Chương 421: 195.Unscheduled Performance 2

This time even Hedwig averted her gaze for half a second. I suspected she was avoiding laughing out loud for real. Though for someone like her, amusement probably only ever showed as a flicker of her lashes before the apocalypse got postponed by half a second. After seeing Wiesland off, another column arrived at the gate. The band was still playing outside, the cheer squad still pushing the atmosphere hard; and the reception lane in front of the heated room was entering the part that stopped being fun.

Getting out this time was the Chief of the Galactic Federation Unified Operations Command — Marshal Alistair Pendleton. Honestly, the moment he got out of the car, I felt this old gentleman richly deserved to be made into an oil painting for a history textbook. A modified military-political dress uniform, a load of presence draped exactly right, a pipe in his hand that clearly wasn't just for show. That wasn't the aura of an ordinary old man.

He carried a strange contradiction — he looked like he should be sitting by a hearth recounting the rise and fall of empires, when in reality he could probably open his mouth and tear three generals and five assembly members such new ones they'd have to rebuild from scratch. And stepping half a pace behind him was the Deputy Chief of the Unified Operations Command — Lieutenant General Keisuke Hasumi. That one was an entirely different kind of danger.

He wore that impeccable polite smile, like he could handle any situation, field any remark, make any mistake look like it wasn't a mistake. Men like that were worse than the openly sharp-tongued kind, because you never knew how much he'd truly taken in, or whose ledger he was keeping it in. Maki stepped forward and offered the standard seamless reception courtesy. Hedwig maintained, on the other side, that presence of hers so calm it could almost correct the lane's own flow.

Standing in the middle, I suddenly felt less like a student and more like a living announcement board forced to stand beside a high-level chessboard. Marshal Pendleton's gaze landed on the three of us, pausing for half a second first. Then the old gentleman — pipe in hand, aura like an old naval gun tucked behind his back — actually looked at me first.

"So this is the young combat power your school uses to receive guests?" I put on my reception smile.

"If you have any objection to the arrangements, Your Excellency, the school's administrative office is right—""No," Marshal Pendleton cut me off slowly, a light that looked almost amused in his eyes, "I was just confirming whether the Federation still has a future."... This old gentleman's way of greeting was every bit as aggressive as his pipe. Lieutenant General Hasumi smiled beside him, watertight.

"The Marshal means, seeing such spirited young people is reassuring." I observed a moment's silence for the phrase "reassuring" internally for one second. Because it had clearly just been deployed to rescue the venom.

"Much obliged." Maki took over smoothly, pulling the scene back on track.

"May I escort you both inside?" Lieutenant General Hasumi looked at Maki, his smile deepening a touch.

"The Kushima daughter. True to her reputation." Out of the corner of my eye, I distinctly felt Maki's shoulder line tighten by half a degree. Very subtle. But I could see it. The most troublesome thing about Maki was that even when someone saw straight through to her family name and lineage, she still pressed the displeasure into her courtesy until it looked like nothing was there.

"You flatter me, Lieutenant General." she said. Hedwig only then added, flatly.

"The outer proceedings are progressing. If either of you has other requirements regarding seating before the opening address, now would be the most efficient time to raise them." That line was lethal. On the surface it was a courteous inquiry; in practice it said: enough pleasantries. Kindly return your attention to the actual business. Marshal Pendleton looked at Hedwig, turning the pipe half a rotation in his fingers.

"Interesting." I couldn't tell whether that "interesting" was a verdict on the trio, or on the whole tangled web of power structures behind this opening ceremony. But either way, I was certain — the heated room today wasn't going to be boring. And the real piece de resistance was still to come.

By the time Marshal Pendleton and Lieutenant General Hasumi had entered under escort, the cheers in the plaza outside suddenly rose another tier, like every person on the grounds had simultaneously seen something worthy of making the atmosphere stand at attention. I turned around. At the school gate, an extended limousine was gliding slowly in. At that length, it stopped being a "car." It was more like a mobile assertion of status. The vehicle stopped. The door opened.

First into view: a pair of extremely well-kept shoes. Then: a modified-traditional formal suit, precise tailoring, steady fabric, no vain display — heavier precisely for refusing to display. Last came the face — advanced in years, but with no trace of decline; the brow and eyes clear nearly to the point of sharpness, like an old blade kept in good condition for years, rarely drawn, but the moment it came out, no one would doubt it could still cut.

Before I could convert the old man's overall pressure into units comprehensible on campus, Maki, standing beside me, had already called out, low.

"Grandfather." For that instant, everything around us seemed to go quiet. Not that the outside had really gone silent. The drill team was still there, the cheer squad still there, the loudspeakers still there, the flags still snapping in the wind. But the air along this reception lane had, by force, changed texture. Because the person coming was — Kushima Seigen. Kushima Heavy Industries. The Kushima Group. Chairman. A very strange realization came over me.

Just now, when Calando Rosen had told Maki "send my regards to your father and to the Chairman," the phrase had felt like high-end social lubricant. And now, the person referred to had gotten out of the car himself. The feeling was like someone discussing the height of a certain mountain one second — and the mountain itself walking through the school gate the next. Maki's spine went a little straighter than before. Not stiffness. A certain very deep, instinctive gathering.

The Maki Kushima I knew could hold steady in a great many situations. But at this moment she wasn't the Student Council president, wasn't the reception staffer, wasn't just the familiar person who kept low-temperature ledgers and could be irritated into briefly showing an ordinary high-school girl's smile. She was the granddaughter of the Kushima family. And the moment Kushima Seigen got out of the car, his gaze landed on Maki first. That look wasn't long, but it was heavy.

Like seeing his descendant, and like seeing an answer sheet still being graded. I suddenly wanted very badly to turn the air temperature up two degrees for Maki's sake, but I didn't have that function. The only thing I was usually capable of was making things more complicated. So I stood properly, and — rare of me — didn't run my mouth at once. That was probably the apex of what I could contribute to friendship.

Hedwig stood on the other side, her expression still calm, but I felt her look at Kushima Seigen was more careful than the one she'd given Marshal Pendleton. Help support creative writers by finding and reading their stories on the original site. Fair enough. A person carrying an imperial scale, meeting an old man who could sway the will of a giant military-industrial group — of course she'd look twice. This had stopped being plain "VIP reception." This was large structures recognizing each other's faces.

And standing in the middle, I just felt this reception lane's gold content was dangerously high today. If someone were looking down from above right now, they'd probably conclude this wasn't the site of a school opening ceremony, but some civilization-scale trouble queuing up to check in. The VIP lounge's heat was running high.

So high that the moment I stepped in, everything outside — cheer squad, drill team, flags, drumbeats, youth, passion, glory, school pride — felt like snow stuck to my soles, shaken off at the threshold. Inside was a completely different world. The military had one section, the politicians another, the businesspeople a third; the gaps between them weren't large, but carefully kept at a courteous distance. That distance was very civilized and very fake.

Every sofa, every low table, every teacup was positioned as if calculated, so that everyone could size each other up without losing face. And at the very front, an entire stretch of open floor had been specially left clear. Beyond it, a full wall of glass looked out over the students' competition grounds.

I stood beside that open space, looking at the floor — spacious enough to conveniently inspect goods, humiliate someone, or demand a fire-hoop jump — and started thinking very seriously: if Colonel Wiesland really did call me down to do somersaults, should I just collapse on the floor twitching, fake a seizure, and force-cancel the program on humanitarian grounds. This wasn't paranoia. This was preventive strategic thinking. After all, today was selection, not exhibition.

If it wasn't for display, then every guest sitting here so comfortably had come not to appreciate youth, but to see who was fit to be put to use. All events outside had started simultaneously, streamed in full. Beyond the full wall of glass, several synchronized screens inside split unarmed combat, obstacle-course running, armed combat, and precision shooting into multiple windows — compressing the students' lives into a product page where everything could be compared in real time.

I skipped unarmed combat and obstacle-course running for now. Not out of disrespect. It was just that today, the only ones I really cared about were armed combat and precision shooting. At first, I genuinely cheered for my classmates in my head with real enthusiasm.

Especially the moment the precision-shooting calibration feed came up — I almost instinctively looked for Akari; and the moment the armed-combat feed cut to the qualifiers, the first thing I saw was Dwight "D" Barkley hefting that axe of his, looking less like he was here for an exam than to sign up simulated robots for organ donation. By the time I watched D flip an eighth simulated robot and casually detach half its mechanical arm along the way, I realized a very real thing.

These people didn't actually need me cheering from the sidelines. At least D didn't. The way D fought wasn't really a match — it was redefining "dismantling efficiency" for the metal-manufacturing industry. I was staring at the wreckage of that poor robot in the feed when my peripheral vision caught a hand waving at me from a distance. I followed the direction. Colonel Wiesland. I rolled my eyes on the spot. He was genuinely exhausting.

"Mind your manners, Hoshino Shimo." Maki's voice drifted flatly from beside me, precise as if she could log the exact degree of my eye-roll.

"Yes, yes." I answered obediently on the surface, while internally composing seventeen ways for Colonel Wiesland to die, from which I selected the version leaving the least troublesome bloodstains. I hadn't even fully planted my feet when Colonel Wiesland eagerly shoved me forward.

"Your Excellency, this is the Hoshino Shimo I told you about." Colonel Wiesland's tone sounded exactly like a man showing off a troublesome collector's item he'd hoarded in secret for a long time and couldn't resist displaying today. Shoved to the very front, I could only look up at the old man who always held a pipe and sat like the whole heated room borrowed its breathing space from the bridge of an old battleship. Marshal Alistair Pendleton himself.

I looked at that face, snapped my legs together, squared my shoulders, and stood straight by reflex.

"Good day, Marshal." Marshal Pendleton glanced at me. That gaze wasn't exactly rough, but it didn't particularly treat me as a person either. More precisely: the Marshal looked at me the way one assesses whether a tool needs resharpening.

"Wiesland," Marshal Pendleton said slowly, turning the pipe in his fingers, "this is the product of the project you mentioned?"

"Yes." I badly wanted to ask on the spot: which project, who approved it, and how come I personally wasn't informed I'd become a product. But I held it in. Mainly because the Marshal didn't look like the kind of kindly old man who tolerated interjections. Marshal Pendleton sized me up once more.

"I see." Marshal Pendleton said.

"No killing intent detectable. Truly serviceable." I nearly wondered if my ears were broken. What did "no killing intent, therefore serviceable" even mean. What kind of evaluation was that. Was I a blade? Poison? Some kind of portable diplomatic disaster? But worse was still to come. Marshal Pendleton didn't even bother asking me anything — he leaned back, and said as casually as if changing his lunch order:"Here's the thing. Have a spar with my attendant." My brow jumped.

Before I could voice any protest compliant with civilized standards, Marshal Pendleton had already raised his voice and called out across the room:"Kaoru, come here." That single shout stirred the whole VIP lounge's low-temperature high-society conversation like a spoon. Everyone's attention snapped over — Maki included. Maki turned to look at me with an expression that very precisely spelled: what did you do now? I shook my head wildly. Not me. This time, genuinely not me.

Kushima Seigen watched the scene from a short distance, his expression oddly placid — even carrying the mild interest of an elder encountering an added bonus to the afternoon tea.

"Oh?" Kushima Seigen said slowly.

"Are we getting a show?" Marshal Pendleton gestured at the projection screens with his pipe.

"The stuff outside is too boring." Marshal Pendleton said.

"We'll run a match ourselves." This old gentleman truly had no intention of pretending. And it was at that moment Kaoru walked over. My first impression: this person was very inconvenient to read. Skin so pale as to be nearly bloodless, silver short hair hugging the ears, features so clean they were excessive, the lines held so cold you'd struggle to tell in the first second whether Kaoru was male or female. Not that androgynous fashion-forwardness — something more troublesome.

Like a person who, from the day they were made, wasn't permitted to retain excess information. Kaoru walked to the center of the open space and stopped. No bow. No words. Didn't even look at me very long. Just stood. But standing alone was enough to make my shoulders tighten first. It was a strange feeling. On Kaoru, I genuinely detected no killing intent either. But precisely because there was none, it was worse. No emotional fluctuation. No posturing. No deliberately displayed pressure. Only pure functionality.

Like a blade tucked into its sheath, not letting a single extra inch of light leak. I sighed internally. Great. Not a fire-hoop jump. An on-the-spot test of my damage-absorption specifications.

"The rules are simple." Marshal Pendleton said, in the tone of deciding which dessert comes first.

"Fall, or get fully restrained — that's a loss." I pulled at the corner of my mouth. There was nothing simple about that. That was life compressed into one extremely irresponsible line of entertainment instructions. I smoothed the hem of my coat back and walked toward the center of the space. The floor was very clean. Clean in an unpleasant way. Even fighting on it felt like an insult to the cleaning staff. I stopped facing Kaoru and looked up.

"Let's get one thing straight first," I said, low.

"I only came here to receive guests today." Kaoru didn't answer. Didn't even move a muscle. That kind of person was the most annoying. You couldn't even find a target for your banter. The next second, Kaoru moved. Not charging. Not lunging. An entry so economical in its range it was almost miserly, yet fast enough to be uncomfortable. I didn't even have time for a full complaint along the lines of "do your attendants never announce themselves" — Kaoru's hand was already at my left wrist.

Not a grab: a precise lock aimed at the joint line, as if intending to strip both my balance and my options on the first beat. Instinctively I twisted my wrist and pulled back, sliding my right foot half a step aside to pull my body off Kaoru's shortest path. The first pass went by. The second didn't. Kaoru's other hand followed almost along the first's track, palm root driving at the base of my chest — the force not explosive, but steady as if intending to shove the whole block out.

I only had time to sidestep and let the palm scrape across the front placket of my uniform, and still I got pushed back two steps. Professional. And deeply annoying. This wasn't a school spar where the opponent squared off for you first. Every move of Kaoru's was shortening, angle-cutting, balance-breaking, route-blocking. I finally understood why Marshal Pendleton said the stuff outside was boring. Because Kaoru's style wasn't made for display. When Kaoru's third step followed up, I didn't retreat.

Retreat again, and the rhythm belonged entirely to Kaoru. I charged straight in. Not a pretty offense. Pure refusal to let Kaoru hold the fight at the most comfortable distance. The instant our shoulder lines nearly touched, Kaoru sank an elbow, trying to snap my center of gravity outright. I countered to catch Kaoru's forearm and jammed my knee inward, forcing the move half a beat off.

The sound of metal buckles scraping against uniform fabric was faint — but that half beat was enough for me to confirm one thing: Kaoru was strong. And more troublesome than the type who wears strength on their sleeve. Because Kaoru didn't fight for presence. Kaoru only took results. I spun on my heel, pulling myself from frontal to diagonal, reaching for Kaoru's waist line — but Kaoru seemed to know I'd do that, drawing the waist in so my hand came up empty.

The next second, Kaoru's knuckles were slicing up the back of my hand toward the wrist bone. Pain. Very solid pain. I nearly swore out loud on the spot, forcing the line off with my other hand pressing inside Kaoru's elbow. We separated by less than half a step. Then immediately tangled again. Through the glass, the cheers of the armed-combat bracket filtered in muffled, like blunted waves. Out of the corner of the feed I caught D taking down another robot in an educational manner.

That brutality — so crude it was nearly reassuring — was the exact opposite pole from this Kaoru before me, silent as a precision instrument. I suddenly envied D a little. At least D's opponents didn't dismantle people in such an emotionless way. Kaoru came in again. Closer this time. So close I could nearly make out the shadow of Kaoru's lashes falling.

Kaoru's hands seemed to need no lead-in at all — shoulder, elbow, wrist running along one very clean line, first sealing my right side, then instantly converting into downward pressure. I gritted my teeth and held, shoulder pressed numb, knees nearly folding underneath. I couldn't out-muscle this. Keep competing with Kaoru in "correctness" and the loss was mine by default. So I deliberately scrambled my breathing. Not panic. Deliberately breaking the rhythm.

Kaoru was used to opponents with clean lines — so I'd stop being clean. As Kaoru pressed down on my right arm, I went with the force instead, folding low like I'd lost my balance and slamming my whole center of gravity forward. The move was ugly, almost like flailing after being outmatched — and precisely because it was ugly, Kaoru's motion paused imperceptibly. Just once. Enough.

In that pause I drove my left hand up under Kaoru's elbow, shouldered hard into Kaoru's chest, and hooked my right foot at Kaoru's ankle. Kaoru's reaction was viciously fast — pulling the foot clear on the spot — but the knee line still got knocked half an inch off. I could feel it — Kaoru was starting to re-evaluate me. Good. Don't treat me as a textbook. Treat me as a problem. We passed each other again. This time, Kaoru touched me first.

Palm root to the shoulder, elbow line locking at the throat, nearly in the same instant. My vision went black, the air in my chest half-squeezed out, and Kaoru's leg swept through from the inside and nearly sent me flat on my back for real. Dangerous. Very dangerous. If this stretch had been broadcast outside, I could already picture the cheer squad collectively gasping while sending me a condolence wreath. But in the end, I didn't fall.

Because my right heel happened to catch exactly on the seam between the carpet and the smooth stone floor. In that instant, I finally understood why this open floor had been irritating me so much. Too clean. Too tidy. Too refined. And that kind of refinement always left a seam. So I flung myself toward the even more pathetic direction. Shoulders dropping, I let myself fall sideways almost like I'd been crushed by Kaoru.

Kaoru clearly judged I was going down — the control line followed at once, ready to pin me completely. Now. Instead of fighting the force, I let it carry my turn, wrenching my heel hard at the carpet's edge, using that little friction differential to whip my whole body back around. Kaoru's hand was still locked on my arm, center of gravity following in. But Kaoru had followed too straight, too fast, too trusting of that shortest line.

I countered my left hand onto Kaoru's wrist bone, slammed my shoulder into Kaoru's chest, and drove my right knee diagonally into the back of Kaoru's leg.

"—!" Kaoru's breath slipped for the first time. Not a cry. Just the rhythm of the breathing breaking by half a beat. But for me, half a beat was enough to live on. I rolled nearly on top of Kaoru, dragging them down with me while nearly throwing myself into tomorrow's school-paper social-section material at the same time. The carpet scraped across the back of my hand; the dull ache of my knee hitting the floor was solidly ungraceful.

Gritting my teeth, I pressed down on the arm I'd folded back on Kaoru, drove my whole center of gravity on top, and stopped two fingers of my right hand a single inch from Kaoru's throat. Kaoru's other hand hovered too. Stopped not far from my ribs. A little closer, and I'd have had to re-learn the meaning of "narrow win." But it didn't get closer. Because I'd taken Kaoru's elbow first, and Kaoru had been pinned to the carpet first.

I caught my breath, chest burning like I'd just swallowed a small bomb, my fingers still held steady, not trembling a second time.