My Scumbag System-Chapter 355: The New Normal [1/2]

One week since the Clockwork Arboretum. Seven days of bruises, broken equipment, and Braxton’s disappointed sighs.

The Onyx Hounds training grounds looked like a warzone. Because it was.

Raphael’s fist connected with Marco’s jaw. Marco’s palm caught Raphael’s chest. The resulting shockwave sent both of them tumbling backward, carving trenches in the dirt as they skidded to a stop.

"That all you got, firework?" Marco grinned through a split lip.

"I’m just warming up, meathead." Raphael’s hands crackled with barely contained energy.

They charged at each other again.

Carmen watched from her spot on a crumbling stone wall, a bottle in one hand and her synth-cigarette in the other. Her single eye tracked the brawl with the lazy interest of someone who’d seen this exact fight approximately forty-seven times before.

"Ten bucks on the idiot," she announced to no one in particular.

Braxton materialized beside her. He hadn’t been there a second ago. He simply was, as if he’d always been leaning against that wall, his own unlit cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Which idiot?"

Carmen took a long drag. Exhaled. "Yes."

As if to prove her point, Raphael and Marco decided to collide again. This time the shockwave shattered what remained of a training dummy. Splinters rained down like confetti.

"Should we stop them?" Carmen asked without any intention of moving.

"Nah. Let ’em tire themselves out." Braxton pulled out a racing form from his pocket and began studying it. "Besides, the property damage comes out of their allowance."

A distant explosion punctuated his statement.

Neither of them flinched.

On the opposite end of the training grounds, Isabelle Okoye stood before a holographic tactical display, her posture regal despite the dilapidated surroundings. The three-dimensional map pulsed with detailed information—terrain elevation markers shifting in real-time, enemy positions highlighted in ominous red, and suggested movement patterns flowing like ghostly rivers across the battlefield.

It was, by any objective measure, a masterwork of strategic planning worthy of the most prestigious military academies.

Juan Navarro slouched across from her in a battered folding chair that creaked ominously with each of his shallow breaths.

His eyes were open. Technically. But the vacant glaze and occasional micro-twitches betrayed his true state of consciousness.

"So if the enemy flanks from the western ridge," Isabelle gestured at the relevant section, "we need to reposition our ranged units here and here to compensate for the elevation disadvantage. The key is timing the maneuver precisely with Jacob’s surveillance data. Without proper coordination, we’ll be—"

"Zzz... flanking... west... got it..." Juan mumbled, a thin line of drool beginning its treacherous descent from the corner of his mouth, even as his body maintained the perfect illusion of attentiveness—a skill he’d spent years perfecting in countless classrooms.

Isabelle’s eye twitched.

She’d seen many things in her eighteen years. Royalty bowing to commoners. S-Rank hunters weeping like children. The entire political landscape of the Hunter world shifting beneath her feet. But she had never, in all her days, witnessed someone sleep with their eyes wide open.

It was genuinely impressive. And incredibly infuriating.

"Are you even listening to me?"

Juan’s response was a soft snore.

"You’re the most infuriating person I’ve ever met."

"Thanks." The words came automatically, suggesting some small portion of Juan’s brain remained functional even in sleep mode. "I practice."

Isabelle closed the holographic display with more force than necessary. The action did nothing to wake her unconscious team leader. She briefly considered stabbing him with her spear, then dismissed the idea as beneath her station.

Instead, she pulled out her datapad and began composing a detailed tactical document. If Juan refused to absorb information verbally, she would simply email it to him. Repeatedly. At three in the morning.

Petty? Perhaps.

Satisfying? Absolutely.

"THE BODY IS A TEMPLE!"

Jaime De Valle’s voice boomed across the training grounds like thunder from a very enthusiastic storm god. He was doing one-armed push-ups, his massive frame rising and falling with mechanical regularity. Sweat glistened on his green hair. His muscles rippled with each movement.

"BUT ALSO A WEAPON!"

A small crowd of training dummies served as his audience. They offered no feedback. This did not deter him.

"AND WEAPONS MUST BE SHARPENED!" He switched arms without missing a beat. "THROUGH DISCIPLINE! AND PROTEIN! THE GREAT SAKURA HOSHINO HERSELF SAID IN HER THIRD ALBUM—"

Malachi drifted past, his pale form barely disturbing the air. The Shadow Walker moved like smoke, silent and insubstantial.

"Please stop talking."

The words were barely above a whisper. Malachi rarely spoke louder than that.

"I CANNOT, BROTHER!" Jaime bellowed with renewed vigor. "FOR MY VOICE IS ALSO A MUSCLE THAT MUST BE TRAINED! VOCAL CORDS ARE THE FOUNDATION OF A TRUE WARRIOR’S—"

Malachi dissolved into shadow and reappeared approximately fifty meters away. Even that distance barely muffled Jaime’s ongoing monologue about the spiritual significance of protein shakes.

Some battles, Malachi had learned, simply weren’t worth fighting.

In the shade of an ancient oak tree, Pan Soomin sat in perfect stillness.

Her sakura-pink hair fell around her shoulders like a curtain. Her gradient blue eyes were closed. Her breathing came slow and even, the picture of meditative peace.

Inside her head, it was considerably less peaceful.

Be calm, Soomin thought at herself. At the thing inside her. Be still.

The Fox stirred. Its presence coiled around the edges of her consciousness like smoke, hungry and patient. BE HUNGRY, it whispered back. BE FREE.

Not yet.

WE COULD TAKE THEM ALL. THE LOUD ONE FIRST. HIS FLESH WOULD SING.

That’s Jaime. He’s my teammate.

HE IS LOUD.

Yes. But we don’t eat teammates.

The Fox considered this. Its presence receded slightly, though Soomin could still feel it watching through her eyes. Waiting.

Soon, she promised. When we find the right enemy. Soon.

...ACCEPTABLE.

A flicker of blue flame danced behind Soomin’s closed eyelids. Just for a moment. Then it was gone.

Progress, she supposed. Last week the Fox would have demanded blood immediately. Now it was willing to negotiate.

Baby steps.