The announcement came during morning assembly, delivered in Lieutenant Bragga's usual tone of barely contained irritation.
"Weekly combat assessment today," he barked, his weathered face scanning the assembled Marines with obvious displeasure. "Standard sparring matches. Everyone participates. No exceptions."
My stomach dropped. I'd managed to avoid these assessments for the past two weeks by being conveniently assigned to cleaning duty or supply runs. But apparently, my luck had run out.
The other Marines exchanged knowing glances. A few smirked in my direction—they knew what was coming as well as I did. Windhelm Kael getting destroyed in front of everyone was apparently considered entertainment around here.
"Matches will be randomly assigned," Bragga continued, pulling slips of paper from a worn cap. "Standard rules: no lethal force, match ends when one combatant yields or is incapacitated. Medical officer will be present."
The last part wasn't particularly reassuring. If they needed medical staff on standby for "standard" sparring, I was probably about to experience a level of pain that my secret night training hadn't prepared me for.
As names were called out and pairs formed, I found myself hoping for someone like Hendricks—nervous, not particularly aggressive, maybe I could survive a few minutes without complete humiliation. Instead, I heard:
"Kael and Morrison."
Morrison. The guy who'd been cutting weight but still had shoulders that didn't shake when he lifted his tray. The same Morrison who'd made snide comments about my pathetic performance during drills. Perfect.
Combat Scenario Detected Opponent Analysis: Morrison, James Estimated Threat Level: Moderate Recommended Strategy: Survive
Thanks, system. Really helpful advice there.
Morrison cracked his knuckles as we stepped into the makeshift ring—a circle of sand marked out behind the main barracks. He was maybe five-foot-eight to my five-foot-six, but he carried himself with the casual confidence of someone who'd never lost a fight to someone like me.
"Try not to embarrass yourself too badly, Kael," he said with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "I'll make it quick."
The other Marines formed a loose circle around us, some placing informal bets. I caught fragments of conversation: "How long do you think he'll last?" "Twenty seconds, tops." "I say he goes down on the first punch."
Lieutenant Bragga raised his hand. "Begin!"
Morrison came at me immediately, no hesitation or sizing up. A straight right cross aimed at my face—textbook Marine boxing, but thrown with enough force to put me down hard.
I stumbled backward, more from panic than any conscious evasion technique. His fist whistled past my nose, close enough that I felt the air displacement. The crowd let out a collective "ooh" of disappointment.
Morrison pressed forward, not giving me time to recover. A left hook came around toward my ribs. I tried to raise my arms to block, but my positioning was all wrong. The punch caught me on the forearm instead of the body, sending a shock of pain up to my shoulder.
Taking Damage Impact Force: 67% of user's pain threshold Defensive Positioning: Poor Recommendation: Create distance
I backpedaled frantically, but Morrison was already moving. He feinted left, then threw a right straight at my solar plexus. This time I couldn't get out of the way.
The punch drove the air from my lungs in a painful whoosh. I doubled over, gasping, and Morrison's knee came up toward my face. Some desperate instinct made me jerk my head to the side, and his kneecap grazed my temple instead of breaking my nose.
Stars exploded across my vision, but I was still standing. Barely.
"Come on, Kael!" Morrison taunted, bouncing on his toes like a boxer. "Fight back! Or are you just going to run around like a scared rabbit?"
The crowd was eating it up. I could hear Davies laughing somewhere in the circle, and even Hendricks was grinning. This was exactly what they'd expected—Windhelm Kael getting systematically dismantled while providing entertainment.
But something strange was happening. As I circled away from Morrison's next advance, my breathing started to steady. The panic was still there, but underneath it was something else. A cold, analytical part of my mind that had been sharpened by weeks of solo training.
Morrison was stronger than me. Faster than me. More experienced than me. But he was also cocky, playing to the crowd instead of finishing the fight efficiently. And his footwork, while competent, followed predictable patterns.
Morrison came forward again, this time with a combination—left jab, right cross, left hook. I knew I couldn't block or counter, but maybe I could use his momentum against him.
The jab snapped toward my face. Instead of backing away, I stepped forward and to the right, letting the punch slide past my shoulder. Morrison's eyes widened in surprise—he'd expected me to retreat like I had been.
His right cross was already committed, but my position change meant it was aimed at empty air. For a fraction of a second, Morrison was off-balance, overextended from the missed punch.
I didn't try to hit him back. I didn't have the skill or strength to make it count. Instead, I grabbed his extended arm with both hands and used his forward momentum to help him continue in the direction he was already going.
Morrison stumbled forward, not quite falling but definitely not in control. He caught himself quickly, but for just a moment, the predatory confidence was replaced by genuine surprise.
"What the hell was that?" he muttered, shaking his head.
Technique Recognized: Basic Redirection Effectiveness: Minimal but present Opponent Momentum Utilized: Successfully Reaction Time: +0.1
The crowd had gone quiet. What I'd done wasn't impressive by any reasonable standard, but it was completely unexpected. Windhelm Kael had actually done something other than get beaten up.
Morrison's expression darkened. He wasn't playing anymore.
"Lucky dodge," he said, settling into a more serious stance. "Let's see you try that again."
This time he came at me methodically, cutting off my angles, not giving me room to maneuver. A solid jab caught me on the shoulder, spinning me around. A follow-up hook slammed into my ribs, and I felt something crack.
Injury Detected Probable Rib Fracture: Minor Pain Level: Significant Combat Effectiveness: Reduced
I gasped and clutched my side, staggering backward. Morrison pressed his advantage, landing two more body shots that drove me to my knees. The sand was rough against my palms as I tried to push myself upright.
Pain Tolerance Increasing Damage Threshold Adaptation: +1 Current Tolerance: Improving
"Stay down, Kael," Morrison said, standing over me with his fists raised. "You're done."
The smart thing would have been to stay down. To tap out and end this humiliation before it got worse. My ribs felt like they were on fire, and my vision was still swimming from the temple strike earlier.
But as I knelt there in the sand, gasping for breath, I thought about the night training sessions. The endless laps dragging that rice sack around the supply yard. The way my muscles screamed as I pushed through sets of incline push-ups. The quiet satisfaction of small, incremental progress that nobody else could see.
I'd been building something in those midnight hours. Not just physical strength, but something deeper. The ability to continue when everything hurt, when success seemed impossible, when the rational thing was to quit.
Morrison thought I was done. The crowd thought I was done. Hell, even I thought I was probably done.
But I wasn't going to stay down.
I pushed myself back to my feet, swaying slightly but upright. Morrison's eyebrows rose in genuine surprise.
"You've got heart, I'll give you that," he said. "But heart doesn't win fights."
He was right, of course. But heart was all I had left.
Morrison came at me again, but this time I was ready. Not ready to win—I wasn't delusional—but ready to make him work for it. Ready to show everyone, including myself, that Windhelm Kael wasn't just going to roll over anymore.
I focused on the lessons from my night training. Footwork wasn't about speed, it was about economy of movement. Breathing wasn't about gasping for air, it was about rhythm and control. Fighting wasn't about winning, it was about not giving up.
Morrison threw a right cross. I slipped to the side, not far enough to avoid it completely, but enough that it caught me on the shoulder instead of the face. The impact spun me around, but I used the momentum to create distance.
Coordination Improving Body Control Under Stress: +1
Movement Efficiency: Increasing
He pressed forward with a left hook. I ducked under it, feeling the wind from his fist ruffle my hair. My counterattack was a pathetic attempt at a body shot that Morrison easily blocked, but it was something.
Flexibility Adaptation Range of Motion Under Pressure: +1
Defensive Mobility: Improving
For perhaps ten seconds, we actually exchanged techniques. Morrison was still dominating, still landing the majority of his strikes, but I was making him work for each one. I was moving, reacting, trying to fight back instead of just absorbing punishment.
Then Morrison caught me with a perfectly timed uppercut that lifted me off my feet.
I hit the ground hard, stars exploding across my vision. This time, I didn't get back up. Couldn't get back up. My body had finally reached its limit.
Pain Tolerance Maximized Physical Endurance Threshold Reached: +1 Total Adaptation: +2
Combat Instinct Final Analysis Pattern Recognition Solidified: +2 Total Combat Experience: +3
Coordination Final Adjustment Motor Control Under Extreme Stress: +1 Total Improvement: +2
"Winner: Morrison!" Lieutenant Bragga called out, his voice carrying a note of surprise. "Medical check on Kael."
As the medical officer—a grizzled old corpsman named Hendricks—knelt beside me to check for serious injuries, I heard fragments of conversation from the dispersing crowd:
"Did you see that slip move he pulled?"
"Yeah, Morrison actually had to work for it."
"Still got his ass kicked, though."
"Sure, but he didn't just lie down and take it like usual."
The corpsman's examination revealed a cracked rib, multiple bruises, and a mild concussion. Nothing permanent, but enough to put me on light duty for a few days. As he helped me to my feet, I caught sight of Morrison standing a few feet away.
"Not bad, Kael," he said, and for the first time, there was something that might have been respect in his voice. "You actually made me sweat a little."
High praise from someone who'd just systematically dismantled me, but I'd take it.
As I limped toward the medical station, the system provided its final assessment:
Combat Encounter Complete Result: Decisive Loss Performance Rating: Exceeded Expectations Key Achievements:
Survived longer than predicted Demonstrated basic evasion techniques Showed improved mental resilience Gained practical combat experience
Stat Changes:
Combat Instinct: +3 (from practical combat experience and pattern recognition under pressure)
Coordination: +2 (from attempting evasive movements under pressure)
Pain Tolerance: +2 (from enduring significant damage while remaining functional)
Flexibility: +1.5 (from defensive movements and impact recovery - rounded to 12 for display)
New Condition: Injured (Minor) Recovery Time: 3-5 days
That evening, as I lay in my bunk with my ribs wrapped and my head still pounding, I replayed the fight in my mind. I'd lost badly, embarrassingly, completely. But I'd also done something I'd never done before: I'd fought back.
Not successfully. Not impressively. But I'd fought back.
Three weeks ago, Hayato Okabe had been a college student who'd never thrown a punch in his life. Now, Windhelm Kael had just survived a real fight against a trained Marine. I'd gotten destroyed, but I'd also proven something important to myself.
I wasn't just the weakest Marine on Island 17 anymore. I was the weakest Marine on Island 17 who would get back up.
And tomorrow, injured or not, I'd be back in that supply yard, dragging that rice sack around the perimeter and building toward the day when getting back up wouldn't be enough.
The day when I'd actually win.
Physical Stats
Strength: 12 (No change - insufficient training stimulus)
Endurance: 14 (No change - combat duration too brief)
Agility: 14 (No change - evasion attempts were reactive, not trained)
Coordination: 16 (+2 from attempting evasive movements and redirections under pressure)
Flexibility: 12 (+1 from defensive movements and impact recovery)
Combat Stats
Martial Arts: 1 (No change - still essentially untrained)
Weapon Proficiency: 3 (No change)
Combat Instinct: 9 (+3 from first practical combat experience and pattern recognition under pressure)
Pain Tolerance: 14 (+2 from taking significant damage while remaining conscious and functional)
Tactical Awareness: 22 (No change)
Mental Stats
Focus: 18 (No change - concentration under pressure needs more development)
Stress Management: 10 (No change - still learning to function under combat stress)
Learning Rate: 28 (No change)
Strategic Thinking: 30 (No change)
New Stats
None - all improvements within existing stat framework
Special Conditions
Malnutrition: Still present but stable
Sleep Deprivation: Moderate - combat adrenaline will affect rest quality
Healing Injuries: Cracked rib, multiple contusions, mild concussion - full recovery expected in 5-7 days
Psychological Block (Low Self-Worth): Significantly improved - proved capability to fight back despite overwhelming odds
New Condition: Combat Experience (Basic) - No longer completely inexperienced in hand-to-hand combat situations