Military Calendar January 15, 2518, 1000 hours
Epsilon Eridani system, Reach Military Stronghold, Combat Training Facility
The Combat Training Facility was one of the coldest places in the base.
Not in temperature—the environmental control system maintained twenty degrees Celsius as always—but in the chill that hung in the air, the kind of cold you only felt when you knew you were about to take a beating.
The vaulted ceiling rose thirty meters high, crisscrossed with steel beams like the ribs of a giant beast.
Flags of the various UNSC branches hung on the walls, fluttering gently in the draft of the air conditioning.
In the center of the hall lay a ten-meter-by-ten-meter dark blue combat mat, springy and creaking softly beneath any weight.
Surrounding the mat, a three-tiered ring of bleachers rose like an inverted bowl, focusing every eye onto that square blue zone.
Seventy-five children sat in the bleachers.
Most of their body language communicated the exact same thing: nervousness.
Some clutched the hems of their shirts, some bit their fingernails, and others stared blankly at the combat mat—though a blank stare was just another form of tension.
Tak-047 sat in the front row, his legs dangling and swinging, an uneasy grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.
He was worried for whoever was about to go up, though he would never admit it.
Next to Tak, Riley squinted slightly, making subtle gestures in the air with his fingers—calculating the ratio of wingspan to attack range.
Cohen sat with his arms crossed, expressionless, but his eyes were sharper than usual, like a blade yet to be drawn.
Sam-034 rubbed his hands together on his knees, asking Kelly-087 in a low voice, “Who do you think will win?” Kelly shook her head, her emerald-green eyes fixed on the mat, offering no answer.
Chief Petty Officer Mendez stood at the edge of the mat with his hands behind his back.
His face was devoid of expression as his unblinking black eyes swept across the children in the bleachers before settling on the two boys at opposite ends of the mat.
He stood as motionless as a stone statue, looking as though he had stopped breathing altogether.
“Today’s training module is sparring evaluation,” Mendez said, his voice echoing through the facility.
“Pairs, unarmed combat, five minutes. I want to see your technique and reaction times, not who can beat the other senseless.” He paused, his gaze shifting from Ethan-007 to John-117, then back.
“007 versus 117.”
The whispers in the bleachers swelled into a low buzz.
Everyone knew Ethan and John were the two most outstanding recruits in this batch—Ethan was calm, intelligent, and always found shortcuts in training; John was strong, decisive, a natural-born leader.
They had never faced each other directly.
The children leaned in to chatter, some betting on John, some backing Ethan, while most simply waited in nervous anticipation.
At his end of the mat, Ethan was warming up—stretching his legs, twisting his waist, rolling his joints.
He deliberately slowed every movement, making it look like a seven-year-old child’s clumsy imitation rather than the instinctual muscle memory of an adult.
He clenched and unclasped his fingers one by one, then rotated his wrists three times clockwise and three times counterclockwise—a habit formed in his past life, though right now he executed it awkwardly, like a child who had just learned how to warm up.
He knew Dr. Halsey might be watching from the shadows.
He could not afford a single slipup.
John’s warmup was entirely different.
He knocked out twenty pushups, twenty situps, and then threw a shadowboxing combination into the air.
The wind whistled with his strikes, each punch carrying power no seven-year-old had any right to possess.
His vivid blue eyes locked onto Ethan like an eagle zeroing in on prey.
No hesitation, no wasted motion—only pure power and focus.
Ethan stepped onto his end of the mat, loosening his wrists.
His heart beat a fraction faster than normal, but his face remained unruffled.
John stood at the other end, feet slightly apart, center of gravity sunk low in a textbook combat stance.
They locked eyes across the ten-meter distance, as though an invisible current charged the air between them.
Mendez raised his right hand.
“Begin.”
His hand dropped.
John moved first.
Pushing off with his left foot, he launched himself forward like a cannonball straight at Ethan, driving a right punch toward his face—with terrifying speed.
No seven-year-old child should have possessed such velocity, but John was no ordinary child.
His body maintained perfect balance throughout the sprint, his punch traveling along a line straight as a die, utterly devoid of wasted effort.
It was pure, unreasonable talent.
Ethan leaned back.
The gust of John’s punch brushed his cheek, bringing a chill with it.
Close.
Far too close.
Half a second slower, and that fist would have shattered his nose.
He felt the cold shock as the wind swept over his skin—a terrifying precision, as if John’s target had never been Ethan’s face, but the air half a meter behind him.
In the bleachers, Tak sucked in a sharp breath.
“Whoa, that punch from John could kill a guy!” he muttered under his breath.
Riley’s eyes narrowed slightly as he mentally computed John’s striking speed—thirty percent faster than an ordinary adult’s.
This wasn’t the result of training; this was talent.
Pure, unreasonable talent.
He quietly noted the number in his mind.
Ethan took two steps back to create distance.
He adjusted his stance—lowering his center of gravity further and shifting it slightly backward compared to standard form.
This was an adult fighter’s habit, giving the body greater maneuverability to burst forward or dodge back at a moment’s notice.
A seven-year-old child shouldn’t have had such control over his weight distribution, but the audience was so transfixed by John’s astonishing punch that no one noticed the subtle difference in Ethan’s footwork.
John gave him no room to breathe.
He threw another strike, a left hook this time, sweeping in a wider arc with even greater force.
Ethan raised his forearm to block, the force of the blow reverberating down through his body—the kid possessed absurd strength.
The vibration of bone clashing against bone left Ethan’s arm numb for a second.
Taking advantage of the contact, Ethan grabbed John’s wrist, attempting to disrupt his balance, but John’s reaction was just as quick; his other hand was already swinging toward Ethan’s ribs.
Ethan let go and leaped backward.
The two circled each other on the mat like a pair of beasts testing their opponent’s limits.
John’s footwork was heavy and steady, closing the distance step by step like an unhurried wolf.
Ethan constantly changed direction, staying just outside John’s strike zone like a nimble serpent.
Their breathing sounded distinct in the quiet hall, and the scent of sweat began to permeate the air.
Sixty seconds passed.
Neither had landed a decisive blow, but two brilliant minds had already gathered enough intelligence through the exchange of fists and feet.
Sixty seconds of probing allowed Ethan to confirm several key facts: John’s speed and strength far exceeded those of his peers, but his combat techniques were still raw—his striking angles were straightforward, his footwork lacked variety, and his center of gravity shifted momentarily whenever he committed to an attack.
These were all exploitable weaknesses.
Ethan launched his counterattack.
He feigned an opening—lowering his right hand slightly to leave his ribs exposed.
It was a carefully designed trap, crafted to look like a defensive lapse caused by fatigue.
John took the bait.
His right fist whistled forward with devastating power, driving straight for Ethan’s exposed flank—which was exactly what Ethan was waiting for.
Ethan slipped to the side, seized John’s wrist, and twisted hard.
Joint lock.
Not one of the basic CQC moves taught by Mendez, but a far more refined control technique—using the lever principle of the wrist to force the opponent’s body to rotate.
John grunted in pain, but he did not retreat; he tried to counter with his free hand, swinging his right fist toward Ethan’s face.
Ethan had already anticipated the move.
He swept a low kick across John’s front ankle, disrupting his stance.
John stumbled, leaning heavily to his left as his balance completely collapsed.
Seizing the opening, Ethan wrapped both arms around John’s waist and executed a textbook hip throw—slamming John heavily onto the mat.
The dull thud reverberated through the hall like a heavy strike on a bass drum.
Gasps echoed through the bleachers.
Someone cried out, while others involuntarily stood up.
Cohen lowered his crossed arms, staring intently at the scene on the mat, his lips slightly parted.
John-117, the boy who had led every single training metric, had been thrown to the ground for the very first time.
It was unprecedented at the Spartan training facility.
Tak practically leaped out of his seat, and Riley’s fingers stopped gesturing as he reevaluated Recruit 007—this quiet boy seemed far stronger than he had imagined.
Ethan released his hold and took a step back.
He gave John time to get up—not out of mercy, but out of tactical necessity.
He warned himself internally: *I can’t win this.
At least, not too easily.* If a sparring evaluation ended too quickly, Halsey would inevitably notice the abnormality in his combat proficiency.
Yet deep down, another voice spoke: *This kid’s talent is terrifying.* Were it not for his adult experience and tactical awareness, Ethan wouldn’t stand a chance.
John was only seven years old—seven!—and the gap between them was merely the breadth of a single throw.
In a few years, once his body matured and his technique was honed, probably no one in the world would be able to bring him down.
John picked himself up faster than Ethan expected.
He patted the dust off his clothes, his vivid blue eyes devoid of anger or frustration.
The look in his eyes had changed.
It had grown more focused, sharper, like a machine powering up.
He resumed his combat stance, but this time his center of gravity sat two inches lower, and his feet were set an inch wider—he was adjusting.
He was learning.
Ethan executed another low sweep kick.
Same angle, same timing.
John jumped.
He had anticipated Ethan’s move—reacting before Ethan’s leg had even fully extended.
The leg swept harmlessly through empty air beneath him, and John landed solidly without the slightest wobble.
His eyes lingered on Ethan’s sweeping leg for less than two-tenths of a second before immediately locking back onto his opponent’s upper body.
This was no reflex jump; it was a deliberate, analytical prediction.