The morning sun barely crested the rooftops when Satoru arrived at the training site. His leg still ached, a dull, familiar reminder that he wasn't fully healed—but he'd shown up anyway. He always did.
Minato Base had arranged for a joint field exercise with other pro heroes—training simulations mixed with real-world scouting. It wasn't glamorous, but it was the next step. Another rung on the ladder he never stopped climbing.
He adjusted the gloves on his hands and glanced at the lineup beside him. Most were junior agency recruits, a few years older, fresh out of support schools or field training. They gave him side glances—some curious, some skeptical.
"Helmet Guy, right?" one murmured.
Satoru didn't answer.
From across the field, the pro hero overseeing the session approached. A tall, sharp-featured woman with a long scar down her left arm and a sleek katana across her back. Her hair was tied in a short ponytail, black streaked with white.
She didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just scanned the group with hawk-like precision.
"I'm Hoshigawa," she said. "You can call me Shade."
No one dared ask why.
"You're here because someone believes you're worth testing. I'm not here to coddle you. You either move with purpose, or you get out of the way."
Her eyes settled on Satoru.
"Even you, Kojima."
Satoru straightened. "Understood."
---
The first exercise was a timed obstacle course, modeled after a collapsed alley—simulated rubble, tight turns, unpredictable pathways. Recruits stumbled through it, grunting and swearing. Satoru, smaller and used to tight city lanes, wove through with practiced fluidity.
He was the third-fastest.
Shade said nothing. Just scribbled on her clipboard.
---
The second exercise involved rescue coordination.
"Scenario," she barked. "A child is trapped under a vehicle. Two civilians are panicking. You have five minutes to calm them and extract the child without worsening the damage."
They paired him with a bulky recruit with an ego and zero patience.
"You're the distraction," the guy said. "Let me handle the lifting."
Satoru ignored him. He crouched near the fake "child," tested the structural pressure points, and used a spare jack from the gear box to raise the vehicle three inches. Enough to simulate clearance.
Then he turned to the panicked "civilians" (actors), and knelt beside them.
"It's okay. I'm here to help. Just breathe with me, okay?"
His voice was calm, firm. He didn't shout. He grounded them with eye contact and simple instructions.
The actors stopped screaming.
They passed.
---
By the end of the day, he was covered in dirt and bandages. His shoulder screamed every time he moved. His ribs flared when he bent down. But he hadn't fallen behind.
Shade called him over after dismissal.
"You don't have much power," she said bluntly.
"I know," Satoru replied.
"You overcompensate with grit. That only lasts so long."
He nodded. "I know that too."
Shade's eyes narrowed, but there was a flicker of something else—respect, maybe.
"Most people break at this stage."
"I'm not most people."
A pause. Then:
"You're not strong, Kojima. But you're something."