Chương 25: 12.Range Day from Hell 12-2

When the session finally ended, my body felt like it had been disassembled and reassembled by someone working from incomplete schematics. The back of my training jacket was soaked—sweat, or cold sweat from impacts, or some combination. Arms, flanks, shoulders—the pain connected across my body like constellations. Karl stood at the front for closing remarks.

"That's today." Nobody dared exhale too loudly, as if obvious relief might trigger extra training.

"Take one thing back with you," he said.

"Your body isn't for proving bravery." Those eyes moved slowly across the room.

"It's for staying alive long enough to complete missions." His gaze stopped on me last.

"Hoshino."

"Sir."

"First up tomorrow." … Fuck. Called it. On the way back to the dorm, I felt like battlefield salvage that hadn't made it through full repair yet. Every step, my bones filed individual complaints. Shoulders: protest. Back: protest. Flank: formal objection. Elbow: considering strike action. By the time I swiped my door card, I'd mentally prepared for a standard single bunk, standard desk, standard shower—then sitting alone applying ointment like any overworked wage slave. The door opened. I froze. … Wait.

This wasn't a single room. This looked more like the military had allocated budget for a tasteful house-arrest apartment. The room was larger than the one at Joint Operations Command. Not just larger—unnecessarily luxurious. The floor wasn't standard-issue military composite. It had deep-toned synthetic wood grain. The living area featured a sofa that looked genuinely capable of swallowing a person, flanked by a low table, wall cabinets, and a full embedded information panel.

The bedroom had a bed large enough that I could spend the night rolling around in my personal shame and still have room left over. The bathroom door was half-open, revealing— Another freestanding bathtub. I stood in the doorway for three full seconds of silence.

"… How terrified is the Federation that its expensive consumables might not sleep well." This wasn't accommodation. This was containment. High-specification containment. I dragged my barely-assembled skeleton inside, about to throw my bag on the sofa, when my eyes drifted to a small cabinet beside the kitchenette—discreetly lit but with extremely indiscreet contents. I stopped. Transparent door. Inside: a full row of bottles. Not nutrient supplements. Not electrolyte solutions. Not Dr.

Steiner's pharmaceutically legitimate torture agents. Alcohol. A minibar. Compact, organized, premium—tastefully divided into spirits, mixer bases, and a chilled section. The lower shelf even held two lowball glasses, arranged like an invitation to a lifestyle that was unhealthy but deeply appealing. I stood there and swallowed. … No. This was dangerous. Not because I wanted a drink right now.

Because in my current state—body wrecked, mood destroyed, freshly tenderized by a two-meter mechanical nightmare—looking at this triggered a very basic response: That looks perfect for making peace with existence. And I knew perfectly well the Federation hadn't put this here out of generosity. It wasn't about romance. It was about understanding that after humans get thoroughly worked over, they want somewhere to fall apart. Same principle as putting a very comfortable chair in a prison cell. Not kindness.

Just making you more willing to stay. I stared at the minibar for three seconds. Then looked away with great dignity and pretended I hadn't seen it.

"I didn't see anything," I told the empty room. Good. As long as I don't acknowledge it, it doesn't exist. My most sophisticated defense against institutional temptation, currently. I went to the bathroom, pulled off my shirt, and stood in front of the mirror. Almost laughed at myself. One shoulder: bruised. Flank: red enough to suggest a recent encounter with a car door. My back was the worst—the impact zone had graduated from concerning to deeply educational.

I picked up the medical spray and pressed it to my shoulder. Hiss—"Fuck." Cold mist hit the bruise; my shoulder contracted sharply. I watched myself in the mirror—applying ointment with an expression sour enough for exorcism work—and started cursing.

"Tin-plated piece of scrap…" Spray. Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

"Alloy bastard…" Spray.

"Using a young, adorable girl as demonstration material… hope you get stuck in your bathtub someday…" I kept cursing as I worked the spray down my flank and arm. The back was worst—awkward angle, sharp pain, like fighting my own shoulder blades. But even while cursing, the lesson kept replaying in my head. Karl's shoulder line. Karl's weight distribution. The real entry point after the feint. And the feel of my elbow landing, that half-beat when he actually paused. … Infuriating. The worst part isn't getting hit.

It's getting hit and then having to admit the person who hit you was right. I finished the spray, leaned against the sink, and stared at my reflection.

"You actually learned something today," I said quietly. The person in the mirror had messy hair, sharp eyes, one bruised shoulder—nothing resembling a wholesome campus heroine. But she looked—annoyingly—more capable than yesterday. Not prettier. Not more mature. Closer to a blade. I was quiet for a moment, then delivered my verdict with deep dissatisfaction:"… That fact is more irritating than the beating itself."

I changed into clean clothes, walked back to the living room, and collapsed into the unreasonably comfortable sofa. The moment my back hit the cushions, every muscle screamed—but buried in the screaming was an irrational thread of relief. Water on the table. Probably cola in the fridge. The minibar still conducting its very high-end silent seduction. I turned my head away, expression flat. Don't look. Looking is losing. But as I was about to get up for water, my peripheral vision swept past those bottles again.

I stopped. Swallowed. Then told myself, with great moral integrity:"I'm simply confirming how much Federation budget gets wasted on housing premium consumables." Two seconds of silence. … No. That sounded exactly like an excuse. I immediately turned toward the refrigerator, grabbed a bottle of cold water, and returned—using the cheapest and most stubborn method available for preserving what remained of my personal dignity. First sip of cold water. I settled back into the sofa.

Back aching, hands numb, flank warm, brain already thinking about tomorrow. Tomorrow. First up. Right. Karl, that bastard, had apparently decided I was material worth putting through more rounds than most. And what was worse— I wasn't planning to disappoint him. … Fuck. That thought was genuinely unhealthy. I pressed my forehead against the cold water bottle, closed my eyes, and let out a long breath. This place was terrible. Gravity: terrible. Air: terrible. Instructor: terrible.

The Federation as a whole still deserved to be dragged to a tribunal. But today, at least, I'd finally stopped being entirely one-sided about getting hit. That was probably progress. And for now, it was the most respectable comfort I could dig out of this godforsaken place. The next morning at 0500, I was woken by my own back. Not an alarm. Not a system prompt. The entire sheet of muscle that had recently embraced the basalt wall collectively filed a silent grievance the moment I rolled over.

I opened my eyes and stared at the ceiling for three seconds. Good. Still alive. Then spent about five seconds remembering what today held. Karl. Second close-combat session. And yesterday I'd been stubborn enough to perform this young, adorable girl will not surrender tomorrow in front of him. … Fuck. Sometimes being mouthy creates a lot of administrative problems for your future self.

I sat up slowly—shoulders, flanks, everything registering complaints—like an old machine dragged from an accident site yesterday and told to report for duty today. Through the entire process of washing, dressing, securing my respirator and training gear, I honestly considered one question: If I jumped out the window right now, would the Federation classify this as voluntary withdrawal? Probably not. They'd scrape me off the ground, apply a medical patch, and tell me to be on time.

So I dragged my very useful broken body to the training ground, punctually. Same floor. Same hateful basalt wall. Same Karl, still resembling a sanctioned military accident in uniform. He stood in the center with his hands behind his back, like a metal gravestone that had learned posture. The others were already in formation. The moment I walked in, his eyes found me. Of course. Today's first sacrifice was still me.

"Hoshino Shimo," Karl's synthetic voice carried across the hall, calm as calling someone for ration pickup.

"Step forward." I gave myself 0. 3 seconds of internal mourning and walked out. People watched from formation. A few expressions were interesting—the specific blend of how is she still walking and thank god she's still going first. I stopped in front of Karl and rolled my neck.

"Instructor," I said, looking at him.

"Just confirming—this is still teaching, not public disassembly?"

"Depends on your performance."

"That answer sounds very Federation weather forecast." Karl ignored me, raised his alloy left hand, joints producing a faint calibration sound.

"Yesterday you learned one thing," he said.

"Say it." I looked at him.

"Don't die first."

"Second half."

"Then figure out how to make the other side die first."

"Good," he said.

"Today, you learn to connect those two things." I raised an eyebrow.

"Meaning?"

"Yesterday you only knew how to steal space," Karl said.

"Today you start trading blows." …Oh. The moment those words landed, the bruise on my back suddenly became much more present. Trading blows. In plain language: Not just taking fewer hits. Taking hits while sending something back. Very educational. Karl stepped back half a pace.

"Same rules. You attack first." I exhaled and dropped my center of gravity. Before yesterday, standing here, I'd have been thinking only about how not to get driven into a wall by this two-meter military disaster. But not now. I knew his shoulder line would give the answer first. I knew his hips would betray the rhythm. I knew that alloy left arm wasn't the most dangerous part—the most dangerous part was how his whole body carried it into space. I moved. Feint high, cut low.

Front foot testing distance, eyes staying center—not chasing his fists, not chasing his face, only tracking weight. Karl didn't take the bait. But he moved. Right shoulder dipped slightly. Weight shifted forward. Knee strike trajectory loaded. This time I didn't retreat. I stepped into his blind angle instead. Close. Close enough to hear the low hum of his left arm's hydraulic system engaging. His elbow came down the next second.

I blocked with my left arm—the entire limb went half-numb instantly, like someone had struck my nerves with a steel pipe. Pain sharp enough to make me want to file formal complaints with his entire manufacturing consortium, but my feet didn't stop. Hips rotating, right fist driving straight into that seam along his ribs I'd spotted yesterday. Crack. Not a graze. Not luck. Not some manga-style willpower breakthrough. A real hit.

The moment my fist connected, I felt it clearly—not pure metal, but the shorter, more vulnerable transition zone between armor plate and body frame. Karl's entire body stopped for half a beat. The red light in his left eye flared brighter. The cost: his knee hit my outer thigh simultaneously. My leg buckled, pain spiking hard enough to make my vision warp. I nearly rebranded myself from young adorable girl to fresh high-gravity training ground mobility asset. But I didn't back off. More accurately—I couldn't.

So I swallowed the pain, pressed my shoulder forward, grabbed his right wrist with my left hand, and forced the second punch out. This one aimed for the jaw-neck junction. Obviously it wasn't going to do real damage. That half of his face could probably stop small-caliber fire. But I made contact. Two strikes. Two. Me, Hoshino Shimo, fourteen years old, less than two days on this cursed rock, in high gravity, trading shots with a semi-mechanized instructor—and I'd actually landed twice. … Fuck.

Just thinking about it felt good. Unfortunately, feeling good doesn't extend your lifespan. The next second Karl shoulder-checked me and drove me back. Not as dramatic as yesterday—no wall, no floor-mopping. But the force was still unreasonably solid, sending me stumbling back three steps before I caught myself. The training hall went quiet. Not dead silence. The kind where the whole class has just witnessed something that shouldn't have appeared this early.

I stood there catching my breath, right knuckles numb, outer thigh aching like construction equipment had rolled over it, shoulder heating up—and still couldn't stop the corner of my mouth from pulling up.

"Instructor," I said between breaths, "any second thoughts about throwing a young, adorable girl in here to fight a titanium domestic-abuse tutorial?" Karl looked at me. The red light in his left eye flashed. Clearly. Not an optical illusion. If yesterday was just autofocus, today's brightness level qualified as something closer to— Surprise? Oh. So this war refrigerator didn't actually have me permanently filed as teaching material. Karl slowly lowered his hand.

"Again." Good. From him, that was about as high as praise got. The second round started faster. But this time, my world was no longer just it hurts. I could see. I could dismantle. I could judge. His left hand moved—I watched the shoulder first. His hip rotated—I shifted my feet first. Before his knee came in, I'd already pulled my leg off that line. Not every time successful. I still got swept once, got wrist-locked and spun half a rotation, took a palm strike to the shoulder that nearly shut my arm down.

But every hit, I understood a fraction more clearly why it had landed. Strange feeling. Like being thrown into a meat grinder and learning how the gears turn on the way through. Deeply unhealthy. But effective. The third exchange—I finally caught real rhythm. Karl threw a straight punch. I stopped watching the fist and watched his right foot placement instead.

The moment that foot set, I cut diagonally half a step, let his punch graze past my ear, redirected his forearm outward with my left hand, and drove my right fist not at his face but at the spot just below his collarbone, near the shoulder pocket—not to injure, just to break his timing. Crack. Connected. His arm pulled back and I was already inside again, knee tapping his inner thigh before slipping back out. The whole sequence happened fast enough that I almost didn't track it myself.