Chapter 7 – Cogs in Motion
Toma's Pov
I tried to smile, even when Derris knocked the tray out of my hands.
The food scattered. The clang of metal echoed across the mess hall. Some recruits laughed—just enough to sting. Not Lyra. She never laughed. She just watched, arms folded, her ever-present spear resting against the table like a silent threat.
"Oops," Derris sneered, voice oily. "Still can't hold a tray, Toma? Maybe try using both hands next time."
I knelt, gathering the mess. My hands shook—not from fear. From restraint. I could fight back. But I wouldn't. Not yet.
Because every night, after the others went to bed, I trained. Bruised and breathless, aching from drills, but I trained. Xavier had shown me how to breathe through the pain, how to move with intent. I held on to that. I had to.
Morning drills were agony.
The sun hadn't even crested the horizon when the whistle blew. Boots thudded on deck, voices barked commands, and the scent of sweat, sea salt, and old gunpowder filled the air.
I was already at attention, training sword gripped tight. But nerves made my fingers twitch.
"Feet apart, eyes forward!" bellowed Sword Sergeant Nolka. Her voice cracked like a whip.
I adjusted—
—only to be slammed in the shoulder mid-formation.
I staggered but stayed upright. "Oops," Derris muttered, smirking just enough for me to want to hit him.
But I didn't.
Not yet.
Weeks passed. I grew.
My strikes got faster. My stance firmer. Sword Sergeant Nolka stopped calling me "deadweight" and started saying "again." That meant progress.
Even Bram, the gruff cook with a cloudy eye, started correcting my grip mid-drill. Kes, the swordswoman who never spoke unless necessary, quietly nudged my heel into place one morning and just nodded once. That was the most praise I'd ever gotten.
But Derris kept watching. And smiling. A tight, brittle smile. He saw it—the storm coming.
It came on the 90th day.
Our final evaluation sparring session. Each recruit was paired randomly. Of course, I got Derris.
We stood across from each other in the sand-flecked sparring ring under gray skies. The rest of the recruits watched from the edge. Xavier leaned on a crate nearby, arms folded, unreadable.
I adjusted my training rifle into a guarded stance—wide base, weight forward.
Derris grinned. "You ready to cry again?"
I exhaled. Remembered Xavier's lessons.
"Don't meet force with force. Redirect. Break rhythm. Let the clock tick your way."
Tick.
He lunged with a heavy overhead swing.
I stepped left and turned my shoulders, letting the blow glance off my sword. Then I pivoted on my back foot and jabbed the butt of the hilt toward his ribs.
He blocked with his forearm and pushed me back.
Tick.
He charged again—this time, aiming a feint at my head before swinging low at my knees.
I read it. Dropped my weight and rolled aside, popping up behind him. My counterstrike landed square in his back, but it didn't topple him.
He whirled around, swinging like a wild boar.
Too slow.
I slid under, clipped his ankle with a sweep kick. He stumbled, dropped to one knee.
Gasps from the sidelines. Bram muttered, "Damn."
But I didn't press. I backed off, breathing through my nose. Focused.
Derris roared and charged again, sloppier now.
I baited an opening, feinted right, and reversed to the left with a spinning strike that cracked his weapon aside.
Then I stepped in and thrust the training rifle square into his gut.
He dropped. Hard.
Nolka raised a hand. "Match—Toma."
I stared. Panting.
The storm had arrived.
And I had weathered it.
Xavier's Pov
Three months.
That's how long it took to replace pain with pattern. To turn bruises into calluses. To turn breathing into rhythm.
The sea air stung my lungs with every inhale. My axe whistled through the air with every swing.
Clockwork Breathing: First Form — Second Hand Strike.
My footwork closed the distance in three short bursts—tap-tap-tap—like the ticks of a second hand.
I exhaled sharply, hips turning, shoulder rotating perfectly. The axe cleaved through the air in a crescent arc.
Not power. Precision.
"Again," Strawberry called from across the deck.
So I did.
Each swing followed a deliberate tempo—step, exhale, swing, brace. Then reset. I'd started layering basic Rokushiki principles into my technique. Soru gave me short, explosive bursts. Tekkai let me brace in the pocket between breaths, hardening my stance just enough to deflect blows.
Strawberry never praised me. But he stopped correcting every move.
That was enough.
Sparring became my measure of growth.
Ensign Jutte taught me to read the tells in an opponent's posture. Sword Sergeant Nolka hammered my posture with a wooden blade until my spine stayed straight out of fear alone.
Even Milo the cook weirdly became a tutor —his knife style focused on deflection and precision. "Peel away the opening," he said. I adapted the idea into feints.
But my greatest rival?
Lyra.
We clashed often. Her spear moved like lightning—long reach, blistering speed. I struggled for weeks.
But one evening, I spotted a pattern. She wasn't adapting—just reacting.
So I changed the rhythm.
I set a fake tell in my right foot, twisted my hip like I was swinging left—
—and then pivoted low, hooking her ankle with my axe handle, breaking her stance.
She stumbled just enough.
I stepped in and slashed my training axe upward across her chest guard.
A clean hit.
She reset immediately, eyes narrowing. Then she smirked. "About time."
She still won. But I'd landed more hits than ever before.
And more importantly, I'd broken her rhythm.
That was progress.
That was strength.
Final Evaluation Day
Strawberry stood before us on the main deck, cape fluttering behind him.
"You've trained hard. Some of you have improved. Some of you are still useless." His eyes swept over the recruits.
Then his gaze landed on me.
"Xavier. Step forward."
I obeyed.
"You'll be assigned your first off-ship mission," he said. "You'll accompany Commadore Harker to Sabaody Archipelago."
The name hit me like cold water.
Sabaody.
Where Celestial Dragons walk.
Where no one can act against them.
"The World Government is conducting a diplomatic trade inspection. We're to provide security. You'll observe. Do not interfere. Do not act without command. Understood?"
I nodded once. "Understood."
But inside?
My hands curled into fists.
Because I knew what I'd see there.
And I knew I wouldn't be able to stop it.
Not yet.
But I would watch.
And I would remember.
Because clocks always keep ticking.
And eventually... they strike.