My Only Familiar Is Me[A Late-Blooming Evolution Story]

The practical S-Armor piloting session had been moved back to the open training ground again, but this time the balance of power inside the unit had shifted. Every cadet was busy fussing over their own personal armor, fresh off the line and tailored to individual measurements. My analytical projections had turned out to be one hundred percent accurate: Mary really did have a custom truncated tank mounted on her back, exactly half the size of the standard military cylinder.

I was the only one standing in formation without equipment. It looked a little pathetic, but the massive wooden crate beside the sergeant made it perfectly clear that I would not be staying unequipped for long.

“Staff Sergeant Ross, front and center!” the instructor’s booming voice tore through the silence.

I stepped forward with crisp regulation precision and locked my posture into place.

“Corps High Command’s verified your piloting metrics and approved a personal S-Armor unit for your use.”

I gave a short nod. Danny had explained the supply procedure to me a long time ago. During the first ten days, the platoon trained on generic utility rigs purely so the green recruits could develop muscle memory for switch placement, harnesses, and locking mechanisms and stop fumbling around with basic controls. After that, the Corps issued personalized gear.

Judging by the smug expressions on the teenagers’ faces, they’d received their toys while I was out on forced leave. Now it was my turn to clear the paperwork for my own equipment package.

“Ross, you’re accepting this S-Armor unit under personal financial liability,” the sergeant said dryly as he dropped a tablet with the official transfer form onto the crate lid and handed me a pen. “The issue itself’s free. But if the equipment’s damaged through negligence or unauthorized misuse, you’ll be held fully responsible for reimbursement. Market value of this tactical model: one million dollars.”

I skimmed through the legal release, holding back a skeptical grimace. I had learned how to balance numbers back in college prep courses. A clean one-million-dollar figure was far too perfectly rounded to be real. An inflated estimate, obviously. And there was no chance anyone would send a combat-capable soldier into a portal carrying a mop just because he scratched the outer plating. It was a standard psychological pressure tactic designed to make personnel treat expensive hardware like sacred relics.

“That applies to every single one of you!” the sergeant barked at the platoon, raising his voice another few decibels. “Trash your gear because you’re stupid, and you’ll be paying that debt off until retirement!”

“Yes, sir!” the platoon roared in unison.

Exactly as expected. Basic fear management worked flawlessly on immature minds. I signed the transfer form with a broad stroke, like I was accepting a gadget delivery from an Amazon courier.

“Staff Sergeant Ross, begin unpacking and suit up. Once your system’s secured, rejoin training,” the sergeant ordered. “Everyone else, move out!”

I hooked the crate latch with a pry bar while keeping an eye on the platoon’s movements out of the corner of my eye. The moment every cadet received personal armor, the training format evolved instantly. Individualized “one person performs, everyone watches” instruction gave way to brutal full-scale physical drills. The entire group swept after the instructor in a tight wedge around the perimeter of the training ground. Only instead of a standard obstacle course with barbed wire and mud, they were practicing vertical positioning, burst jumps across midair footholds, and live-fire target exercises with S-Guns.

After opening the crate, I calmly assembled the suit directly onto myself. Memory did not fail me. Every locking point, carabiner, and support brace clicked perfectly into place on the first try.

The moment the hydraulic systems sealed, I internally registered pure satisfaction from the ergonomics. It was not even remotely comparable to the training junk. The boot section fit my feet like a second skin, the helmet offered flawless visibility without dead zones in peripheral vision, and the chest plate did not press against my ribs during deep breaths. For the first time, I truly understood the logic behind wealthy Wall Street executives ordering suits exclusively from Savile Row. The armor felt like a natural extension of my skeleton. Then there was that distinct expensive scent of new composite plating and fresh polymer, like the interior of a premium-class car straight off the assembly line.

As the platoon swept over the concrete pathway during another maneuver, I smoothly merged into the tail end of the formation. From inside the unit, the group dynamics looked far less cohesive than they had from a distance. The cadets were no longer face-planting into the dirt every time they braked, but their movement vectors still looked jagged, angular, and visually clumsy. Their reactions clearly lacked fluidity.

“Emergency dash, six o’clock!” the sergeant roared through the comms.

The instructor and I punched through the air cushion in perfect sync, shifting backward and freezing just inches apart while bleeding off inertia with precision control. Behind the transparent visor, I caught a brief flash of restrained masculine respect in his eyes. The rest of the platoon, however, turned into textbook chaos. Some failed to commit enough impulse and stopped several yards short of the mark, others overshot completely, and Mary barely managed to keep her balance, frantically windmilling her arms. Apparently even the lighter armor configuration was still a problem for her fragile build. It reminded me of driving school, where some beginners simply could not figure out how to feather a clutch pedal smoothly.

It did not matter. With their potential and daily repetition, muscle memory would eventually calibrate everything.

After an hour and a half of brutal maneuver drills, the sergeant finally called it.

“Return all equipment to storage and lock it in your personal compartments. Keep your keys on you,” the instructor said, securing his tablet to his belt. “Ross, your head’s on the line if anything happens to that hardware now.”

“Yes, sir. Permission to ask a question regarding unit optimization?”

“Go ahead, Ross.”

“Are structural armor upgrades permitted under current regulations?”

“Upgrades?” The sergeant frowned while sizing up my question. “What exactly’re you planning to modify?”

“First, the density of my muscle fibers and skeletal support system’s significantly above platoon average,” I said, glancing briefly toward the cadets trudging miserably toward the hangars under the weight of their equipment. “My back can handle a third standard tank without sacrificing maneuverability or creating overload strain.”

“Maybe,” he said with a nod. He did not look like he understood half of what I had just said. “And second?”

“I operate with equal efficiency using both hands. I’m ambidextrous. I need a mounting point for a second S-Gun on my left thigh for symmetrical firepower distribution.”

I deliberately avoided explaining the specifics of my [Tactical Mode]. Combined with dual-wielding under that enhancement, I would be capable of producing the volume of suppressive fire of an entire assault squad. The sergeant did not need those details.

“Run all S-Armor modification requests through Professor Langstrom,” he cut in dryly. “You’re dismissed.”

Yeah. Other than Selina, there was absolutely nobody in this camp worth discussing tactical or engineering concepts with. Everyone else hit a hard wall the moment the conversation moved beyond regulations.

Speaking of my favorite engineer.

Right after lunch, I arrived at the lecture hall. Selina was already there, sitting behind the desk with her arms crossed, her entire aura radiating irritation. Interesting. I wondered which clause of our unspoken agreement I had managed to violate this time.

“You took your time at lunch, Ross,” she stated coldly while adjusting her glasses. “I hope you realize my mandatory duties for today’re already complete. I’m in this classroom solely because of you.”

“And I genuinely appreciate that, Selina,” I replied as I walked up to the desk and immediately picked up the new vial filled with dark liquid. “Is this my next dose? Perfect timing. My throat’s getting dry.”

I twisted off the cap and emptied the container in one swallow. Absolutely vile. Dense, oily bitterness. If this toxin had ever been used in an actual sabotage operation, the operative would have needed to dump a pound of sugar into the victim’s drink just to mask the flavor.

The familiar heaviness settled into the back of my skull, followed by a mild wave of oppressive drowsiness spreading through my body. I did not waste time dragging the process out. Mentally, I issued my body a direct command: isolate the foreign agent, break down the chemical structure into components, and integrate defensive markers into the immune system. Barely sixty seconds later, the adaptation process was complete. My reaction speed increased dramatically. If I had to compare it to metallurgy, then my immune system and biochemical filtration had finally transformed from ordinary alloy into titanium.

“You look way too pleased with yourself. You could at least try to hide that grin out of basic courtesy,” Selina said, deliberately clicking her heels against the linoleum loud enough to cut through my thoughts. “Your next toxin dose’s scheduled right after dinner. And just so we’re clear, I’m not dragging myself back to this classroom during my personal time. You know where the faculty housing is. You’ll come to me.”

All I could do was nod silently. Considering how much buried resentment the memory of the Rogers visit had stirred up in her, her current prickliness was completely predictable. It did not bother me. I did not suffer from an inflated ego, so walking across camp one extra time was hardly a problem. As long as progress continued.

I turned, stepped out into the empty hallway of the academic wing, and at that exact moment reality around me slammed into a dead stop. Sound vanished. The image froze. My consciousness was yanked upward and backward in the familiar sensation as a three-dimensional panorama unfolded around me across several yards of space.

[Warning! Hostile actions against the Familiar detected]

[Tactical Mode activated]

I instantly locked down my emotions and calmly assessed the incoming threat. Sam was flying straight at me, suspended midair in a long jump. His trajectory was flawless, his extended heel aimed directly at my forehead.

After calculating the timing, I realized I could easily intercept his leg mid-motion, rotate my body with the momentum, and drive the back of his skull into the concrete wall. With my current muscle density metrics, that impact would have put him on an operating table, if not in a morgue. Naturally, I had no intention of escalating things that far.

Sam’s behavior looked insane, but there was clearly no genuine hostile intent behind it. If this martial arts maniac had truly wanted to inflict serious damage, he would not have accompanied the attack with a theatrical “Kii-yaaa!” straight out of an action movie that gave away his position from a mile away. He was deliberately giving me a warning so I could react to the sound.

I took one short, economical step to the left. Sam sliced through empty air where my head had been a second earlier and landed cleanly on both feet.

“Your reaction speed’s insane!” He spun toward me immediately, flashing his disarmingly bright grin. “Perfect timing, Tom! Glad to see isolation didn’t make you rusty!”

Looking at that explosion of genuine friendliness, I found myself smiling despite myself. Coming from Sam, the whole performance did not feel fake. The guy genuinely got pure dopamine from other people’s successes. The way he behaved socially, combined with his complete lack of hidden motives, sometimes reminded me of a golden retriever.

“I saw them issue your personal S-Armor today,” Sam continued, practically glowing with excitement like the million-dollar hardware had been given to him instead of me. “So what now? No more excuses? Ready for that real sparring match we talked about?”

“I’m going to have to decline.”

“But... why, Tom?”

“When we made that agreement, I didn’t have complete information. I’d no idea this oversized tin can cost a million dollars. Destroying expensive equipment isn’t part of my plans.”

“Oh, come on, you don’t need to worry about that at all!” Sam waved it off confidently. “If we break something, I’ll cover everything myself. Veteran Corps members with my years of service get a pretty serious benefits package and massive discounts.”

“I see your determination remains unshakable,” I said with a restrained sigh. “Regardless, I still need more time. I need to break the armor in properly and tune everything to my preferences.”

“Really?” For the first time during the conversation, Sam’s smile dimmed, replaced with genuine disappointment. “Well... that sucks. But I’m willing to wait however long it takes for you to be fully ready.”

“Sam,” I said, locking eyes with him as an excellent strategy for optimizing my training suddenly clicked into place inside my head. “You want me performing at my absolute peak, right? You want a truly competitive fight.”

“That’s the whole point! What’s fun about beating on an unprepared opponent?”

“Good. Then if you want to balance my chances of winning, I’ll need two concessions from you.”

“I’m glad you’re finally taking our fight seriously,” Sam said with a satisfied nod. “Let’s hear it. I’ll do whatever’s within my power.”

“First, I want full access to your advanced training system and techniques. The basic drills you teach cadets during standard classes are too primitive for me.”

“Why?” Sam frowned in confusion. “Your current energy reserves won’t let you reproduce most of my techniques anyway. So what’s the point?”

“I need to understand the structure of your movements so I know which tactical patterns I should prepare for.”

“But doesn’t that ruin the excitement?” Genuine boyish disappointment crept into his voice. “Where’s the adrenaline when you already know what kind of trick your opponent’s going to pull next?”

“My psychology works differently. I only derive satisfaction from a positive final outcome. In other words, victory,” I replied flatly before adding the decisive argument to close the deal. “And don’t worry about the mystery factor. I’m not planning to reveal my own trump cards before the fight either. Everything’ll still be a surprise for you.”

“Fine. Deal.” He sighed but recovered quickly. “Honestly, I was planning to show you my full system eventually anyway. What’s your second condition?”

“During official S-Power training hours, I want personal authorization for independent practice sessions inside an isolated dojo. No platoon presence. No supervising instructors.”

“Now that’s a serious violation of protocol.” Sam’s expression hardened noticeably, a crease forming across his forehead. “Regulations explicitly require the entire unit to remain within my visual supervision during that time block.”

“I need a private space where I can secretly develop countermeasures specifically against your combat style,” I said, laying down my final and strongest card while carefully watching his reaction.

Exactly as expected, a dangerous spark of excitement ignited instantly in the eyes of that martial arts fanatic.

“I’ll figure out how to get it approved properly,” he said slowly, trying to maintain a serious expression.

***

After dinner, I headed toward the faculty housing building. To my surprise, the area had no security whatsoever. Corps administration had simply issued a verbal order forbidding cadets from crossing that boundary, and the younger recruits obeyed without question.

I climbed the stairs to the second floor, counted down the doors, and knocked three times.

“Come in, Tom. It’s unlocked,” Selina’s quiet voice called from inside.

I pushed the door open and stepped across the threshold, immediately assessing the surroundings. The apartment was a standard studio with a generic layout, but the atmosphere inside stood in sharp contrast to the camp’s usual minimalism. A small table stood in the center of the room, illuminated by the dim glow of burning wax candles. Beside it sat an already opened bottle of wine, while smooth low-volume jazz drifted softly from a portable speaker.

And naturally, the centerpiece of the entire composition was Selina herself.

She sat in an armchair, having abandoned her usual academic severity. Her hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, the top button of her light blouse hung carelessly undone, and she absentmindedly bit the arm of her glasses while watching me without looking away.

“Professor Langstrom,” I said as I stopped near the doorway, keeping my expression perfectly unreadable. “Are you currently attempting to seduce me?”

“I’ve always appreciated how quickly you process information, Tom.” Selina placed her glasses onto the table and rose smoothly to her feet, closing the distance between us.

“May I ask what’s motivating this initiative? I stopped believing in concepts like love at first sight a long time ago.”

“I’m not exactly overflowing with sentimentality either.” She stepped close enough for me to catch the scent of expensive perfume mixed with faint wine. “My interest’s entirely scientific in nature. I’m extremely curious to see how your body and your [Trainer] potential perform under physical strain in bed.”

“I’d definitely be lying if I said the thought’d never crossed my mind.”

“So we’ve reached a consensus?” Selina slowly extended her hand, her slender fingers gliding lightly across the fabric of my shirt near my chest.

I caught her hand and kissed her fingers.

It was time to determine through direct experimentation exactly how the [Trainer] functions handled unconventional physical tasks. Selina’s beauty had absolutely nothing to do with it, of course. Purely scientific research.