The smell of burnt gunpowder and damp earth filled his lungs. Although he could barely feel his fingers from the cold, Haruto kept gripping his rifle as if it were an extension of his own body. The icy wind from the northern front blew with a skin-cutting force, mixing with distant screams and explosions that shook the ground.
The war had spent weeks reducing everything to dust and ruins. The only thing keeping the Sakura Squadron standing was sheer stubbornness to survive one more day. Or at least, that was what their Sergeant liked to say.
'Hold the line, damn it!' roared Sergeant Arata Fujimoto, better known as "The Bull". His thunderous voice rolled across the trenches as he lifted his heavy machine gun as if it were a toy. 'Don't let them advance even a bloody metre!'
Haruto took a deep breath. Despite the chaos, the Sergeant's presence always calmed him. He was enormous, with a back capable of carrying twice the equipment of anyone else, and a gaze that commanded respect even from the most veteran soldiers.
Beside him was his best friend, Takeshi Yamamoto, much slimmer but just as determined. Takeshi had a knack for surviving. He always found a way to come back alive, whether through cunning, luck, or pure malicious intent from fate refusing to take him yet.
'Haruto,' murmured Takeshi, loading his weapon. 'If we make it out of this, I swear I'll retire and open a ramen shop.'
Haruto let out a small laugh—the first in hours.
'And what will you do when it goes bankrupt in a week?'
'Well… I'll hire you to attract customers. With your miserable face, I'm sure people will pity us and leave tips.'
'Idiot.'
'Both of you,' grunted the Sergeant without looking. 'Shut up and keep yourselves alive.'
A nearby explosion shook the earth, flinging mud and shrapnel. Screams. Silence. Then more gunfire.
Someone shouted for a medic. No one answered.
The enemy offensive had been brutal. There were no reinforcements left, no supplies, no air support. They had been abandoned in an area that, according to high command, "must be held at all costs."
But the line had stopped being a line hours ago. Only the three of them remained, hiding behind a half-destroyed wall.
Haruto peeked out slightly, saw shadows advancing, and pulled back.
'There are too many,' he said tensely.
'That just means more for us to share,' Fujimoto replied, smiling with a bravery only a madman could possess.
But even so, the Sergeant was starting to bleed from his side. He wouldn't admit it, but Haruto saw him growing paler by the minute.
Takeshi swallowed hard.
'We're not going to survive another wave.'
Haruto knew it. The Sergeant knew it, too.
Then a whistle cut through the air.
A projectile—fast, direct.
Haruto only managed to push Takeshi to the ground before the world exploded into light and noise.
The blast hurled him several metres away. He felt the impact rupture his ear, felt the earth swallow his body. He tried to get up, but something was wrong. Terribly wrong.
His right arm didn't respond.
His left arm… he could barely feel it.
Sergeant Fujimoto appeared running through the smoke—staggering, but alive.
'Haruto! Haruto!'
He grabbed him by the shoulders.
Haruto tried to speak, but only blood came out.
Takeshi arrived crawling, coughing.
'Brother… oh no, no, no…'
Haruto looked down.
And then he understood.
His right arm… was gone.
A wave of vertigo and unbearable pain blurred his vision. Blood. Too much blood.
The Sergeant reacted instantly, pressing the wound with his torn uniform.
'Don't you dare leave me, soldier! Don't you bloody dare!'
Haruto was breathing fast, desperate.
'Takeshi…' he managed to say, his voice barely a thread. 'Go… take the others…'
'I'm not leaving you!' Takeshi trembled. 'I'm not letting you die here!'
But the Sergeant grabbed him by the collar of his jacket and forced him to look at him.
'Soldier Yamamoto, listen carefully,' Fujimoto ordered firmly. 'He can't move. But you can. If you stay, you'll die for nothing. And Haruto doesn't want that!'
Takeshi clenched his teeth.
He looked at his friend.
Haruto looked back.
With a weak smile.
'Survive… idiot…' he murmured.
Takeshi hugged him awkwardly, soaking himself in blood and tears.
'I'll come back for you. I swear it. I swear, Haruto…'
The Sergeant pushed him.
'Move, now! That's an order!'
Takeshi ran, limping, without looking back.
The Sergeant turned back to Haruto.
'Your friend has the makings of a leader…' he said with a broken smile. 'I'm glad I served with you lot.'
Haruto tried to speak, but the pain swallowed him whole.
'Sergeant… you…'
But before he could finish, a burst of gunfire rained down on their position. The Sergeant covered him with his own body. Three bullets tore through his back.
Still, he remained upright.
'Haruto…' he whispered, spitting blood. 'You didn't die for nothing… understand?'
He barely had the strength to stay on his feet.
'I wish I'd had ten like you…' he murmured.
And fell.
Haruto tried to catch him, but he had no strength. His body was numb. His vision blurry.
Haruto lost his sight and fell unconscious.
Enemy voices drew near.
Footsteps.
Then… silence.
White shadows.
More men… but they weren't armed?
'We found him!'
'He's alive, quickly, stabilise him!'
'He's the perfect subject for Phase 02.'
'Blood pressure dropping.'
'Don't let him die—we need him intact!'
Haruto remained unconscious.
One of the men injected him.
He woke up on a metal stretcher. He couldn't move. Thick straps held him down. The air smelled of chemicals and metal.
A man with glasses watched him from behind a window, taking notes.
Another, younger, adjusted machines rapidly.
'He's reacting,' the younger said.
'Perfect,' replied the older scientist. 'The neural reconstruction was successful. Now for the final stage.'
Haruto tried to speak, but a mask covered his mouth.
He tried to move his arms.
Then he felt something strange.
Something heavy.
Cold.
Not his.
'Calm down, Subject 01,' said the old scientist, approaching with a friendly—yet empty—smile. 'I know you're confused. But we've saved your life.'
He looked at him with something resembling… pride.
'Not only that. We've improved you.'
The other scientist activated a panel, and two mechanical arms rose from the sides of the stretcher. Metallic, complex, full of joints and polished steel plates.
Haruto felt the nerves connect. Like needles stabbing into his flesh.
He screamed against the mask.
'Fascinating,' murmured the scientist. 'His nervous system is accepting the graft at an impressive rate.'
Haruto struggled.
Tried to tear everything off.
Tried to scream.
But the old scientist placed a hand on his head.
'Listen carefully,' he said calmly. 'Japan faces threats. Foreign powers. New military technologies. You were a hero… but now you will be something more.'
Haruto stared at him with fury and fear.
'You're not a prisoner,' he continued. 'You're a prototype. Japan's first supersoldier.'
The last thing Haruto saw before fainting again was the young scientist's smile—a dangerous mix of hope and obsession.
Days passed.
Or weeks.
Or months.
Haruto couldn't tell.
His mind was trapped in a strange limbo where time didn't exist.
He was never truly awake.
Never truly asleep.
Just floating between broken dreams, unbearable cold, and stabbing pain that came without warning.
He couldn't open his eyes.
Couldn't move his body.
Only listen to echoes… distant voices coming from somewhere beyond the ice.
Sometimes he recognised a young, eager voice:
'Temperature stabilised, Dr Ishida.' —the voice of Dr Akiyama Ren.—
'The nerves are already reacting to the graft.'
Another voice, slower and deeper, answered with weary authority:
'Good, Ren… continue.' —the voice of Dr Ishida Genzō.
Haruto didn't understand.
He understood nothing.
He only felt needles entering his flesh.
Pressure on his chest.
His body changing, hardening, altering.
But he couldn't scream.
Nor move.
Nor open his eyes to see what they were doing to him.
Once—between long stretches of frozen unconsciousness—he felt something.
Cold.
Very cold.
Then… sudden heat on his right shoulder.
A metallic vibration.
The sound of a tool cutting.
And then a pressure that wasn't human.
'Right prosthetic graft secured, Dr Ishida.'
Ren's voice sounded excited.
Too excited.
Like a child playing at being God.
'Don't get ahead of yourself, Ren,' answered Genzō, older and more serious. 'Secure the nerve connectors first. I don't want rejection.'
'Yes, doctor.'
Haruto felt pain so intense his mind tried to flee into darkness.
But they kept him partially awake—just enough for his body to react…
but not enough for him to protest or move.
Sometimes the voices sounded as if coming from a far-off tunnel:
'Increase the anaesthetic dose.'
'Not too much; we could lose him.'
'Muscle density increased by 27%… fascinating.'
'This soldier is perfect, Dr Ishida. A true prodigy.'
Words that turned into knives inside his mind.
Then came darkness again.
More frozen time.
More suspended consciousness.
Until one day—or night—everything changed.
Haruto felt the temperature rise slightly.
Enough for part of his awareness to float closer to the surface.
He heard dragging footsteps.
A long sigh.
A trembling voice.
Dr Ishida Genzō.
But he no longer spoke with authority.
Nor enthusiasm.
He sounded… broken.
'Haruto…' he murmured, knowing he couldn't respond. 'I don't know if you can hear me. Most likely you can't. But… I must tell you this.'
The old scientist sat in front of the cryogenic capsule.
The frozen glass reflected his tired face, aged by responsibility and guilt.
'Ren… my colleague…' he swallowed, 'died this morning.'
His voice cracked slightly.
Trapped in his unmoving body, Haruto felt a faint jolt in his mind.
The young doctor… dead?
'A sudden illness,' Ishida continued. 'He left insufficient documentation to complete the Final Phase. And I… I no longer have the strength.'
The man took a deep, deep breath, as if gathering courage from decades past.
'I cannot finish the project alone.'
'I cannot repeat it with someone else.'
'And I cannot allow others to continue where we failed.'
Haruto felt a slight temperature shift.
The machine lowered the cooling by a few degrees.
Genzō placed his hand on the glass, where Haruto's frozen silhouette lay.
'You were perfect, Haruto Kuroda.'
'Too perfect.'
'A soldier with a spirit even war couldn't break.'
A faint thump—perhaps the old man leaning against the capsule.
'If I wake you now… if I let the world see you like this… they will use you.'
'They will turn you into the opposite of what you were.'
'Into a weapon. A monster. Something you never chose to become.'
The elder swallowed.
'So… I will do the only thing I can:'
'Let you sleep.'
He typed something on the console.
The lights around the capsule shifted from flickering blue to a cold white.
'I'll programme the automatic thawing for fifty years from now.'
'In 2021.'
'If I'm alive by then… I'll be here to receive you.'
'If not… you'll still wake. And you'll be free.'
Outside, the storm battered the structure.
The laboratory trembled like a dying beast.
Ishida kept speaking, his voice heavy with remorse.
'Forgive me, Haruto.'
'I probably don't deserve your forgiveness.'
'But I couldn't stop this… nor could I do better.'
The temperature dropped further.
The capsule began to seal.
The oxygen compressed.
A thicker pane of glass slid over the first.
The old man stepped back.
'Sleep, boy…' he whispered.
'Wake only when this world is worthy of you.'
The last thing Haruto felt was an explosion of white cold pushing him into total unconsciousness.
No dreams.
No time.
No life.
Only ice.
And the vague memory that he had once been a soldier.
Leaving Haruto's soldier certificate on the table, Dr Akiyama Ren left the room.
And everything turned white.
Fifty years later.
First came an electric hum, so sharp it pierced the darkness inside his mind.
Then a crack, like metal expanding.
And finally, the brutal, unmistakable sound of ice breaking.
Haruto opened his eyes abruptly, as if emerging from a nightmare he hadn't known he was dreaming. His breath escaped in a strangled gasp, turning into white vapour mixing with the mist pouring out of the cryogenic capsule.
He blinked several times. His eyelids burned. He felt needles running through every muscle.
What… is happening to me…?
The translucent glass before him fogged with his own breath. Then, with a mechanical hiss, the capsule door slowly slid upwards.
Old, stale, almost dead air hit him in the face.
Haruto tried to push himself up, but his arms—cold, heavy, strange—brushed against the metal edges of the capsule. The sound was metallic. Far too metallic.
He looked at his hands.
They were not hands.
They were two steel arms, articulated, flawlessly assembled as if they had been born with him.
A tremor ran through his body.
'W-what is this…?' he whispered, his voice rough, as if he hadn't spoken in years.
He tried to stand. His legs trembled; his muscles barely obeyed. Each step sounded as if extra weight dragged behind him.
He fell to his knees.
The impact echoed throughout the empty laboratory.
He breathed deeply, slowly regaining balance. When he finally stood, the first thing he saw was a table in front of the capsule… covered in dust and yellowed papers.
And on it, something that squeezed his chest.
A plastic card, old, worn, but recognisable:
His army ID.
Haruto Kuroda. Self-Defence Forces. Sakura Squadron.
He took it with trembling hands.
The photo.
His name.
His signature.
All still there.
As if reminding him of a life that no longer existed.
He closed his eyes. His mind—slow at first—began opening doors he thought sealed forever.
Fragments.
Shadows.
Voices.
'Hold the line!'
'Haruto, move, they're about to fire another projectile!'
'No… my arm… my arm?'
'Subject 01 is viable.'
'Reconstruct the nerves. Don't let him die.'
He opened his eyes abruptly, gasping.
His heart pounded. He didn't know if from fear… or anger.
He placed the ID back on the table and began walking through the laboratory.
Every step lifted dust accumulated over decades.
The lights flickered, powered by generators shutting down for the last time. Broken tubes dripped acidic water. The computers were rusted, covered in mould and rotting cables.
Beyond was another door, a sliding metal one. The control panel's screen was shattered. Still, when Haruto touched it, the door opened slightly with a creak. With force—too much force—he pushed the metal until it bent.
The next room was larger.
Overturned tables.
Instruments buried under thick mould.
Broken jars.
Notebooks lying open, their pages drifting in the faint breeze.
On one of the stations lay a blanket, now crumbled into dust. Next to it, an old cup of tea completely dried out.
How many years…? How long since they laid me in there?
A calendar on the wall had its last day marked: 1971.
Haruto felt a chill unrelated to the cryogenic cold.
He kept walking. His footsteps echoed unnervingly loud, as if his body were heavier than he remembered.
Then he saw something that stopped his breath.
A broken monitor, but with an image burnt into the screen: a record of his own body during the surgery. Amputated arms. Cables entering his torso. Electrodes. Needles.
And two figures:
The older scientist.
And the young one.
He vaguely remembered them.
Their voices.
Their hands touching his bones.
The knives.
The orders.
A pounding headache struck him, like a blow from inside.
He shut his eyes.
Suddenly, a memory surfaced with absolute clarity:
The old scientist placing a hand on his head before putting him to sleep.
'If you wake… forgive me.'
Haruto clenched his metallic fists.
A crack sounded in his steel fingers.
'What did they do to me?' he growled.
His voice echoed off the empty walls.
He forced himself to continue towards the laboratory's exit. He pushed the main door, rusted and stuck. It took several attempts, but he finally forced it open with a sharp crash.
Fresh air rushed in.
The sunlight blinded him briefly.
When his eyes adjusted, he saw what lay outside:
A small island.
Overrun by wild vegetation.
Asphalt paths devoured by roots.
Collapsed antennas.
Broken docks.
And beyond it, the sea.
Immense.
Blue.
Unreachable.
Haruto staggered out, walking to the edge of the cliff.
He looked at the horizon.
He didn't know whether he was close or far from Japan.
But he felt it in his chest:
He had to return.
He had to discover whether anything remained of his former life.
He had to know what became of Takeshi.
He had to understand these arms, this strength, this body that didn't feel entirely his.
He had to find answers.
Haruto inhaled the salty air deeply.
His metal hands trembled.
But not from the cold.
They trembled from anguish.
From fear.
From rage.
And from a primal instinct of survival telling him that nothing was truly over.
'The war…' he murmured, staring at the horizon. 'The war ended… but I haven't.'
Without thinking further, he took a step forward.
Then another.
And jumped.
The freezing water struck him like a hammer, but his body—now stronger, more resilient—endured the impact. His mechanical arms cut through the water like propellers, driving him with a force he didn't know he possessed.
And thus, without looking back, he began swimming towards the country he had once sworn to protect… even though he no longer knew if it still existed as he remembered.