The next day passed by in a blur. For Kenta's trainees, time stopped feeling like time at all. It became effort. Strain. Breath. Repetition. Kenta didn't slow down. If anything, he pushed harder.
The weighted vests returned the moment the next morning began, heavier than before. No explanation given. No adjustment period. Just more weight pressing down on shoulders already sore from the day prior, forcing their bodies to adapt or fail.
"Up," Kenta had said, and they moved.
He drove them out of the bunker and into the abandoned factory above, the open space offering more room but no relief. Broken concrete, rusted beams, and scattered debris turned simple movement into something unstable, forcing them to stay aware even while exhausted.
"Run."
That was all. They ran laps. Over and over.
Boots struck against the cracked flooring in an uneven rhythm, breath coming in short bursts as the added weight dragged against them. The first few laps were manageable. Then their legs began to burn. Then their lungs tightened. Then everything blurred into motion and effort.
"Faster."
Kenta's voice cut through it without raising. They pushed, and while they ran, he layered more onto it.
"Channel your mana."
That was the second demand. Not after. Not separately. During. They were forced to summon what little magical energy they could muster and wrap it around their bodies, pushing it through their mana veins in a steady circulation.
For some, it flickered weakly. For others, it surged unevenly, was unstable, and was hard to control. Kenta didn't correct gently.
"Keep it moving."
Anyone who faltered felt it. The crack of the wooden stick echoed again and again, striking backs, shoulders, and legs, wherever it needed to land to force movement back into failing bodies.
They ran until their legs gave out, and when they fell, they got hit.
"Up."
Again. Again. Again. It didn't stop there.
Push-ups returned. Squats. Holds that forced their muscles to lock in place while their bodies screamed for release. All of it layered with the same requirement: mana circulating, no breaks between physical strain and magical exertion.
Some of them vomited. Kenta didn't stop the training. Some collapsed hard enough to barely move. They still got back up. Even Hemlock felt it.
His movements slowed more quickly now, the accumulated strain dragging at his precision, forcing him to fight to maintain control rather than rely on it. Sweat dripped steadily from his brow, his breathing heavier than it had been the day before.
Avant pushed differently. His pace stayed sharp longer, driven by something more rigid, something that didn't allow for slack even when his body demanded it. But even he showed signs. Small ones. Tightened shoulders. A slight delay in recovery between movements.
No one was exempt. Kenta made sure of that. The hours dragged. Then dragged further. Until eventually, something shifted. It wasn't immediate. It wasn't obvious. But it was there. The mana.
At first, it had been inconsistent, barely held together by focus that slipped the moment fatigue set in. Now, slowly, it began to stabilize. Not perfectly. Not cleanly. But more than before.
More volume. More control. They noticed it. Small things at first. The way it lingered a second longer. The way it didn't collapse the moment their breathing faltered. The way it responded just a little faster when they called on it.
Strength followed. Their movements, while still strained, held a bit more structure. Their bodies adapted under pressure, muscles responding more efficiently despite the weight pressing down on them. It was working. Slowly. Painfully. But it was working.
By the time night fell again, there wasn't a single man left standing without visible exhaustion carved into his posture. The moment Kenta gave the signal to stop, they dropped.
Not even controlled. Just down. The bunker swallowed them again, bodies scattered across the floor, breathing heavy before sleep took them without resistance. Even Oba didn't complain. He didn't have the energy left to.
The women slept too, the quiet of the bunker settling in deeper than before, undisturbed by tension or noise. Stillness took over. Almost. Above, the factory remained active. Two figures still moved.
Hemlock and Avant.
Their pace was slower now, the laps less precise, but they kept going. Boots striking against the concrete in a steady rhythm, breath strained but controlled enough to continue. They didn't speak. They just ran. From below, the hatch creaked open.
Kenta stepped out, one hand loosely holding an empty bottle, the other resting at his side. His steps weren't perfectly straight, a slight sway in his movement giving away the alcohol more than anything else.
He tilted the bottle, peering into it like there might still be something left. There wasn't. His gaze lifted. He spotted them. A faint snort left him.
"Didn't expect you two to still be at it," he said.
His voice carried easily in the open space.
"Gonna tire yourselves out before the big day."
Hemlock and Avant both slowed, then stopped, turning toward him. Avant stepped forward first, his breathing steadying slightly as he spoke through it.
"Doesn't matter," he said. "We only have a few days left."
His voice was strained but firm.
"We need to be as strong as possible if we're going to win against the Syndicate."
Kenta's eyebrow lifted slightly. Hemlock stepped forward next, his posture still held together despite the visible fatigue.
"He's right," he said. "We're nowhere near your level, but you'll need all the help you can get."
Kenta looked between them for a second. Then nodded once.
"Fair enough."
His tongue clicked softly.
"Both of you are pretty damn dedicated."
He paused for a moment, then tilted his head slightly.
"Why?"
The question hung there. Neither of them answered immediately. Kenta stepped forward, circling them slowly, his movement loose but deliberate, eyes tracking them both in turn.
"There's something there," he said. "In your eyes."
He passed behind Hemlock, then around Avant, completing the circle before stopping again.
"Deep," he added. "Whatever's driving you, it's strong."
His gaze lingered. Then narrowed slightly.
"I've seen that look before. Lust. Lust for revenge."
A quiet chuckle slipped out.
"Hell," he added, "I've had it myself."
His shoulders shifted slightly.
"And it's still there, deep inside."
The words didn't carry weight the way his earlier ones had. They sat lighter, more casual, but they didn't lose their meaning because of it. Kenta stepped in front of them again, facing them directly now.
"So," he said. "What's the story? Why the hell do you both want revenge that badly?"