Just like that, the hours slipped by. There wasn't any clear point where it began. No signal, no buildup. One moment the men were standing there, still carrying the weight of Kenta's words, and the next they were already moving, already being pushed into something that didn't leave room for hesitation.
Kenta had returned with equipment. Weighted vests. He'd dumped them out in front of the group earlier without ceremony, the dull thuds echoing across the bunker floor as each one hit the ground. Thick, reinforced, packed with far more weight than any of them had expected at a glance.
"Put them on," he'd said, like it was nothing.
No explanation. No warning. When one of the men hesitated, Kenta had just grinned slightly.
"Got them during my little trip," he added, almost offhand. "It was a bloody fun time."
He lingered on that word. Bloody. Just enough to make it stick. No one asked. Not a single one of them. They just picked up the vests, and the moment they did, they understood.
Heavy didn't quite cover it. The weight dragged at their shoulders immediately, pulling them down, forcing their posture to adjust whether they liked it or not. Muscles tightened instinctively, compensating before the real work had even started. Kenta didn't give them time to settle.
"Down," he said.
Push-ups. That was it. No variation. No warm-up. Just straight into it.
The first few repetitions weren't terrible. The trained ones adjusted quickly, controlling their breathing and managing the added strain. Even some of the less experienced men held up for a bit, adrenaline and stubbornness carrying them through the initial phase.
Then the minutes stretched. Then the strain deepened. Kenta walked between them, hands tucked into his sleeves, posture loose as ever, like he wasn't overseeing something that was steadily breaking them down piece by piece.
"Don't just move," he said at one point, his voice cutting through the uneven rhythm of breath and exertion. "Circulate your magic."
A few of them faltered at that.
"Whatever you can muster," he added. "Keep it flowing. Even pace."
The difficulty doubled. Bodies already straining now had to split focus, forcing what little magical control they had into motion while their muscles screamed under the weight. For some, it barely worked. Flickers of mana sparked and died, inconsistent, unstable.
Kenta didn't correct gently.
"Again."
That was all he said. They kept going. Minutes blurred into something less defined. Sweat soaked through fabric and dripped onto the concrete, mixing with the dust and grime of the bunker floor. Arms trembled. Breathing grew ragged. The form broke. The first one collapsed.
It wasn't dramatic. Just a slow failure, arms giving out as his chest hit the ground and stayed there. A second passed. Then Kenta moved.
The crack of wood against flesh snapped through the air as the stick in his hand came down across the man's back. Not enough to injure. More than enough to sting.
"Up," Kenta said.
The man groaned, body protesting, but he pushed himself up again. It didn't stop there. Every time someone dropped, the same thing followed. A sharp strike. A single word. No sympathy layered into it. Even Hemlock felt it. Even Avant. The difference was in how long it took.
Hemlock's movements stayed controlled longer than most, his breathing measured even as strain crept in. Avant pushed with a sharper edge, jaw tight, focus narrowed entirely on the task.
But even they slowed. Even they shook. Time dragged. Hours passed.
The rhythm of the room became something else entirely. Not conversation. Not movement. Just repetition. Strain. Breath. Impact. Again. Again. Again.
No one quit. Not completely. They faltered. Dropped. Got back up. Again. Again. Again.
By the time the light in the bunker had shifted through one of the vents to signal evening, there wasn't a single man left who wasn't drenched in sweat, muscles pushed past the point of comfort into something closer to failure. Kenta finally stopped.
"That's enough," he said.
Just like that. No buildup.
The words barely had time to settle before bodies gave out. Men dropped where they were, collapsing into the floor in uneven heaps, some barely managing to roll onto their backs before everything shut down. Breathing was heavy and uneven, filling the bunker in a chorus of exhaustion.
No one spoke. No one moved.
Kenta walked through them, unbothered, bending occasionally to unfasten the weighted vests and pull them free. One by one, he collected them, stacking them off to the side like they were nothing more than tools being put away after use.
"You should enjoy the rest," he said casually.
No one responded.
"Morning starts early."
A sharp grin tugged at his lips. By the time he finished collecting the last vest, most of the men were already out, exhaustion dragging them into sleep without ceremony. Kenta looked over them and smiled. Satisfied.
He lingered there for a moment, taking it in, like the sight of them pushed to that point was something he genuinely appreciated.
Then he turned. The bunker was quieter now, the earlier tension replaced with the low, steady sound of exhausted breathing. Off to the side, the makeshift area where supplies had been gathered sat undisturbed, bottles and crates stacked loosely.
Kenta walked toward it. A few of the women glanced up as he passed, but none of them spoke. He reached down, grabbed a bottle without checking the label, and turned away again, making his way toward a worn sofa nearby.
He dropped into it without care, leaning back as he brought the bottle up and took a long pull. The burn hit immediately. He didn't react. Just kept drinking.
Beside him, Beatrix shifted slightly, still recovering, her posture not fully relaxed but no longer tense. She glanced at him, eyes lingering on the faint grin that hadn't quite left his face.
"You look satisfied," she said.
Kenta lowered the bottle slightly, shrugging one shoulder.
"They earned it," he replied with no hesitation.
"No matter the reason, they worked for that organization," he added. "Don't really feel bad about running them through it."
He took another sip.
"Besides," he went on, his tone easing slightly, "kinda reminds me of something, a memory I'm rather fond of."
Beatrix didn't press. She just nodded once, letting the thought pass without digging into it. Then her expression shifted slightly, like something clicked.
"Oh," she said.
Kenta glanced at her. She leaned forward a bit, reaching down beside the sofa, fingers disappearing out of sight for a moment before coming back up holding folded fabric.
"I remembered the state of your robes," she said.
She set them out in front of him. Clean. White. New.
"I made these while you were gone."
Kenta blinked once, then leaned forward slightly, taking them into his hands. His fingers ran over the fabric, testing it without thinking, feeling the weight, the stitching.
"This is impressive," he said.
There was a bit more weight in that than his usual tone.
"Especially in two days."
Beatrix shrugged lightly.
"Didn't have much else to do," she said. "Injury gave me time."
She glanced at the robes.
"Figured white would suit you."
Kenta huffed a quiet breath, something close to a laugh.
"Appreciate the thought," he said.
He turned the fabric slightly, looking it over again before adding, almost absentmindedly, "I usually stick to brown."
A small pause.
"White gets dirty too easily."
He leaned back again.
"And I've got a habit of ending up in the dirt."
Beatrix nodded at that, her gaze dropping for a moment before lifting again.
"Then I'll make you a brown one," she said. "After this is all over, as a congratulations for getting the job done."
Kenta looked at her for a second. Then nodded.
"Sounds good."
Beatrix nodded back, a faint flush settling across her face as she looked away again. Kenta raised the bottle slightly, taking another sip.
"Looking forward to seeing it," he said.
Then he stood. No rush. He set the bottle down, unfolded the robe, and slipped it on, the clean white fabric settling over him in contrast to everything else around him.