Chapter 6: Foundational Gears
The sky was overcast on the morning we left Base 107.
Ash still clung to the shattered walls, and the sea breeze carried the scent of smoldered hopes. I stood with Toma on the rebuilt dock, surrounded by those who had fought beside us. There were no grand speeches—just nods, quiet exchanges, and the kind of farewell that weighed more than words ever could.
Burke clasped my shoulder. "Don't come back until you're stronger."
Lotte offered her hand to Toma with a playful wink. "Don't let him get you killed."
Juno slipped Toma a sheathed dagger. "For when your fists aren't enough."
Sora? She just turned her back and muttered, "Hurry up and leave already."
Then Rear Admiral Strawberry's ship arrived—cutting through the sea like it didn't answer to the same laws as the rest of us. Sleek. Deadly. Silent.
As we boarded, I took one last look at the people I'd started this journey with, and the ones I'd never see again.
Then the sea swallowed the coast behind us.
—
Strawberry's ship, the Blue Sickle, was less a vessel and more a floating fortress. Every plank gleamed from meticulous care, every crew member moved with the precision of a blade stroke. Discipline ruled here, and it wasn't long before we understood the price of being under Strawberry's command.
On the first morning, he addressed us with his usual detached calm.
"You survived. Admirable. Now, you learn to fight."
And just like that, training began.
It started before the sun. Toma and I were rousted from our cramped bunks and thrown into a world of exhaustion. Sprints around the deck until our legs burned. Push-ups on wet planks. Rope climbs in the rain. Strawberry didn't shout—he simply watched, his quiet presence far more terrifying than any drill sergeant's scream.
Every movement had a purpose. Every mistake had a consequence.
For me, the real trial began when he introduced Rokushiki.
"Speed is survival," he told me during our first private session. "But speed without timing is suicide."
He drilled Soru into me like a rhythm. Not magic—just pure, explosive movement using leg strength to vanish and reappear. I failed a dozen times. Then a hundred. Each time Strawberry would say, "Again," and I would try.
But it was in my failures that something new began to take shape.
As I moved, I began to feel the rhythm—not just of my feet, but of my breath. My heart. My thoughts. It reminded me of gears ticking inside a clock. Precise. Mechanical. Unyielding.
That's when it began to form—Clockwork Breathing. I hadn't forgotten about my breathing style training, in the past few weeks I had mastered Total concentration breathing. Now I am building the concept of my fighting style using breathing style.
A style not built on power or flair, but timing. Rhythm. Anticipation. I trained in secret, each inhale calibrated, each exhale timed to movement. I etched the first form into muscle memory, over and over again:
First Form : Second Hand Strike.
A diagonal axe sweep, launched between two timed breaths—designed to disrupt my opponent's rhythm rather than overpower them. Measured. Predictable. But deadly in the right hands. To use this move to it's utmost potential I had to learn to observe the opponent.... When they blink, how they breath, what's their preferred tempo so I can disrupt it . In fact this applies to the entire style.
Honestly seeing Kael fight has influenced me to a large degree, it has made me believe control is far more important than outright strenght.
Toma trained with the regular recruits. Strawberry had him join a batch of new trainees under the ship's second-in-command. He struggled. I saw it in the way he walked at night—limping, bruised. He didn't complain, but his silence spoke louder than words.
One name came up often: Derris.
Broad-shouldered, cocky, and mean. He mocked Toma during drills, pushed him too hard in spars, hit a little too late after the whistle. Toma never answered back. Just clenched his fists and kept going.
I kept watch. But I didn't interfere, Toma needed to learn to fight his own battles, I can't be there to protect him everytime, but if this Derris goes overboard with his bullying of Toma he better be prepared for hell to pay damn Strawberry and his rules.
Every day, I honed my breathing, matched it to the flow of movement. Strawberry added Geppo next. Kicks that could lift you into the air—barely at first, then with control. I fell more times than I flew. But slowly, I began to feel the improvement.
One evening, he watched me practice Clockwork Breathing in the hold.
" I have never seen someone rely on breathing to physically enhance themselves. However this style of yours ... It's too rigid," he said. "You'll die if you always rely on the same rhythm. All it takes is an unpredictable opponent for you to be killed easily. "
He left without another word.
Training under Strawberry was brutal—but not thoughtless. Every drill, every sparring session, every lesson had a purpose. He increased the difficulty of the tasks after he learnt about my breathing style.
My days began before sunrise with conditioning. Weighted sprints on the shoreline. Endless rounds of kata with my axe under resistance. Breathing drills that forced me to focus on tempo, timing, and the beat of my own movement.
"You rely on instinct," Strawberry said during one session, watching as I completed another form of Clockwork Breathing, dripping with sweat. "Good instinct, but unrefined. Clockwork Breathing must become more than rhythm. It must become memory—motion locked into your bones."
—
In time, I began to spar with other marines. At first, I was outclassed—facing opponents who had mastered forms I'd barely begun to grasp. But as the weeks passed, things shifted. My timing improved. I learned to bait faster foes into striking early. I used Soru not to rush, but to reposition. I matched their rhythm—then stole it.
One day, a sparring match paired me against someone new.
Her name was Lyra.
Fast. Elegant. A blur of limbs and sharp eyes. She disarmed me in three moves and tapped my forehead with the butt of her spear.
"You think too much," she said.
"You move like lightning," I replied.
" Stop reacting to me..... Learn to predict your opponent's next move instead of reacting predict my next move and reading accordingly."
She became a regular opponent. We pushed each other harder with every match—never cruel, always focused. I could see the fire in her eyes mirrored in my own. We were rivals, not enemies. Toma took a liking to her too. She, at least, treated him with kindness.
Unlike Derris.
I watched one of their matches from the deck above. Derris knocked Toma down with a shoulder check, then whispered something cruel as he helped him up. Toma's hands shook. But he didn't swing back.
He began to eat more.Train harder. He wasn't confronting Derris—not yet—but he was no longer retreating either.
There was also Jiro, the unit's cook and unofficial medic, who taught Toma the fastest way to treat bruises and wrap a sprain. "I patch up everyone," he said. "But you, kid—you're the only one who thanks me every time."
We ate meals in a mess hall carved into the ship's inner deck. It was there I began to know the rest of Strawberry's unit. There was Ensign Tilda one of Strawberry's most loyal subordinates, Tilda oversees administrative drills and sparring matches. She has short silver hair, crisp posture, and a rigid sense of formality. Tilda treats all recruits equally—harshly—and expects perfection in footwork, salutes, and timing. Toma often fears her lectures more than Deriss's jabs. There was also Boone a stoic rifleman who didn't speak much. He is in charge of firearms instruction and long-distance marksmanship drills.
—
Weeks turned into a month.
The bruises faded, replaced by calluses. The mistakes became reflex. I could now perform three steps of Soru in succession, land short bursts of Geppo, and wield my axe with fluid grace. My Clockwork Breathing moved with me now—not just in combat, but in life. A rhythm that kept me grounded. It settled deeper with each passing week. And though I was still nowhere near a master, I was no longer the same man who'd nearly died to Kael.
One night, as the ship rocked gently in calm waters, I caught Toma watching the older recruits training nearby.
"Worried?" I asked.
He nodded. "They're all so good. Even Derris. I feel like I'm running just to stay behind."
"You're doing better than you think," I said. "You held your ground. That's more than most."
He looked at me for a moment and smiled faintly. "I'm going to get stronger."
"I know."
Then me and Toma sat there stargazing for a while before returning to our respective training. Motivated by the uncertainties of the future .
Author'sNote - This was my attempt at making a training and bonding chapter... According to my plans the next segment will start after Ch 10. As always if you like the novel do add this to your liabrary and throw some stones at me.
1) what do you think of the direction Toma is heading ?
2) What do you think about Clockwork breathing ( still in its nascent form) ?