The smell of ozone, rust, and cheap instant ramen was Kenji Ikeda's life.
He wiped grease from his forehead with the back of a hand that felt more like hardened wire than skin. The air in the Jieitai (Defense Force) scrap yard was thick with Tokyo humidity and the faint, ever-present hum of the city's collapsing defense grid. Kenji, twenty-eight, felt just as broken down as the massive piles of discarded military tech around him.
He was a D-Rank civilian technician—the bottom of the barrel. His job was to sort the junk, salvage the usable Kesshō (Aether Shards), and ignore the fact that the entire defense of the world rested on metal that looked ready for the crusher.
"Ikeda! You still breathing, or did a servo motor finally fall on your head?"
Kenji didn't bother turning around. He knew that voice. It belonged to Hiroshi Nakata, his sixty-year-old supervisor. Hiroshi was a former, low-ranked Sentinel, hardened by bad luck and bitterness.
"I'm breathing, Nakata-san. Just trying to figure out if this power coil is worth the two hours it'll take to pull it out. Looks like it's only pushing sixty percent density." Kenji's voice was naturally flat, weighted down by exhaustion.
"Sixty percent is better than zero. Sixty percent is still better than you," Hiroshi grumbled. "If you put as much effort into saving money as you do into arguing about density, maybe your ex-partner wouldn't be breathing down your neck about Hikari."
Kenji's eyes narrowed slightly, but he didn't snap back. His daughter, Hikari, was the one thing that truly mattered, and the thought of losing her to Sanae Kinoshita, his A-Rank Hōjū ex-partner, was a cold punch to the gut. Sanae saw him as an unstable liability, unfit to raise a child near a war zone. She wasn't wrong, but the unfairness still burned.
A nearby military transport hissed to a stop, dumping a mountain of mangled Aether-Tech plating. Kenji sighed. More junk. More chances for someone to look down their nose at the "scrapper."
Later that afternoon, Kenji made his way past the inner perimeter of the base, an area bustling with soldiers and immaculate, gold-plated armor. This was the territory of the Kōrin Assembly, the guild led by S-Rank Commander Masato Aoi, champions of "pure" Kesshō energy.
He spotted her leaning against a stack of supply crates—Naomi Sato.
Naomi wore the standard, slightly dull armor of a C-Rank Sentinel—a low rank, but leagues above Kenji. She was meticulously organized, smart, and for some reason, the only person on the base who treated him like a human being instead of a piece of refuse.
"Naomi-chan. What, no parade today? Thought your people only stood still if someone was polishing the brass," Kenji greeted her, a rare, almost smile touching his lips.
Naomi didn't flinch at his usual snark. She just handed him a warm can of coffee. "They had us doing simulated evacuation drills again. Thought you could use this. And no, Ikeda-san, my people mostly stand still because our S-Ranks are terrified of tripping."
"Terrified of tripping," Kenji repeated, taking a grateful sip. "Sounds about right for the golden boys. Thanks, Naomi-chan."
"Just be safe today," she said quietly, her eyes flicking toward the massive, ominous coastal defense wall known as the Shinden Barrier. "The energy readings are spiking. Bad."
Suddenly, a booming voice cut through the air, heavy with entitlement and power.
"Sato! You waste time talking to the yard refuse again? Get moving. Perimeter check now."
Kaito Jin. The S-Rank Hōjū, heir apparent of a powerful subsidiary guild, and Kenji's most aggressively annoying rival. Kaito was tall, perfectly sculpted, and his armor gleamed with a customized, blinding chrome finish. He was everything Kenji wasn't.
Kaito walked over, barely sparing Kenji a glance, but the contempt radiating off him was thick enough to taste.
"Your place is with the support engineers, Sato. Not polluting your mind with gossip from the civilians. Move." Kaito fixed his eyes on Kenji, the disdain plain. "You. Scrapper. If your junk fails, our technology has to pick up the slack. Stay out of the way."
Kenji looked Kaito up and down, a slow smirk spreading across his face—the smirk that got him into trouble. "Sure, Jin-san. I'll make sure to give you a big heads-up when your 'technology' starts shorting out. Might want to invest in better wiring, by the way. Your suit still looks like it's compensating for something."
Kaito's face flushed a deep red under his helmet. He was used to obedience, not snarky anatomical insults from a man in a greasy jumpsuit. "You will address me with respect, D-Rank!"
Naomi quickly stepped between them, her voice firm. "Jin-san, Ikeda-san was just delivering a report on scrap reserves. We are moving now."
Kaito glared at Kenji, his S-Rank power shimmering visibly around his chrome armor. "The day you manage to salvage anything worth the air you breathe, Scrapper, I'll apologize. Until then, stay in your hole." He grabbed Naomi's arm, pulling her away roughly.
Kenji watched them go, his fists clenching tight enough to leave crescent moons in his palms. He wasn't mad that Kaito insulted his job; he was mad that Kaito could disrespect Naomi and Kenji couldn't do a damn thing about it. He was too weak.
Kenji returned to the main scrap heap, the anger bubbling just beneath his skin. He started stripping a huge, heavy Chassis Plate from a defeated Kyojin—an illegal item, but he needed the specific alloy.
The moment he touched the plate, the city screamed.
It wasn't a siren. It was a sustained, terrible rupture of sound that felt like tearing steel, followed by a shockwave that slammed Kenji into a mountain of broken tech. The ground lurched violently.
Kyojin. Not the usual scouts. This was a breach.
Kenji scrambled to his feet. Smoke and dust instantly choked the air. He heard the panicked shouts of Sentinels—not the controlled cries of a drill, but genuine, primal fear.
He glanced toward the coastal wall. The Shinden Barrier—the pride of the Jieitai—had a hole the size of a skyscraper punched through it. Through the gap, the enormous, hideous, insect-like silhouettes of multiple Kyojin were visible, charging the base.
Chaos erupted. A nearby Aether-Tech supply crate exploded, sending shrapnel everywhere. Kenji dodged behind the Kyojin Chassis Plate he'd been working on.
"I need to get to Hikari," he thought instantly, pushing aside all fear and duty.
He looked around desperately for an exit, but he was pinned. A monstrous, ten-foot-tall Kyojin Brute had burst through the warehouse wall and was scanning the junk yard for targets. Its armor was thick, its eyes burning with pure malice.
The Kyojin spotted Kenji. It let out a deafening roar and charged.
Kenji had nowhere to run. He frantically looked down at the only thing near him: the mangled Kyojin Chassis Plate he'd been trying to steal and, lying beside it, a shattered Kesshō (Aether Shard) that was supposed to be inert, but was pulsating with erratic, brilliant blue energy.
The most dangerous thing, however, was a small, fist-sized piece of the Kyojin's own matter—a shard of corrosive, dark, alien crystal known as Yami-ishi—that had been embedded in the plate. It pulsed with a sick, oily purple light.
Kesshō and Yami-ishi—pure human energy and pure alien corruption. They were never supposed to touch.
The Kyojin Brute raised its massive, metallic fist. Kenji had less than a second. He could die clean, or he could try something completely insane.
Gritting his teeth, fueled by the primal fear of leaving Hikari alone, Kenji didn't choose the Kesshō or the Yami-ishi. He slammed his bare hand down, pinning both shards against the massive Kyojin Chassis Plate.
The effect was instantaneous and agonizing.
A bolt of impossible, dual energy surged through Kenji's arm. The pain was like having every nerve ending replaced with acid and fire. He screamed, a raw sound swallowed by the explosion as the Kyojin Brute brought its fist down.
The Kyojin's fist did not hit a man. It hit a sudden, crude shield of black, chaotic metal that sprang up from the fusion point. The raw energy of the collision blew both the Kyojin back and tore Kenji's world apart.
When the dust settled, the Brute was stumbling, its fist scorched. Kenji was still standing, but his right forearm was gone, replaced by a monstrous, fused gauntlet of scrap metal and hardened black crystal—the first, horrific manifestation of his Gattai power.
He was alive, but the raw, buzzing power in his veins felt like it belonged to something else entirely. He looked down at the fusion and then up at the confused, stumbling Kyojin.
A rush of adrenaline hit him, overriding the fear. The pain was still there, but beneath it was something new: power.
Kenji wiped the blood from his mouth, a cynical, triumphant sneer returning to his face.
"Well," he spat, adjusting the crude, fused gauntlet. "Looks like I finally salvaged something worth a damn."