sense Jasmine's rhythm and Leovico's timing. He'd shout instructions to Bryan, who would respond with wild joy—or not at all. Kon moved like a tank, and Mia was the unshakable core.
IAM adapted. He followed. He led. He listened.
Then there was the most meticulous of all: ability training.
IAM worked on refining his use of his Blessed and Cursed Speech. He practiced on Kon—stopping tiny, specific parts of him. A hand. A finger. A step. Sometimes he overshot. Once, Kon's entire body locked up, and IAM nearly passed out from the mana drain. Another time, Kon stumbled around like he was drunk, his balance gone. IAM had discovered he could stop the vestibular system—the part of the inner ear responsible for balance.
It was an efficient tactic.
Deadly, even.
But he had to be terrifyingly precise. If he missed the mark, it could backfire violently and become injured.
And when he wasn't doing any of that, he was in theory class—now their only formal class. The rest had shifted to training under their team's more experienced members.
In the few slivers of time he had left, IAM would sneak off to Raj's workshop. Kepa and Raj were there almost every time, Raj bent over parts and broken mechs. Bryan had joined them too, dragging Kon along. Regina was not pleased by their presence.
Meanwhile, Leovico could always be found hanging around Jasmine.
Always.
He'd casually lean on the wall near her, commenting on everything and nothing. Offering her snacks. Sparking random conversations. Telling jokes. Most of them bad.
She would give him soft, amused looks, sometimes sighing, sometimes ignoring him completely—but never telling him to go away. She didn't need to say she tolerated him. It was in the way she didn't walk off when he appeared.
....
It was quiet that day. Too quiet.
IAM was seated on the edge of his bunk, towel draped over his neck, sweat still drying on his brow. Bryan was fiddling with a drone-like object nearby given to him by Raj, while Kon did pushups upside down—because of course he did.
The knock came like a drop of water on hot oil.
They turned toward the door as it slid open.
Mia stood there. Her uniform was clean, boots scuffed from use, but her expression was grave.
Beside her were Jasmine and Leovico—Leo, as he now insisted they call him. He wore his usual cocky grin, but it didn't quite reach his eyes.
Mia spoke without preamble.
"It's time."
Silence fell like a curtain.
IAM looked at Bryan. Bryan looked at Kon. Kon rolled to his feet, exhaling. IAM's hand clenched unconsciously.
They all knew what it meant. No one asked.
Their first mission.
Team 241723 was about to step out into the real world. A scouting mission—light on paper, terrifying in implication. Creatures near the Deadline had been acting strangely, more erratic than usual. Something was stirring.
It would be their job to find out what.
IAM stood slowly, heart thudding. This was it. The thing he'd been training for. The moment the sweat, the pain, the long hours of exhaustion had led to.
His stomach twisted in knots. Not from fear.
No.
From the unknown.
Because now—finally—he was about to meet the monsters that everyone feared. The ones whispered about. The ones people had died to.
IAM swallowed dryly.
I'm not going to die…
Am I?