Clancy and the rest of the recruits stood frozen, their minds reeling. The weight of what they had just learned pressed down on them like a mountain. Time travel was real—not science fiction, not theory, but a dangerous, practiced reality. And worse... there were things—monsters—that slipped through the cracks in time itself. Beasts born of some distant, impossible elsewhere. Creatures that tore open rifts in history and threatened to unravel the very fabric of the world they knew.
The idea of crossing into the past or the future was staggering enough. But the revelation that humanity was not alone in the corridors of time—that there were ancient, predatory forces stalking the timeline, waiting for the right moment to strike—was almost too much to comprehend.
Whispers rippled through the room. Eyes darted. Fear hung thick in the air.
For the first time since they'd arrived at the OTA, every recruit understood the terrible truth:
This wasn't about honor or duty.
It was about survival.
Theirs—and the world's.
The remaining four hours were a relentless flood of information—the secret history of the OTA, its hidden war against the Kairon, and the complex web of authority that held the organization together. Every recruit sat rigid in their seat, absorbing the gravity of what they were now a part of.
They learned of the OTA's vast structure, built over decades in the shadows of the modern world. Four continental Divisions formed the backbone of the organization: North America, Europe, Asia, and the Global Contingency Division, each operating autonomously but unified under the Council of Directors. These four Divisions watched over the timeline like silent sentinels, guarding humanity's fragile history against unseen threats.
Clancy and his fellow recruits had been assigned to the 111th Division of the North American Branch. But selection into a Division was not bound by birthplace or nationality. Recruits were pulled from every corner of the globe, chosen for skill, instinct, and potential alone—no matter where, or when, they had come from.
At the head of the North American Division stood Director Selwyn himself—a towering figure of authority not just within their branch, but across the entire OTA. As one of the few permanent members of the Council of Directors, Selwyn shared in the burden of overseeing the entire temporal defense program—its policies, its secrets, and its deadliest missions.
The recruits were beginning to grasp a terrible, sobering truth:
This was not a mere organization.
It was a machine—a vast, unseen empire operating across the whole of history itself.
And they had just become its newest gears.
Nearing the end of the relentless four-hour lecture, Clancy felt like his skull was ready to split open from the sheer weight of information crammed into it. Dates, names, organizational structures, classified incidents—the flood of knowledge had been unending, a tidal wave of history and horror that refused to let up.
Around him, the other recruits wore the same vacant, glassy-eyed expressions. Shoulders slumped. Eyes unfocused. Their brains, like his, were overloaded—numbed by the crushing realization of what they'd signed up for. A few rubbed at their temples or leaned back in their chairs, mouths slightly open, staring at nothing.
It wasn't boredom.
It was exhaustion—the kind that came from learning too much, too fast, about things no human was ever meant to know.
And the collective thought in the room was clear:
"Please, for the love of God… let this be over so we can eat."
Even the thought of cafeteria food—surprisingly rich, fresh, and far better than anyone had expected—felt like a distant paradise compared to enduring another minute of this mental onslaught.
After a blissful lunch period—a rare moment of relief where hot, well-cooked meals and quiet conversation dulled the lingering headache from the morning's lecture—the recruits were herded back into the training halls for the afternoon's brutal gauntlet of combat drills, overseen by none other than Instructor Garrick himself.
Despite the fierce kick Clancy had landed that morning, Garrick seemed no worse for wear—save for the stark white bandage taped across his temple, a small but satisfying reminder of Clancy's lucky strike. If the instructor bore any grudge, he didn't show it. His expression was the same hard, predatory glare as before, as if daring someone to try and hit him again.
The training was relentless. Simulated close-quarters combat scenarios, grueling endurance circuits, punishing conditioning drills—each round designed to break them down and build them back up into weapons fit to fight monsters that shouldn't exist. The air in the gym grew thick with the stink of sweat, the sharp bark of Garrick's commands, and the dull thud of bodies hitting mats and padded walls.
By the end of the three-hour session, every muscle in their bodies screamed in protest. Limbs felt heavy and slow, shirts clung to sweat-slicked skin, and more than a few recruits were clutching sore ribs or bruised shoulders. Even Clancy, who prided himself on his stamina, felt the creeping ache of exhaustion settling into his bones.
As the recruits struggled to catch their breath, wiping sweat from their brows and stretching out sore limbs, Instructor Garrick's voice cut through the noise like a blade.
"You six. Front and center. Now."
Clancy, Luca, Dorian, Mariana, Mira, and Baek exchanged tired glances but obeyed without hesitation, dragging their aching bodies into a loose line before him.
Garrick folded his arms, the bandage on his temple standing out starkly against his shaved scalp. His eyes swept over them like a predator sizing up prey.
"Hope you're not too comfortable," he said, a thin smirk curling at the edge of his mouth. "Because the next hour is hand-to-hand combat training. No weapons. No gear. Just you, your fists, and whoever's standing across from you."
The recruits straightened, tension sparking in the air.
"You'll be going one-on-one. No teams. No friends. You'll fight each other until you drop, or until I tell you to stop." His gaze lingered on each of them for a moment longer. "Consider this your first real test. I want to see who's sharp... and who's soft."
His eyes landed briefly on Clancy, the faintest ghost of amusement flickering behind them—as if daring him to try that lucky kick again.
"Pair up. First match starts in two minutes."
The room grew quiet, the weight of the challenge sinking in as the six recruits prepared for what came next.
Garrick stepped forward, his heavy boots echoing against the padded floor. His gaze swept over the line of exhausted recruits before settling squarely on Clancy.
"First match," he barked. "Clancy Endicott versus Baek Jihoon. Front and center. Now."
Clancy felt his stomach tighten.
'Seriously? Him?'
He glanced sideways at Jihoon. The Korean recruit stood still as stone, his expression unreadable, eyes calm but distant—as if this was all routine to him.
'I've barely heard the guy speak.'
All Clancy knew was that Baek Jihoon kept to himself. He hadn't said a word in the dorms last night. Hadn't spoken to anyone during breakfast or lunch. No nervous small talk, no casual remarks. Nothing.
'What's his deal? Is he shy... or just watching everyone?'
Jihoon stepped forward without hesitation, his movements smooth and effortless, like he'd done this more times than he could count. His calm confidence only made Clancy's nerves twist tighter.
'Great. The quiet ones are always the dangerous ones.'
Garrick crossed his arms, watching with sharp interest.
"On the mat. Let's see if you two know how to throw hands without falling over."
Clancy swallowed hard and forced his legs to move.
Clancy and Jihoon stepped onto the mat, tension thick in the air like the humidity before a storm. The training hall, once echoing with the sharp sounds of drills and orders, had gone still. All eyes were on them.
Jihoon bowed with quiet precision, his posture rigid and composed. Clancy hesitated half a second, then returned the gesture, trying to ignore the unease crawling through his chest.
'He looks like a statue. Doesn't blink, doesn't twitch. Just stands there.'
"Begin," Instructor Garrick called out, voice sharp and cold as a blade.
Jihoon moved instantly. No wasted motion, no tell—just pure explosive speed. His right leg cut through the air with a high roundhouse aimed straight at Clancy's temple.
Clancy barely ducked in time, feeling the kick slice the air above his head. He stepped back, guarding high, trying to read Jihoon's rhythm—but another kick came low, aiming for his thigh. Then a third—spinning hook this time—aimed to catch him as he moved.
'He's chaining them... taekwondo blitz. Fast, high, low, then misdirect.'
Clancy parried with his forearm, absorbing the force, and countered with a swift low kick of his own. Jihoon hopped back effortlessly, barely reacting.
'Alright. So he wants to play light on his feet? Let's see how he handles pressure.'
Clancy darted forward and threw a quick left jab, then a right hook—but they were feints. Jihoon shifted into a defensive stance, and that's when Clancy launched his real attack: a spinning elbow aimed straight at Jihoon's jaw. Jihoon blocked—just barely—and stumbled a step.
Clancy didn't let up. He charged in, mixing techniques: a Krav Maga palm strike to the chin, a low kickboxing leg sweep, then a tight Judo grip around Jihoon's waist.
He went for the throw—harai goshi— sweeping Jihoon's leg, trying to flip him to the mat.
But Jihoon pivoted in midair, twisting like a cat. He kicked off Clancy's thigh and landed on both feet with a thud, sliding backward with inhuman grace.
Clancy blinked.
'You've gotta be kidding me.'
No time to think. Jihoon surged forward now, flipping the pace. He unleashed a snap front kick, then shifted into a karate-style reverse punch, fast and deadly precise. Clancy ducked under the punch, but a follow-up axe kick came crashing down, forcing him to roll out of the way.
'He's not just fast—he adapts. He's reading me.'
Clancy gritted his teeth and reset his stance. Sweat was already dripping down his neck. He could feel the bruises forming, dull thuds spreading along his arms and ribs.
'Fine. I'll give him something harder to read.'
He closed the distance fast and launched into a mixed flurry: kickboxing jab-cross-uppercut, followed by a taekwondo jump side kick, then a Krav Maga elbow to the solar plexus. Jihoon absorbed some of the hits but twisted sideways just in time to avoid the elbow.
For a split second, Clancy was close—too close. He wrapped his arm around Jihoon's shoulder and attempted a Judo trip again, this time hooking Jihoon's ankle instead of sweeping his leg.
It worked—almost. Jihoon fell backward, but he didn't fall flat. He spun in the air and used the momentum to land in a crouch.
Clancy panted, watching him rise.
'Jesus, it's like fighting a damn ghost.'
Jihoon didn't speak. He hadn't spoken a word since stepping on the mat. He didn't need to. His movements were doing all the talking—and they were saying you're not fast enough.
Jihoon advanced again, now throwing tighter combinations: quick jab-punch-kick sequences with minimal telegraphing. He struck with surgical precision, forcing Clancy onto the defensive. Clancy blocked most of them, but not all.
A side kick slammed into his midsection, knocking the air from his lungs. He staggered, catching himself, then snarled and stepped in with a wild, overhand right.
Jihoon ducked under it and spun into a back elbow that grazed Clancy's cheek. Blood trickled from a fresh cut just below his eye.
Clancy backed up, breathing heavily.
'Alright... cool it. He's better at pacing. Don't rush. Think.'
They circled again, both bruised, both dripping sweat, eyes locked.
This time Clancy didn't attack. He waited.
Jihoon moved first—just as Clancy had hoped. A mid-level roundhouse.
Clancy caught the leg—finally, some leverage—and used Jihoon's momentum to spin him, then pulled his arm under and tried a modified Krav Maga takedown by locking the knee and twisting the hip.
Jihoon twisted violently to counter, breaking free—but Clancy had already shifted position. He slammed a knee into Jihoon's exposed ribs, hard enough to draw a grunt. Then a brutal elbow to the back of Jihoon's shoulder, and a kick aimed to take out his support leg.
Jihoon collapsed for a moment—but rolled, and like a spring recoiling, launched into a flying side kick that Clancy narrowly sidestepped.
Clancy felt the wind from it as it passed.
'He's still fast—even hurt.'
He was impressed, but also winded. His knuckles ached. His side throbbed. This wasn't just a sparring match anymore—it was a real fight. One where every mistake left bruises... or worse.
They locked eyes again. Jihoon's breathing was heavier now, his chest rising and falling in sharp bursts. His once-effortless footwork had begun to slow.
Clancy took a deep breath.
'He's mortal after all.'
He smiled faintly, raised his hands, and shifted into a lower kickboxing stance. Jihoon did the same, adjusting to a classic karate guard.
'Final stretch. He's not backing down. And I'm sure as hell not either.'
Another pause.
Another breath.
Another beat of silence between storms.
Then they lunged again—two blurs colliding in the center of the mat, fists flying, feet twisting, knees slamming, guards breaking.
It was beautiful chaos.
And it wasn't over yet.