The chill morning air on the academy parade ground bit sharply at exposed skin, a stark contrast to the simmering unease that had settled over the ranks. It was the day after the highly anticipated tactical simulation—a brutal, academy-wide exercise designed to test combat aptitude, strategic thinking, and sheer resilience. Normally, the day after would be a mix of exhaustion, analysis, and a brief respite before the relentless grind resumed. Today, however, felt different.
Whispers slithered through the formed ranks as cadets cast furtive glances toward the main administration building and the small, guarded knot of unfamiliar staff near the observation gallery. The rumor was specific and impossible to ignore: the Zabi family had dispatched high-level observers to the academy—not routine inspectors, but individuals with genuine clout, here to scrutinize the latest crop of officers-in-training.
Among the assembled cadets stood Lelouch and Tanya von Zehrtfeld, twins yet worlds apart in presence. Tanya, ramrod straight, eyes sharp and unblinking, absorbed every detail of the shifting atmosphere. Her focus was absolute, a finely honed instrument already calculating the implications of the rumors. This was no longer academy politics; this was the big leagues taking notice.
Lelouch, standing just as tall but with a subtle, almost imperceptible slump to his shoulders, watched with a different kind of intensity. A cynical twist played on his lips. "Zabi family?" he murmured under his breath, barely audible over the rustle of uniforms and distant base activity. "Seems our little performance yesterday drew more attention than we thought."
Tanya didn't respond, her gaze fixed forward. "Attention has consequences."
"Indeed," Lelouch said dryly. "Good consequences… and less good ones. Depending on who's watching—and what they want." He paused, the cynical edge softening into sharper insight. "Think about it, Tanya. The simulation results are fresh—who can perform under pressure, who can stretch resources, who breaks the mold. If the Zabis are sending people here now, it's not for a casual inspection. They're talent scouting. Or threat assessing." His voice dropped. "We're no longer just cadets. We're potential assets—or targets."
Tanya finally turned her head slightly, a flicker of understanding passing between them. Lelouch's pragmatism, often masked by detachment, mirrored her own. The academy was a microcosm, but it existed within a larger, unforgiving world. Their simulation performance—Lelouch's unorthodox strategy paired with Tanya's ruthless execution—had clearly made waves.
Suddenly, activity near the gallery broke the tension. A small, heavily guarded shuttle landed moments before, and now a group disembarked, led by senior academy officers. The cadets stiffened, snapping to attention as the group approached the main viewing platform overlooking the parade ground.
Two figures stood out, for very different reasons. One was a broad-shouldered man in a flight suit, swaggering slightly, his boisterous energy out of place among the academy brass. This was Major Monsha, a celebrated test pilot known for his aggressive style and sharper tongue. He was here to deliver a guest lecture on mobile suit survival and combat doctrine.
The other was quieter, almost blending into the background. Dressed in a simple dark uniform distinct from academy colors, his gaze swept the cadets with unnerving thoroughness. Lieutenant Ken Bederstadt, attached to Kycilia Zabi's intelligence wing and tasked with identifying potential recruits for highly classified units.
The formal parade ground exercises began—drills, formations, displays of basic combat readiness. The cadets moved with practiced precision, acutely aware of the high-level scrutiny. Monsha sat prominently on the viewing platform, his impatience visible in constant shifting and whispered grumbles. Bederstadt, however, remained still, eyes tracking every movement with unreadable expression.
Later, Monsha's lecture in the auditorium crackled with anticipation. Known for bluntness, cadets expected hard truths from the veteran. Instead, they heard a dismantling of conventional wisdom delivered with aggressive confidence.
"You kids learn all sorts of fancy theories here," Monsha scoffed, gesturing to a projection of yesterday's simulation map—undeniably the von Zehrtfelds' handiwork. "Clever, maybe. Lots of movement, feints, resource juggling." His eyes scanned the crowd, briefly locking on the twins.
"But let me tell you," he boomed, planting hands on hips, "you don't win a war with chess pieces. You win with blood and guts. You break the enemy's will by pushing yourself—and your machine—past the breaking point!"
He leaned forward, voice dropping but fierce. "Some of you rely too much on theory," he spat, clearly targeting a certain kind of mindset. "Thinking you can outsmart the battlefield from a safe command chair. That's fantasy. When the first round hits, your perfect plan evaporates. You need instinct. Guts!"
Then he turned his glare elsewhere, sneering. "And others… you're too cold. Too clinical. War isn't an accounting spreadsheet. Efficiency's good, sure. But forget the human mess on the ground, and your fragile structure crumbles." His contempt for "cold efficiency" was palpable.
The message was clear: Monsha's critique was a public challenge, directed at the twins' simulation style. Lelouch felt a familiar irritation, but masked it well—a slight tightening around his eyes. He recognized the tactic: undermine intellect, elevate brute force. Foolish, but dangerous coming from a man of Monsha's stature.
Tanya's reaction was quieter but no less sharp. Her gaze on Monsha was unyielding and analytical. She wasn't insulted, exactly—more catalogued and judged. His words revealed the establishment's view of her kind. Conventional thinking was a liability; she was a threat. His dismissal was institutional, not personal.
Monsha's anecdotes dripped with bravado and tactical simplifications that made Lelouch inwardly scoff, but the crowd was captivated, nodding along. Monsha spoke their language—pilots' language—while Lelouch and Tanya's approach felt abstract and sterile in comparison.
As the lecture closed, the twins understood the spotlight was on them—Monsha's public dismissal merely a distraction from the quieter, far more unsettling scrutiny.
Throughout the day, whether in drills or the mess hall, Bederstadt's silent presence lingered. Not always visible, but often nearby, eyes following even when unseen. No public challenges, only calculating observation. Monsha was the loud irritant; Bederstadt, the patient spider weaving a web.
As the academy lights dimmed, a solitary figure approached the administration building—Lieutenant Ken Bederstadt. Speaking briefly with the duty officer, his request was calm but carried undeniable weight.
"I require full access to combat logs," Bederstadt said evenly, "specifically those pertaining to Grade A cadets from yesterday's simulation. I have particular interest in the performance and strategic analyses submitted by Cadets Lelouch and Tanya von Zehrtfeld."
His eyes—cold, precise—left no doubt of the importance. The officer nodded, understanding. Lelouch and Tanya von Zehrtfeld were no longer just names on a roster. They were subjects of high-level interest, analyzed not by academy staff, but by powers far beyond.