Strike Fall

An alien who called himself the King of the Universe introduced the Universal Clay to humanity.

This clay-like substance could be processed using a code called the Codex, and could be transformed into various devices. Artificial gravity machines, reactors that seemed to extract energy from pocket universes beyond our own, powerful energy shielding technology—it was all truly world-revolutionizing innovations. These devices, whose principles humanity couldn't comprehend, became known as Chill Weapons.

Since the clay was harvested from space, humanity turned its gaze to the stars.

Armed with power far beyond what they had ever possessed, humanity began to wage war.

Humanity's first space war brought unprecedented catastrophe. But just as an all-out war for survival between the colonies and Earth was about to erupt, the voices of reason prevailed.

They agreed to restrict the use of these universal tools in warfare and share in mutual prosperity.

However, humanity couldn't abandon its preparations for conflict entirely. Instead, they began deploying Chill Weapons in competitions that closely resembled warfare, developing combat techniques and equipment under the guise of sport.

These pseudo-warfare competitions marked the beginning of Strike Fall, which has now spread throughout the universe.

A massive steel structure extended into the soundless expanse of space, its girders spanning three hundred meters across.

It was a brutally utilitarian framework of four metal pillars, arranged in a crisscross pattern. The space between pillars stretched about thirty meters—a vast, empty area that would dwarf a lone figure.

The structure's massive scale made sense, given that it had once served as a catapult for launching fighters into space.

Now it served a different purpose. What remained was a wide platform at its base, like a diving board suspended in space, a remnant of its former glory.

A lone man stood on that platform, ready to fulfill his duty as the ace.

A metal shell protected him from the airless, zero-gravity void. The cockpit was mounted on the back of a six-meter-tall giant—a Strike Shell, a machine that read the pilot's neural signals and functioned as his second body.

Unfiltered sunlight blazed white-hot against the metal surface.

Exposed to the sun's undiminished rays, the armor had grown scorching hot. The Strike Shell's surface temperature had already climbed to two hundred and eighty degrees Celsius.

He stood at the platform's edge. Below his feet stretched nothing but the bottomless void of space.

An announcement crackled through the radio in his helmet. It was launch control—the Silver Hands traffic controller for Jesse Einstein's team.

Fall down from gravity catapult. Beginning count.

The pitch-black expanse of space stretched endlessly before him. The distant stars were too far to reach, even if he flew for a lifetime.

Jesse Einstein. Count confirmed. Give me everything you've got for speed. Get me there in time for the final inning.

Requesting recovery from Number Nine's light crash. Request approved. Initial velocity one hundred kilometers per second. Time count!

Jesse's body floated between the metal pillars, held in place by magnetic force. He was about to be shot out like a bullet from the catapult.

Five, four, three, two, one . . .

Fall down.

Then, he fell endlessly into an infinite darkness where even direction ceased to exist.

Accelerated to one hundred kilometers per second, Jesse caught up to his teammates in ten seconds—just as they were about to attack the enemy formation.

In an instant, he shot far past them. His teammates couldn't match the speed of someone who could circle Earth in four hundred seconds. Over the radio, the angered voice of his team leader, Caitlyn, reached him.

Are you stupid? What do you think you're doing charging in alone?

Strike Fall was a simple sport. Teams of fifteen fought against each other, and whoever destroyed the opposing team's leader unit won.

Teams moved in tight formations for good reason. In space, inertial forces ruled everything; nothing stopped on a dime. Units with mismatched speeds could never coordinate their actions.

Andrew Payne, who had been directly escorting the leader unit, spoke rapidly.

If we screw up this attack, we'll be completely outnumbered. Just die already! Take as many of them down with you as you can!

The enemy team had gathered their remaining twelve players into a tight formation. Jesse forced his way onto a trajectory that would target their leader unit directly, opening his rear thrusters to full power.

On a head-on collision course, their combined speeds would make the relative velocity even more devastating.

Getting things done in the worst possible scenario—that's a hero's job, right? I'll settle this!

Jesse raised the maneuverable small-caliber railgun he had mounted behind his waist.

The speed of magnetically fired bullets was only one kilometer per second in rapid-fire mode. But when Jesse fired them as he traveled at one hundred kilometers per second, they became ultra-high-speed projectiles flying at one hundred and one kilometers per second. For the enemy team flying toward him at ten kilometers per second, the relative velocity was one hundred and eleven kilometers per second. At that speed, no man-made object could withstand the devastating impact.

Sensing Jesse's suicide attack, the enemy leader unit chose to flee. Jesse pierced through their scattered formation like a flash of light.

His bullets, fired with miraculous marksmanship, caught three enemy players in the split second as he crossed through their formation. They tore through armor and defensive systems like paper, sending a massive cloud of shattered debris spiraling into space.

The defeated players were covered in cocoon-like shells, spinning irregularly as they drifted away from the formation. The safety systems of the Chill Weapons generated from the Universal Clay had protected the players' lives.

But the Silver Hands fans watching let out heavy sighs.

The enemy leader unit was still intact, protected by his teammates. And Jesse, unless acted upon by external force, would continue flying at this speed due to inertia. In other words, their ace couldn't return to the match and would drift endlessly through space.

*

Yusei Takamori couldn't bear to watch the match he'd been following on his phone and clutched his head.

Running up your personal stats and letting yourself get carried away right when it matters most—what the hell!

With five minutes remaining, the count was five against nine players. Victory for his favorite team, the Silver Hands, seemed hopeless. Jesse was flying clean off the battlefield, drifting toward the moon.

Forget it. I'm done.

Yusei turned off his phone, disgusted by how hopeless the match had become.

He looked up at the blue sky and did some light stretching exercises at the roadside. Watching matches always made him want to go for a run.

As he started running toward the station, Yusei heard an unpleasant, shrieking voice from a small park along the street.

Looking over, he saw thugs hanging around in the back of the park—apparently they'd been out all night and were still there that morning. The source of that shrieking voice was a high school student surrounded by the thugs. A male student who was wearing the same school uniform as Yusei was being forced to say the same thing over and over through his tears:

I'm sorry.

I already told you, I've got medical bills to pay! So hand over your phone!

Three adults were ganging up on a helpless high school student, kicking him. Targeting phones was the modern version of mugging—the attackers would always force their victims to transfer money to them from their bank accounts, since people no longer carried cash. It was a disgraceful sight.

In the face of danger, most people tended to react in one of two different ways: they either avoided it, or charged at it head-on and tried to overcome it.

Yusei was the latter type.

Hey, that's pretty pathetic of you. You're making him cry.

Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he stepped in.

These types always reacted the same way no matter what.

Who the hell are you?

The blonde guy who looked most eager for a fight came over and grabbed Yusei by the collar. He then brought his face close, glaring threateningly.

You makin' fun of us? I'll put you in the hospital.

Yusei was tall, nearly one hundred and eighty centimeters. One of the thugs was taller than him, but having lived by confronting his fears whenever they arose, this level of confrontation wasn't unusual for him.

Are your fists faster or more painful than bullets?

Huh? Bullets?! What are you talkin' about?

. . . Guess I didn't need to ask. Then it's no big deal.

Yusei struck down from above to break the grip on his collar, then hooked the man's leg while giving his chest a light push. The blonde man lost his footing and went down hard.

His face turned red with rage as he stood up. His fists were fitted with stun knuckles that would paralyze anyone he punched with electricity. However, his movements were completely lacking in both finesse and speed compared to Yusei. After easily dodging the swing, Yusei landed a merciless punch.

The remaining two joined the fight late, gripping resin knives that were easy to get a hold of. They were common weapons, because they could be easily made with 3D printers and basic electronics. With an athlete's stamina and training, Yusei easily took down these thugs.

Opponents who relied too heavily on weapons posed no threat to Yusei, who was used to facing armed combat.

You bastard . . . you'll pay for this.

You'd better not forget. Next time I see your faces, I'll punch you with a Strike Shell.

At that moment, the men's faces changed. Seeing the question in their eyes about whether he was serious, he flashed them a savage grin. The thugs fled without looking back.

These days, major sporting events were broadcast to every region of the solar system where humanity had settled. The sport Yusei was devoted to, Strike Fall, was the most popular competition and there were enormous amounts of money at stake.

Fighters used Strike Shells equipped with Chill Weapons, the power brought by the King of the Universe that established humanity's foothold in space. Any weapon was permitted—guns, swords, military missiles, lasers, anything at all. People often joked that it was so dangerous that there was no real difference between it and actual war.

Lowlifes like these couldn't intimidate Yusei, who regularly got shot at and traded blows in a Strike Shell (even if all of that was just in training).

The high school student who had been crying earlier was slumped over in a daze. Then he looked up at Yusei.

. . . Weren't you scared of those guys?

It's not like I wasn't scared. I just hate letting fear stop me.

Yusei wondered whether he should help the guy up. He was a chubby boy with a gentle face, but he was also still just some random guy. Even so, he couldn't just stand there watching, so he decided to encourage him.

Get up. You don't want to sit on the ground forever, do you?

Grimacing in pain, the boy somehow managed to stand. His body was still bent over, unable to straighten his back yet.

The person he'd helped looked up at him with a worried expression.

Are you from our high school's Strike Fall club? Won't you get in trouble for fighting?

I'm not in any club.

A complex, frustrated feeling welled up inside him. The boy's expression turned pitiful.

Wait, don't get the wrong idea. It's not that I suck at it. My style just doesn't vibe very well with high school competitions . . . Hey, I'm serious! It really is different!

Yusei was the type to act without considering how it would affect him personally. While this sometimes got him hurt, he hated feeling pathetic even more.

Forget it! If you're scared, just stay away from dangerous people from now on.

He shouldn't have stopped his run to watch that match broadcast. He resumed his morning jog before he had to deal with any more frustration.

The summer sky stretched endlessly above.

All his hard work had gone unrewarded. Yusei wasn't particularly clever, so all he could do was keep pushing forward in the way he believed he should.

The shopping district in front of the station was filled with holograms. It was more efficient to display images rather than actual objects when conveying information. There were plenty of people around, too. Since Chill Weapons—the power supporting the space age—could only be activated and controlled by humans, there was always demand for manpower. The cityscape hadn't changed much since Yusei had started living in this area. Apparently, even when technology developed rapidly, things stayed the same because plenty of the local residents disliked change.

A crowd had gathered in front of a station building's display window. A black-haired girl stood before an overseas brand's advertising panel.

Despite wearing a high school's white uniform, she was a remarkably beautiful girl. Even in uniform, her excellent figure was clearly apparent. From any angle, she obviously stood out from her surroundings. Her large eyes had a dignified look and her expression seemed serious, but she wasn't merely beautiful. She had a mysterious aura that made observers wish she would smile at them.

That same girl waved toward Yusei.

Yusei, you're late.

She approached with light steps, leaving behind the men who had been talking to her without so much as a glance.

Tamaki Shirasaki was Yusei's childhood friend. Though he'd known this radiant girl for nearly ten years, he still couldn't help but feel his heart skip.

Shall we go?

With Tamaki's face so close beside him, his chest grew tight enough that his heart felt like it might stop. Tamaki Shirasaki was a famous beauty within the city; being her childhood friend aside, he thought she was the most adorable girl in the world, with an exceptional sense of grace.

Tamaki snuggled up beside him affectionately, matching his pace. Since she was aloof toward male students at school, only Yusei knew this side of her.

Yeah.

When Yusei went somewhere, he was often together with Tamaki for at least part of the journey. Since he was staying at the Shirasaki house for certain reasons, they left from the same place. But Yusei often ran as part of his training—since Tamaki naturally couldn't keep up with his pace, she traveled by bus, which meant they met at the station.

Yusei was heading to the training ground for practice, and Tamaki was going to school for special summer classes to qualify for grade acceleration.

Practice again today? You're so dedicated, even in this heat.

Tamaki's white uniform seemed to shine against the backdrop of the brilliant summer sky.

Her long hair swayed in the wind. Being so close to her made him feel flustered. He felt like Tamaki could see right through him and was teasing him, which made him even more embarrassed.

Yusei, did you get into another fight?

Tamaki peered at Yusei's hand. She noticed the scraped knuckles from when he'd helped that guy earlier.

Sometimes, there’re things that I just can't ignore without feeling like I'm cheapening myself.

You need to take better care of your body. You're an athlete, Yusei.

She found a bench inside the station and led him over. As they sat side by side, she pulled disinfectant and regeneration patches for treating injuries from her school bag.

All the passersby were staring at them. Embarrassed, Yusei turned his face away.

It's fine. There's no point in thinking about it until I do something better.

Because you don't want to lose to Hide?

That hit where it hurt. Yusei groaned, having nowhere to direct the frustration churning in his chest.

Yusei's brother, Hidetoshi, was only a year younger than him and they were living seperately. His brother was already playing on a professional team's second squad. Enviably, it was the Silver Hands—the team Yusei idolized. He'd soon be moving up to the first team.

Hide's gonna be in matches that are broadcast on TV soon. His first team debut is coming up.

He couldn't sit still. That mixture of pride and jealousy stuck in his throat made him feel like breaking into a run.

You're rushing yourself too much. I'm scared that one day you'll get too reckless and do something terrible.

I'm not some kid. I wouldn't do anything stupid.

She laughed. If he wasn't careful, his eyes would drift to her summer uniform's short skirt and healthy thighs.

Does practice go until lunch today? Do you want me to cook you something?

I'm happy to have such a caring friend.

That's pretty generic.

I'm happy to have a friend who's good at cooking, smart, and relied on by our whole class.

She looked embarrassed. Her cheeks flushed slightly, her expression somewhat pleased. Since she only showed this kind of expression to people she trusted, he truly felt grateful to be her childhood friend.

Yeah. When you say things like that, Yusei, it makes all my effort feel a little worthwhile.

She always welcomed those close to her with complete warmth. Whether it was a beauty's survival strategy or not, at school she was all wariness and careful consideration, but her unguarded smile in moments like this was utterly disarming.

Being on the receiving end of such genuine emotion left him flustered. His face grew hot with embarrassment and guilt over his feelings. Even knowing she treated him like family, he almost let himself believe she might have romantic feelings for him.

Tamaki turned toward him with eyes that were slightly serious yet breathtakingly clear, and asked:

Do you want to move out of our house, too, Yusei?

He tried to say something, but the words caught in his throat.

The Takamori brothers had been living with Tamaki's father—apparently a close friend of their late father—ever since losing their parents in an accident nine years ago.

I can't keep living off the Shirasaki family forever. Besides, Hidetoshi's a genius. If I don't fight like my life depends on it, I can't even come close to matching him.

I don't think you need to compare yourself to Hide. But yeah, your dedication is one of your strengths, too, Yusei.

He'd watched Tamaki, who was like family to him, grow into a stunning beauty. He'd chased after his brother, who became a well-known player in the same sport. To avoid being crushed by an inferiority complex, he could only keep running at full speed.

If I don't get stronger, I feel like I'll become too scared to move.

Being around naturally gifted people like Hidetoshi and Tamaki made that struggle even harder. He was often tormented by such thoughts.

You really hate losing, don't you, Yusei?

Tamaki reached out to touch his head. Her protective instincts had grown so strong that she tried to pat his head at every opportunity.

Hey, it's not like you're my big sister or anything, Tamaki.

Aspiring to go pro, Yusei had continued practicing every day after school at the training center where his Youth Team was based. On holidays, he headed to the main training facility. Yusei was still just one of many players chasing the same dream.

The training ground Yusei was heading to was on the mountain rail line. The high school Tamaki attended was on the opposite platform.

She waved lightly from her platform. Since he was probably more attracted to her than a childhood friend ought to be, Yusei couldn't honestly express his emotions. So he gave a small wave back.

When the train started moving, he closed his eyes to switch his mental focus.

Strike Fall was a sport that originated in space. That was why professional match fields were massive three-dimensional spaces over one hundred kilometers on each side. With normal sports, even students could use practice courts the same size as the pros, but that was impossible with this sport. High school Strike Fall clubs had trouble renting practice spaces, so joint training between multiple schools had become the norm.

The training facility Yusei attended was among the largest in the Kanto region. Each court measured three kilometers in both length and width, with a height of two hundred meters. The massive cubic space extended up to five thousand one hundred meters in height and was divided into twenty-five practice fields stacked in layers. Even this was considered small for a Strike Fall training facility.

As a large-scale training facility, the entrance bustled with players gathered from throughout the Kanto region. The crowds were manageable since it was the exam break just before summer vacation, but weekends were completely booked months in advance. Because of this, players like Yusei who came alone to use the training facilities were actually in the minority.

Reservation under Yusei Takamori, correct?

He confirmed his booking at the automated reception counter.

Yeah.

He then got on the elevator.

The large elevator with transparent walls rose at high speed. Transparent floors separated the competition fields at hundred-meter intervals.

The elevator stopped at two thousand six hundred meters above ground, at Field Thirteen. When the doors opened, they revealed a spacious locker room that smelled like an athletic club's equipment room. More than half the space was occupied by pit areas where training armor was installed.

After putting his belongings in a locker, he picked up an undersuit hanging on the pit's wall. The suit was one-piece like a diving wetsuit. He squeezed lubricating gel from a tube and slipped his legs in. Since Strike Shells were originally military weapons, the undersuit was also military-grade equipment with skin terminals woven in. It was strong enough to stop handgun bullets.

After he finished suiting up, he passed through a gate that opened at the corner of the pit area.

Please board the training armor. Be sure to confirm that the Safety Bubble is operational.

The training facility's AI controller guided the player through takeoff procedures. Yusei touched the control pad inside the gate to confirm there were no malfunctions in his gear. Since this was originally equipment designed for the vacuum of space, the safety checks were thorough.

A narrow corridor extended from the locker room. The undersuit's rigid outer shell made his footsteps sharp and crisp.

At the end of the corridor was a space resembling an advanced automated factory, with countless robotic arms protruding. The training facility's combat armor was transported by elevator from the large maintenance bay underground. Having evolved from military training, Strike Shells had grown larger to match the performance inflation of military aircraft, with units over six meters in total length now being mainstream. Even practice units designed for maintainability stood four meters tall.

He rode the boarding elevator up to the exposed gondola-like cockpit. The training armor's cockpit was mounted on the back of the humanoid machine. Its boarding hatch slid open wide in the box-like upper section. He sat on the raised saddle. Sensing his weight, it descended, and Yusei's body was drawn into the cockpit.

The heavily armored cockpit sealed shut. When he secured his helmet, the internal monitor displayed machine status and launch procedures. Yusei pulled out a jacket-type connection terminal from the saddle and put it on. When he zipped up the jacket, his central nervous system automatically synchronized with the armor. He pulled out life support tubes from the connection terminal and connected them near the base of his helmet. Black mist filled the cockpit. It was the Safety Bubble's protective mist that shielded the pilot. Just as visibility completely disappeared, it reached standard concentration, the particles contracted, and atmospheric transparency returned.

First the armor's life support systems, internal monitor sensors, and external sensors activated, followed finally by the motors that moved the machine. Synchronizing with cameras throughout the unit, the outside world appeared on the monitor inside his helmet.

Guide dampers rose up to support his upper body in a forward-leaning position, like riding on a motorcycle. Yusei leaned against the guide and brought both hands in front of his face, repeatedly clenching and opening his fists. Reading his neural signals, the training armor moved its hands in exactly the same way.

The armor moved as if it were his own body. He moved his legs to step down from the boarding ramp. Beyond that lay the corridor leading to the catapult. Now, the footsteps picked up by the audio sensors were heavy, dull metallic sounds.

Orange footlights lit up along the dark corridor.

Beyond that was light.

A section painted in warning stripes of yellow and black stretched before the catapult that opened to the sky. The brutally utilitarian metal surface showed through countless scratches—evidence of the heavy loads it had endured. A notification from the facility controller crackled through his helmet's internal speakers.

You have entered the Chill Weapon release zone. Please perform a Chill Weapon operational check for safety.

Weapon activation.

The voice command activated the Chill Weapons equipped on the training armor. These Chill Weapons were the foundation that made Strike Fall possible—Universal Clay brought to humanity this century by the alien who called himself the King of the Universe, processed according to the code called Codex, that the King had left behind. It possessed tremendous power, but there was a price to pay.

Yusei Takamori—synchronizing idle Chill Weapons. If you feel unwell, immediately press the emergency button on the wall.

A piercing cold centered on Yusei's chest assaulted his body. It was a coldness like being submerged in an ice bath that never warmed with time. Chill Weapons earned their name from the chill they brought by stealing body heat from their users. The air in his lungs grew cold, and pain spread through his throat.

Essential Chill Weapons for the training armor started up—power reactors that supplied infinite electricity to batteries, Safety Bubbles that protected the cockpit, and more. Displays appeared one after another on the monitor inside his helmet, indicating that launch preparations were complete.

He exhaled forcefully. Now a four-meter-tall giant, Yusei stepped forward. At the end of the corridor, something shone brightly.

Yusei emerged into a world of blue—a precarious platform jutting from the building like a high diving board.

High-altitude winds from over two thousand five hundred meters above ground roared against his armor.

Field Thirteen, taking off.

Yusei stepped from the takeoff ramp toward the edge where nothing lay beyond. It was a dizzying height. From the building nestled in the mountains, Tokyo Bay was visible through a pale blue haze. His sense of distance was no longer earthbound.

Takeoff. Initial velocity ninety meters per second. Starting count—

The facility controller's synthetic voice read out the procedure for launching Yusei into the sky. As Yusei listened to the countdown, he leaned his body forward from the edge of the platform.

Five—four—three—

Yusei threw himself into the sky. Though the armor weighed over a ton, he didn't fall. Rather, he stopped in mid-air as if landing on an invisible platform. He had entered the gravity catapult's lane. The Chill Weapon-equipped armor trembled faintly.

Two—one—launch.

Yusei's body was shot diagonally upward, making full use of the three-kilometer width and length.

After that, there was only speed. Experiencing the speed of sound was absolutely impossible in daily life. Only this sport, built on the foundation of Chill Weapons, easily exceeded the speed of sound.

The landscape streaked past him at tremendous speed. His body pitched and rolled as if being battered by invisible forces. He'd hit atmospheric turbulence. At his speed, cutting through the wind felt like slamming into solid walls.

Spinning out of control, he lost all sense of direction. Tumbling helplessly at this speed wasn't just frightening—it was deadly.

Engage assist!

He recovered from the spin by focusing on his flight path. Control thrusters automatically activated to stabilize him in the direction he was looking.

He panted hard. The dizzying landscape rushed past below him. There was nothing around to obstruct him—nothing to stand on or grab for hundreds of meters in every direction.

He fired his side thrusters as he practiced his spiral maneuvers. The thrusters responded to his neural commands like extensions of his own body. To avoid crashing into the field walls, he fired reverse thrusters to control his speed.

Once he'd gotten used to the feeling of flight, Yusei called out to the facility controller.

Put up course markers.

Twelve holographic rings appeared, scattered at different angles throughout the field; he had to pass through these rings. Flying was the foundation of Strike Fall, just like running was for field sports. In a game built on speed and trajectory, mastering flight was everything.

His initial momentum faded and he began to fall. He fell not straight down toward the ground, but diagonally. Objects in motion stayed in motion, unless acted upon by an outside force. By cutting thrust and using his arms to shift the armor's orientation, he could pivot sharply when he reignited the thrusters. The inertial turn—the first technique new competitors learned.

The armor's main thrusters were designed for forward flight, making inertial turns incredibly sharp and effective. Flowing smoothly from one marker to the next, he passed through the course markers floating in the air. His heart leaped with a sense of liberation the moment he passed through a ring. As if possessed, he flew through two, then three markers.

He could feel how close he was to the sky. This was where he belonged.

Looking up, something massive floated at the edge of the azure sky, smaller than the moon but still enormous. A huge structure, one called the Gate, was currently bathed in sunlight. Beyond the Gate, the being who had brought Chill Weapons to humanity was said to have departed. A disc-shaped, super-massive Chill Weapon five hundred kilometers across, orbiting at an altitude of about sixty thousand kilometers—far higher than geostationary orbit.

When they were young, the Takamori brothers had been caught in a spaceship accident near the Gate. Their parents lost their lives then, and Yusei and Hidetoshi were rescued by a few Strike Fall players who had been training. From that moment on, Strike Fall became Yusei's aspiration. He wanted to fly freely through space like those players and become someone's hero.

Before he knew it, a massive translucent wall loomed before him.

Whoa!

While he'd been lost in thought, he'd reached the edge of the field. It was a barrier generated by the training ground's Chill Weapon called the Catcher—when objects over one centimeter in diameter approached, it stripped away their speed. High-speed, massive machines experienced instant deceleration and stopped. Since sudden stops were so common in Strike Fall, pilots leaned their upper bodies against guide dampers in the cockpit instead of being thrown around in traditional seats.

Even his falling speed was stolen, leaving Yusei no choice but to stand on the wall surface.

Field Thirteen. I hit the wall, please come and get me.

In that situation, there was nothing to do but wait for facility rescue.

A large drone flew over, fired a wire hook at Yusei's training armor, and reeled him in.

Yusei reflected on what had gone wrong with his performance. He'd lost focus. By the time he realized it, he'd drifted nearly five hundred meters off course. At the speed he'd been traveling, just three seconds of inattention would have carried him a full kilometer. In Strike Fall, even split-second lapses in judgment or concentration could be fatal.

One more run! I'm going again.

If he wanted to go pro, his basic flight had to be perfect. His Youth Team only got practice matches twice a month anyway. Every moment of training was precious.

But as Yusei was being pulled back to wait for another gravity catapult launch, the facility controller contacted him.

Mr. Takamori. There's a practice match request from an anonymous player.

A practice match? With me?

Yes, a one-on-one. It's a match request specifically naming you, Mr. Takamori.

He had no idea who it could be. But in a sport where victory meant defeating your opponent, finding a practice partner was honestly welcome.

What's their skill level? High school club? Youth team?

Yusei's Youth Team consisted of high school students who'd been competing since middle school and were aiming to go pro. At the high school level, they were about as strong as regional powerhouse schools.

While waiting for a response, he heard a voice.

It was a voice distorted by a voice changer, making it impossible to tell if the speaker was male or female.

Don't sweat the boring details, just fight. There aren't enough match venues in Japan for you to get a decent match schedule, right? It'd definitely be better than flying around on your own.

The opposing player's figure appeared on the display inside his helmet—a pilot in a gray and blue training facility machine with an unusually confident bearing. Besides, backing down from a challenge wasn't Yusei's style.

I'll take you on. I'm at Field Thirteen. Are you coming here?

I see, so the fields are divided every two hundred meters of altitude. That's cramped. Too far from the actual sky.

The actual sky?

Yusei looked up from the platform where he'd been pulled back.

Overhead stretched a faintly yellowish sky. The Catcher's force field barrier showed as a subtle shift in color. Beyond it, other players were probably practicing.

Yeah, I've reserved all the practice fields up there for fifteen minutes. Let's do this under the real sky.

Those words left him speechless.

The whole way up? All the way to Field Twenty-Five—the full five thousand meters?!

A low rumble echoed through the air. The color overhead vanished. He'd never heard of anything like this—an unprecedented exception that made him wonder just who this person was, that the facility management would approve such a request.

The vast expanse of sky stretched endlessly above Yusei, reaching deep into space.

His opponent's voice rang out with barely contained excitement.

We don't have much time! Let's fight. Ten minutes, winner takes all—first one shot down loses!

While searching for his opponent, high-altitude winds brought streaming clouds. The dividing barriers allowed clouds through—collections of fine ice crystals and water droplets. Thick gray clouds blocked his view, making it impossible to spot his opponent's location.

The sheer scale—those distances, those heights—pressed down on Yusei with suffocating vastness.

Here I come—diving down!

As his opponent's voice crackled over the comm, an alert flashed in Yusei's vision. The facility controller warned him that his opponent was aiming a gravity catapult straight down from Field Twenty-Five.

Yusei shouted commands and launched himself from the platform.

Catapult, launch! Maximum acceleration—skip the countdown!

The gravity catapult caught Yusei mid-air and rocketed him straight up at maximum speed.

He gritted his teeth.

Is this guy insane?!

In an Earth-based Strike Fall match, the fastest plays exploited gravity. Free fall provided only one G of acceleration, but that acceleration never stopped. When gravity combined with thruster acceleration or catapult launch speeds, it easily broke the sound barrier, reaching incomprehensible supersonic velocities. However, few players could handle the supersonic environment, and downward velocity meant certain self-destruction—crashing into the Catcher walls at the field's bottom unless properly decelerated.

White filled his entire field of vision. He'd plunged into the clouds with their poor visibility, refusing to engage with that ultra-high-speed instant-kill attack. Dull pressure hammered his shoulders intermittently, throwing off his balance. Moving at over three hundred meters per second, he couldn't see even ten meters ahead. Violent crosswinds sent Yusei's body into wild spins.

Massive clouds churned like waterfalls. There'd been no signs of a storm, which meant something was deliberately stirring up the clouds.

Lightning-fast instinct made Yusei open his thrusters to full power. The clouds erupted as something tore through them. Not just one shot—a barrage. One after another, massive holes were punched through the cloud cover. The next instant, explosions rocked his armor. The impact slammed into his upper body, sending him into a wild spin.

Thrusters!

His screamed command triggered the stabilizers, snapping his body back into proper orientation.

That glancing blow alone had dealt thirty percent damage. The combined speed of the incoming shot and his own forward momentum had multiplied the impact several times over. A direct hit would end everything instantly.

The clouds churned and rippled. Air rushed in from all sides to fill the blast holes, creating violent crosswinds that refused to die down.

How the hell can you shoot so accurately in zero visibility?!

His opponent was pulling off complex aerial maneuvers in a complete whiteout. Training ground armor didn't come equipped with radar—and even in professional matches with their ultra-long-range, ultra-high-speed combat, jamming technology made radar unreliable anyway.

Yusei fired his thrusters skyward at maximum output to decelerate. The armor's Chill Weapons absorbed the crushing G-forces that would have pulverized a human body. The price for this inhuman resilience was his rapidly plummeting body temperature.

Another supersonic round tore through the clouds. He escaped with a sharp turn—a maneuver only possible at his reduced speed.

Tracking the bullet's trajectory, he estimated his opponent's position. He unclipped the rifle mounted at his armor's back.

You're taking the same risk!

He fired blind into the white void. Speed cut both ways. His opponent was moving just as fast—one solid hit would take him down too.

The armor detected the tension in Yusei's nervous system, making his fingertips tremble. It wasn't just the Chill Weapons draining his body heat.

Yusei's marksmanship was terrible. At long range, he could barely hit anything. The pressure of fighting in such a disadvantageous situation made his fingers feel numb with cold.

In Strike Fall, players who could maintain spatial awareness in high-speed combat dominated completely. His opponent had Yusei outclassed. What terrified him wasn't the danger—it was not knowing how to fight back.

That's exactly what fired up his fighting spirit—he refused to lose. But he felt like he wouldn't land a single shot.

Shockwaves rippled through the clouds. His opponent's supersonic maneuvering was compressing the water vapor, heating it and disrupting the air currents.

Stop being pathetic! Don't chicken out! We should be on equal ground here, right? Same equipment, same risks from high speed—everything!

So what was the difference?

Speed was overwhelming Yusei. He was like a terrified passenger screaming as they tugged on the emergency brake in a race car, while his opponent had complete control. Yusei was panicking in a situation that his opponent navigated with calculated precision and comfortable safety margins.

An unidentified synthetic voice taunted Yusei over the comm.

Enjoy it! Push your speed to the limit. You're flying through the sky!

Fighting through the gray clouds, Yusei kept making sharp course corrections with inertial turns. Each time, he hit air currents that knocked even his ton-heavy machine off balance.

Neither side's shots were connecting. But whoever had the speed advantage controlled the fight.

Yusei aimed upward, trying to escape the blind situation. He had an idea—if his opponent was maneuvering at such high speed, the clouds would show disturbances. If he could observe those from outside the cloud cover, he'd be the only one who knew his opponent's position.

I can't afford to lose!

Yusei accelerated as if breaking free from gravity itself. At low speeds, he'd been caught in wind and pressure differentials, thrown around by external forces. As his velocity increased, his flight path carved powerfully through the white clouds.

After breaking through the thick cloud layer, an endless blue world opened up before him. The atmospheric layers appeared whitish toward the ground, deepening to translucent blue high above. The sea of clouds below writhed like a dragon. Under the blue sky, exploded clouds streamed thin fragments. Far below, through rifts in the clouds, he could see the distant ground.

This magnificent scenery had been created by Yusei and his opponent with their Chill Weapons. The sense of liberation was intoxicating. Caught between extreme tension and overwhelming freedom, adrenaline surged through his system.

Captivated by the spectacular blue and white vista, he fired decisively at the cloud disturbances below. Drunk on the feeling of limitless power, he faced off against an opponent piloting identical armor.

That voice reached him again.

Hey, it's fun, isn't it—?

Just as he was beginning to understand something, light and thunder erupted in the sea of clouds below. Static electricity that had built up in the churned clouds discharged as lightning through the vapor. The instant Yusei was distracted by that sound, a chill of dread shot up his spine.

Looking up, he spotted something flying hidden in the sun's glare. Like a slow-motion sequence, a massive barrage of practice rounds drifted toward him. It wasn't heightened concentration making him perceive it this way—it was simply because his opponent was ascending at bullet speed, making the projectiles appear to decelerate from Yusei's perspective.

When did you get above me?!

As his opponent fired thrusters, the continuous stream of bullets began rapid acceleration. The gray and blue armor, blurred in the dazzling backlight, became clearly visible.

While firing back defensively, he took hasty evasive action. In that instant, he lost sight of his opponent.

The next moment, an impact incomparable to anything before exploded into his back. Under pressure that felt like every bone in his body would shatter, he couldn't even scream—only grit his teeth.

His vision turned completely red.

The most crucial Chill Weapon in competition—the Safety Bubble—had activated. The five-meter diameter rainbow sphere would isolate the occupant from all heat and impact for sixty seconds in response to severe cockpit damage. While this saved the player's life, activation meant an immediate shot-down judgment.

. . . Did I lose?

In the end, he didn't even know what had hit him. The mist-like Chill Weapon filled the cockpit, and everything around him went pitch black.

It was overwhelming.

Nothing about it was good.

That was the difference between Yusei and that guy.

Sixty seconds passed and the Safety Bubble deactivated. The mist particles contracted and the air inside the cockpit became clear again.

His mind was still completely blank.

Under automatic guidance from the facility, the training armor carried Yusei back to the platform. When safety mode activated, all weapons were disabled for safety reasons. There was nothing more he could do.

As the excitement of battle subsided, he grew furious at himself. Could he really aim to go pro in this pathetic state? Parked on the desolate platform, he brooded over the endless stream of regrets that surfaced.

The sense of omnipotence he'd felt flying through the sky just moments before had completely vanished.

What remained was nothing but the burning frustration in his gut, embarrassment, and self-doubt. The feeling of Why can't I do better? welled up inside him.

Ah, damn it.

He cursed under his breath.

The Chill Weapon stopped. At the same time, the absorption of body heat ceased. His head and chest suddenly heated up, his heart started pounding violently, and his breath caught in his throat.

To diagnose damage to various parts of the machine, the armor entered recovery mode. Sweat poured from his body and the fatigue that had been held at bay came rushing in. He suddenly remembered why Strike Fall was considered a high-intensity sport.

Your opponent has requested permission to land on Platform Thirteen. Allow access?

I'll at least get a look at the face of the bastard who beat the hell out of me.

He didn't want to be seen as a pathetic man. It was what little pride he had left.

The gray and blue armor gently descended before Yusei. A perfect landing without even the sound of footsteps.

The cockpit opened and the pilot emerged in his flight suit. The supersonic combat maneuvers had heated the machine to extreme temperatures from atmospheric friction, sending waves of heat shimmer rising into the air. He reached both hands behind his head. Even at this altitude of two thousand six hundred meters, with fierce winds whipping around him, he was going to remove his helmet.

When the pilot pulled off his helmet, Yusei was speechless.

There he stood, wearing the exact same triumphant expression Yusei would have worn if he had won.

You—You!

The words wouldn't come.

The pilot grinned.

Without another thought, Yusei found himself running toward him.

So you came back here, Hide.

His younger brother, Hidetoshi, stood before him.

Hidetoshi looked exactly like Yusei—same face, same build. The only difference was that his younger brother's hair was slightly longer.

Surprised? It's been two years—you could at least act a little happy to see me.

There stood his younger brother, far more capable than Yusei would ever be. The person he never wanted to lose, the one he desperately wanted to catch up to.

That gap between them hadn't closed since Hidetoshi passed the pro team tryouts.

Since Hidetoshi was already at the practice facility, they kept sparring for another two hours. They fought twenty-two matches, and Yusei lost every single one.

After practice, Yusei headed home with the brother he hadn't seen in so long. After all, they were both going to the same place.

Yusei and Hidetoshi had been living at the Shirasaki house with Tamaki ever since they lost their parents nine years ago. Hidetoshi had left two years ago to go pro, but that hadn't broken their bond.

Hidetoshi slipped on sunglasses that complemented his stylish outfit perfectly. Silver Hands was such a popular team on Earth that players regularly appeared in commercials. Once he made it to the first team, he couldn't even walk around without causing a scene. But this polished, star-quality appearance was so different from the brother he used to know that Yusei couldn't stop staring.

Perhaps embarrassed by his own explanation, Hidetoshi looked away.

The team manager keeps telling me not to go out in public without covering my face because I'm too recognizable.

The Takamori brothers looked as similar as twins.

He wondered how long he could keep walking alongside Hidetoshi, who looked identical except for his clothes and hairstyle. For now, Hidetoshi's fans wouldn't recognize them, but that would change soon.

This is gonna suck. When you become famous, I'll be treated like some wannabe.

If you don't like it, join me up there. Our team would be thrilled about the publicity angle.

Hidetoshi had a habit of overestimating Yusei. It amused Yusei that his brother hadn't changed even after two years.

Even if I passed the team tryout, I'd start on the third team.

Even to his brother, Hidetoshi Takamori was a genius. While still in his second year of middle school, Hidetoshi was selected for the Earth Junior High Representative team, which set him on the path to greatness. As part of this representative team, he achieved a historic victory over the Mars junior high team. In what was now called the Golden Generation, Hidetoshi played a decisive role by shooting down the Mars leader unit.

Despite receiving high school recruitment offers from hundreds of schools both domestic and international, he chose to go pro while still in middle school. Then he secured a spot on the first team at the record-breaking age of sixteen—a truly golden rookie.

You have your license too, right?

Just passed the first-class exam.

In Strike Fall, joining a pro first team required a first-class Chill Weapon handling license. It could cause a major accident if someone without the knowledge to handle such tremendous power and physical resistance tried to operate a Weapon.

Do you know how many pros give up on making the first team because they can't get their first-class license? You're wasting your ridiculous athletic ability by not being on a team. Plus, you used to be all about being super aggressive, but now you're way too tame.

. . . Look, if you could win matches just on momentum, it wouldn't be so hard. I never even got close to making the Japanese national team for junior high or youth leagues because I wasn't consistent enough.

Don't give me that boring crap. Remember back in elementary school? You used to charge into close combat like you were raiding dojos! Remember when that middle school kid was messing with me? You put him in training armor and beat the hell out of him!

Yeah, and we're still banned from a couple of practice facilities because of that . . .

They stopped walking and their eyes met. Something was clearly eating at both of them.

By the way, Hide, what's with that obnoxious hairstyle? What's your deal?

His brother, whom he hadn't seen in two years, had his hair lightly waved and styled like a model.

The team stylist keeps messing with it. Don't copy other players' hairstyles, she says, don't make your bangs annoying . . . You used to look way less cool before, right?

That's just 'cause of Tamaki.

Tamaki had started cutting Yusei's hair when he entered middle school.

Hidetoshi, who used to sit there getting his hair cut right alongside him, narrowed his eyes with nostalgia.

Tamaki still cuts your hair? Or wait—you still let her cut it?

That girl can learn anything just from reading a manual or watching a video. It's ridiculous.

Hidetoshi spoke without turning around.

How's Tamaki?

Hidetoshi was one of Tamaki's childhood friends, too. Yusei felt a surge of embarrassment and possessiveness, his tone growing rougher.

Same as always. She's popular with the girls as their class president, she gives the boys the cold shoulder. And she's great at reading situations—nobody's better than her at that.

Tamaki Shirasaki was blessed with countless talents. She was strikingly beautiful, top of her class in academics and athletics, and showed exceptional skill in everything from cooking to music. Plenty of boys were interested in her, but only her childhood friends like Yusei ever got any real attention from her.

I see. But she's still not dating anyone?

Hidetoshi gazed into the distance. For Yusei, his brother was too close to home—too formidable a rival to compete with. Yet what frustrated him most was that he wasn't even on her radar.

As an athlete, Yusei honestly couldn't say he was showing much promise. Being confronted with his stagnant position while his brother raced toward stardom made him painfully aware of it. When his efforts weren't paying off, those heavy words, difference in talent, kept flickering through his mind. And when Hidetoshi said things that hinted at interest in Tamaki, an uncontrollable, gnawing anxiety would well up inside him.

If he didn't let it all out, he felt like he'd be crushed.

Damn it! I'm gonna beat you!

Hidetoshi turned around in surprise at Yusei suddenly shouting on the street.

Under the early summer blue sky, with strong sunlight casting deep shadows, Yusei stood there, feeling completely overshadowed by his brother. That troublesome distance between them probably reflected his brother's true feelings.

Don't do stupid things with the same face as me.

Weren't you the one who said I was too boring?

Seriously, cut it out.