The sky over Kōtetsu City was perpetually draped in a suffocating shade of grey.
This was humanity's greatest hubris of heavy industry—a sprawling labyrinth where thousands of colossal chimneys belched thick, obsidian smoke that choked the sun. The rhythmic thunder of mechanical hammers, the hiss of welding torches, and the groaning of gears never ceased. Kōtetsu was the iron heart of the world, supplying sixty percent of the materials and fuel required to keep the V.G.U.'s gargantuan Mecha projects breathing.
But for Arata, this city was nothing more than a tedious cage.
A battered, armored cargo truck jolted violently across the uneven asphalt. Inside the cramped cabin, thick with the stench of diesel, sat Arata—now a thirty-two-year-old man—dressed in grease-stained coveralls. His face was weary, his eyes shadowed by dark circles from chronic sleep deprivation.
Glancing at the rearview mirror, Arata clicked his tongue and muttered to himself, "Magnificent Kōtetsu... and I'm just a low-life driver hauling scrap metal and alloy from one factory to another."
The truck groaned to a stop at a storage yard. Arata climbed down, hunching his back as he began to lift heavy metal crates. To his muscles—mutated and enhanced by monster cells—these weights felt as light as bags of cotton. Yet, to maintain his cover, Arata put on a show: he curved his spine, strained his muscles, and made sure his face was contorted in a grimace of struggle with every crate he hauled, like any ordinary human would.
"Six years since Kaito joined the military," Arata thought, dropping a crate and letting out a secret sigh. "I've applied to the V.G.U. every year for five years straight... and every damn time, they kick me out at the front gate for that pathetic reason: 'Does not meet basic physical fitness standards.'"
The frustration simmering within him grew with every passing day. A man who could tear a monster apart with his bare hands was being told he was... too weak to be a soldier.
As dusk fell, Arata dragged his supposedly exhausted body back to his dilapidated apartment complex.
Standing before the door to Room 402, he froze. The brass doorknob was slightly ajar. It wasn't locked. From the narrow gap at the foot of the door, a sliver of brilliant light spilled into the dark hallway.
Arata's pupils instantly constricted. The lethargy of the weary laborer vanished, replaced by the razor-sharp survival instinct of a predator. Holding his breath, he slowly pushed the door open and stepped inside. The room was suspiciously quiet.
His hunting instincts kicked into overdrive. Arata hunched his shoulders, gliding soundlessly through the cluttered living room. As he passed his workbench, his right hand instinctively snatched a heavy steel wrench, his grip tightening. He hugged the wall, inching toward the kitchen—where the lights were glaring.
The moment he reached the kitchen doorway...
"SURPRISE!!!"
A dark figure suddenly lunged from a corner, arms raised high with a sharp shout intended to scare him half to death.
Surprise hit him. But so did the extreme survival instinct of the "second heartbeat" in his chest. Before Arata's brain could even register the face of the intruder, his left arm had already retracted and fired forward like an overloaded spring.
A straight punch. Zero hesitation.
THUD!!!
A sickening impact rattled the very air. The brutal force concentrated in that fist was so immense that the intruder was sent flying through the air like a cannonball. The silhouette smashed through a wooden dining table, shattering it instantly, before slamming violently into the brick wall behind it.
CRASH! The wall cracked in a spider-web pattern, plaster falling in clumps. Dust billowed throughout the tiny apartment.
Arata snapped out of it, his eyes wide with horror as he realized who he had just punched. He dropped the wrench and scrambled toward the ruins.
"Kaito?! Good god, kid, is that you?!" Arata screamed, his hands trembling as he dug through the rubble. "Are you okay?! Why the hell didn't you call first?!"
As the dust settled, Kaito crawled out from the debris, his face twisted in pain. The scrawny eighteen-year-old boy from years ago was now a twenty-four-year-old man—tall, rugged, and imposing. He was wearing a V.G.U. mobile combat uniform—a light Exo-suit, the very thing that had just saved his ribcage from being pulverized.
Kaito leaned against the wall, one hand clutching his chest plate, which now had a deep, fist-shaped indentation. He waved the dust away, coughing violently.
"Cough... cough... Damn, Arata... that hurt..." Kaito grimaced, looking up at his foster brother with pure shock. "I'm wearing military-grade power armor, and I nearly stopped breathing. Is hauling scrap metal turning you into a literal monster?"
Arata's forehead broke out in a cold sweat. He gave a sheepish laugh, scratching the back of his head to hide his guilt. "Ah... well... you know, hauling tons of iron every day makes you a bit stronger, I guess. It's your fault for jumping out of the shadows like that!"
After a frantic cleanup and propping up the broken table, the two finally sank into the frayed sofa. Kaito let out a long breath, reached into his breast pocket, and solemnly pulled out an envelope. It was stamped with the brilliant red seal of the V.G.U. High Command, bearing the "Skull and Crossed Swords" emblem—the mark of special operations.
Kaito placed the envelope on the table and slid it toward Arata. He smirked, the same radiant smile from their recruitment days.
"A little something to make up for the five years you were rejected," Kaito winked. "I had to beg the General until I was blue in the face just to get you a special 'Field Support' slot for the exams. This is a once-in-a-lifetime shot, Arata. Don't waste it."
Arata froze. His eyes were glued to the red seal. His calloused hand trembled as he reached for the invitation. Every ounce of bitterness, every repressed emotion from half a decade of waiting suddenly boiled over.
Overcome, Arata lunged forward and threw his arms around Kaito, his rough hand ruffling the officer's neatly styled hair.
"Kaito!! You're the best damn brother in the world!!" Arata laughed loudly, his eyes rimming with red. "Finally... finally, I get a chance to crush those bastards!"
That night, the dilapidated apartment in Kōtetsu was filled with laughter.
The floor was littered with empty beer cans as the two brothers drank and talked. Kaito spoke excitedly about the hellish training on the front lines and the new weapon prototypes. Arata complained about his fat-bellied supervisor and his boring truck routes. Despite the massive gap in their social status, the air was warm with brotherhood, as if sixteen years hadn't passed at all.
The clock struck 2:00 AM.
Arata was fast asleep, snoring on the sofa with his legs kicked up over the beer cans, his hand still clutching the Skull-stamped envelope to his chest like a treasure.
Standing by the sofa, Kaito was now completely sober. The playful smirk was gone, replaced by the serious, cold, and battle-hardened gaze of a soldier who had walked through hell.
Kaito picked up his officer's jacket and quietly draped it over Arata. He turned, grabbing his tactical backpack. At the doorway, Kaito glanced back one last time at his foster brother, who was lost in a deep slumber.
"Sleep well, Arata," Kaito whispered, his voice warm as it melded into the night. "I'll see you on the battlefield."
The door clicked shut.
The steady, resolute footsteps of the young officer echoed down the empty hallway, fading into the darkness. Kaito returned to the base, carrying the brutality of war with him, while Arata continued to dream of a bright tomorrow, hidden beneath the mask of a loser about to awaken.