The morning air in our makeshift training grounds carried the earthy scent of freshly disturbed soil and the musky odor that seemed to follow Ground Kings wherever they went.

I’d learned to breathe through my mouth when working closely with them—a small adaptation that made the daily routine of beast management marginally more bearable.

Wyverns, by comparison, were remarkably straightforward creatures. Feed them regularly, establish clear dominance through strength rather than cruelty, and they’d follow you with the loyalty of well-trained hunting hounds. Simple transaction, clean relationship, minimal drama.

Ground Kings, on the other hand, were like having a pack of oversized, earth-magic-wielding cats with the attitude problems of spoiled nobility.

The beast that had claimed me as its trainer—a decision I still didn’t fully understand—currently had its massive head tilted at an angle that suggested it was contemplating whether my skull would make an interesting chew toy.

Its wolf-like features mixed with mole-like adaptations created a face that managed to be simultaneously majestic and ridiculous, especially when it was trying to look threatening.

“Leader, don’t bite my head. It’s not tasty at all!” I said, using the nickname I’d given the pack alpha after it had made its preference for me abundantly clear.

Being chosen by the pack leader had been both honor and curse. Ground Kings operated on a strict hierarchy where strength determined everything, and Leader had somehow decided I met whatever criteria mattered to his species.

The smaller Ground Kings in the pack treated me with the respectful distance they’d show a superior predator, but Leader himself seemed to view our relationship as an ongoing negotiation where the terms changed daily based on his mood.

“Grau, rau, rau,” Leader replied, his vocalizations carrying what I’d learned to recognize as either amusement or mild irritation. With Ground Kings, the distinction was often academic until you found yourself buried alive or covered in strategically placed excrement.

“I don’t know what you’re saying, man… I’m just the odd job guy. Can’t you just bother D or Kuro over there?”

Leader’s response was to begin digging with his oversized claws, the motion so fluid and practiced that I barely had time to register the threat before earth was cascading around my legs.

Within seconds, I found myself buried up to my chest in loose soil, my arms pinned and my dignity thoroughly compromised.

Every. Single. Day.

The behavior pattern had become so predictable I’d started timing it. Morning greeting, casual conversation, arbitrary burial based on incomprehensible Ground King logic.

The fact that I could escape effortlessly didn’t seem to diminish Leader’s satisfaction with the routine.

I was annoyed, certainly, but there was something oddly endearing about the creature’s consistent inconsistency.

The way he’d whimper after being disciplined, the genuine confusion in his eyes when I didn’t react to his pranks with appropriate outrage—it reminded me of managing particularly stubborn students who tested boundaries more out of affection than malice.

Because I’m annoyed right now, I might as well beat the hell out of this oversized furball.

“Leader,” I said, my voice carrying the tone that had become universal shorthand for ‘you’ve crossed a line’ among all the beasts we’d tamed. “What do bad kids get again?”

“Wruuu, wruuu!” The immediate shift from confident mischief-maker to terrified pet would have been comical if it weren’t so transparently manipulative.

Leader knew exactly what he’d done and exactly what consequences awaited him.

He tried to run, naturally. The massive creature’s earth magic allowed him to sink partially into the ground, using terrain manipulation to increase his speed across open areas.

Under normal circumstances, a Ground King could outmaneuver most human pursuers by controlling the very surface they stood on.

Unfortunately for Leader, I’d stopped being bound by normal circumstances sometime around my second lifetime.

“Wruuuu! Wrrruuu!” His protests grew more panicked as I closed the distance with casual ease, my enhanced speed making his desperate flight look like a child’s game of tag.

The disciplinary session that followed was brief, precise, and effective. Not cruel—I’d learned that cruelty bred resentment rather than respect among intelligent beasts—but firm enough to reinforce the boundaries that kept our relationship functional.

Afterward, Leader retreated to his preferred sulking spot with the dignity of someone who’d received exactly what he’d expected and secretly wanted.

The pack dynamics required these regular reminders of hierarchy, and both Leader and I had adapted to treat them as routine maintenance rather than genuine conflict.

With my daily beast management obligations satisfied, I returned to the project that had been consuming my attention for the past several weeks: the practical application of theoretical magic to solve tactical problems that shouldn’t have solutions.

Right now, I have plenty of battle styles.

The thought carried the weight of accumulated experience from multiple lifetimes and intensive training with Alex.

Unlike traditional martial disciplines that focused on mastering specific weapons or techniques, Cloud Style represented something fundamentally different—a fighting philosophy built around adaptability rather than specialization.

The North God Style, for example, achieved mastery through deep understanding of primary and secondary weapon combinations.

Practitioners spent decades perfecting the relationship between their chosen armaments, developing techniques that maximized the specific advantages of their selected tools.

Cloud Style operated on the opposite principle. Rather than specializing, we treated every weapon as equally valid, using mana and Touki flow patterns that could adapt to any implement we happened to be holding. The weapon became a vessel for directing energy rather than the foundation of technique.

Just imagine a bullet that can be shot by any kind of gun, I mused, running through the mental framework Alex had helped me develop. The bigger the gun, the stronger the power. But the same principle works in reverse.

This flexibility came with requirements that made it impractical for most warriors. Cloud Style demanded advanced-rank competency as a minimum entry point—the level where practitioners first learned to develop their Touki.

Before achieving the fusion of mana and Touki manipulation, attempts to use our techniques resulted in crude combinations of magic and swordsmanship that qualified as Magic Swordsman abilities at best.

The versatility advantage also created logistical challenges. Maintaining effectiveness across multiple weapon types meant carrying extensive arsenals, which led to dependence on space magic and dimensional storage items.

Even with those solutions, the process of accessing and switching between weapons during combat introduced delays that could prove fatal against skilled opponents.

That’s when Kuro had made his contribution to our tactical development.

“What about making requip magic like Erza Scarlet from Fairy Tail?” he’d suggested during one of our evening strategy sessions, his voice carrying the particular tone he used when he thought he was being clever.

The reference was to an anime from one of my previous lifetimes—a series where a character could instantly change between different sets of armor and weapons using spatial magic.

Theoretically possible, practically complicated, and definitely the kind of solution that would appeal to someone who’d spent too much time analyzing fictional combat systems.

Deemed impossible, I’d initially thought, since not everyone can handle unique magic that even I had trouble developing.

But impossible had never stopped me before.

The research process had taken weeks of careful experimentation, testing theoretical frameworks against practical applications while trying not to accidentally teleport vital organs into separate dimensions. The magic itself was surprisingly elegant once I’d worked out the underlying principles—spatial manipulation combined with matter-energy conversion, wrapped in timing sequences that could be triggered almost instantaneously.

Yes, I succeeded in creating the magic.

The success had been both triumph and disappointment. The requip magic worked exactly as intended, providing instant access to any equipment stored in dimensional space.

The problem was efficiency—or rather, the complete lack thereof.

It’s great and cool magic, BUT it uses mana.

That was an understatement bordering on criminal negligence. The mana consumption for a single equipment change was equivalent to casting several mid-level spells simultaneously.

In extended combat, I’d exhaust my reserves after a handful of switches, leaving me more vulnerable than if I’d just picked a weapon and stuck with it.

Too much mana used on equipping and unequipping. I might have made mistakes in development, but that’s my limit as of now.

The admission stung, but acknowledging limitations was the first step toward transcending them.

If direct magical approaches weren’t viable, then indirect solutions would have to suffice.

Since it’s not really possible, we’re attempting various approaches for the aforementioned magic and creating an enchantment item.

The breakthrough had come from an unexpected source: childhood memories of transformation sequences from tokusatsu shows. Kamen Rider, Power Rangers, and dozens of similar series had featured heroes who could instantly change into combat-ready forms using technological devices rather than innate magical ability.

That’s right! Currently, I’m developing an instant wardrobe!

The concept sounded ridiculous when stated plainly, but the underlying theory was sound. If I couldn’t make requip magic efficient enough for practical use, I could create enchanted items that performed similar functions using stored energy rather than personal mana reserves.

The prototype took the form of specialized cards—thin, durable rectangles embedded with compressed spatial magic and triggered by controlled mana input.

Each card could store a complete equipment set, from armor to weapons to accessories, and deploy them on command.

What will be worn can be diversified according to the clothes placed on the item. From armor to underwear, though using this for underwear might be excessive.

The flexibility was the system’s greatest strength and most embarrassing potential application. Theoretically, anything that could be worn or carried could be stored and deployed, which opened possibilities I preferred not to contemplate too deeply.

Bringing out the prototype—a spear card embedded with combat gear I’d tested extensively—I channeled mana into the enchantment matrix and activated the deployment sequence.

The card flared with controlled light, its surface growing warm as spatial magic engaged. My body became the focal point for the transformation, existing equipment shifting into dimensional storage while the card’s contents materialized directly onto my form.

Armor plates settled into place with the satisfying click of well-engineered mechanisms. The spear appeared in my hand with perfect balance, its weight and grip familiar from the hours I’d spent calibrating the storage parameters.

My previous clothing disappeared beneath the new gear without bunching or interference, the spatial magic precisely accounting for volume displacement.

Three seconds. The deployment time was acceptable for most combat situations, though I could envision scenarios where even that brief delay might prove costly.

“Three seconds,” Fred confirmed, his analytical mind automatically cataloging performance metrics. “It can be faster, but the research money used will put a dent in our resources. It should be enough for now.”

His practical assessment carried the weight of someone who’d been calculating costs throughout the development process.

Improving the deployment time would require more sophisticated enchantments, which meant rarer materials and exponentially higher expenses.

“Magic can help you do almost everything, huh?” Alex muttered, his voice carrying a mixture of admiration and professional skepticism as he examined the armor’s fit and finish.

His warrior’s eye was checking for the kinds of details that mattered in actual combat—joint articulation, weight distribution, weapon balance, protection coverage.

The fact that he wasn’t immediately pointing out flaws suggested the system had passed his exacting standards.

“I’m smart and I know it. Now praise me for the great idea!”

You don’t need to know who said this—it’s not really important right now.

Though honestly, Kuro’s smug satisfaction was practically radiating through our shared connection.

He’d provided the initial inspiration and clearly intended to claim full credit for the innovation.

“Now, should we finalize the magic circle used on the equipment card and create the machine to mass-produce them?” Fred’s question brought us back to practical considerations.

“We’ll leave production to the support team for now,” Alex interjected, his tactical mind already moving to the next priority. “You need to prepare for the sea serpent taming. We can’t delay it further, since the nobles on the main continent have become stupid enough to deploy their schemes against Under A.”

The reminder of larger political machinations sent a familiar chill down my spine. Even here, in our relatively peaceful training grounds, the broader conflicts that shaped this world continued to evolve. Our taming expeditions weren’t just exercises in beast mastery—they were preparation for resources we’d need in the struggles ahead.

“Creating two hundred equip cards shouldn’t take too long with you and me working together,” I replied, mentally calculating the time requirements for mass production. “Even so, we’ll still need to deal with various complications.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll teach the team another formation they can use while swimming,” Alex said, his voice carrying the confidence of someone who’d already worked out the tactical details. “They should master it within a week. Don’t tell me you can’t complete your task in the same timeframe.”

“Okay, I’ll do my best to finish them with Fred while you handle training.”

The division of labor made sense. Alex’s military expertise was ideal for preparing the team for aquatic combat, while Fred’s analytical abilities would help optimize the card production process.

Using that as the basis for our experiment, I also asked several people from the R division to help.

The research division’s involvement was necessary but potentially problematic. Their technical expertise was unmatched, but their tendency toward perfectionism often clashed with practical deadlines.

We tested every possible scenario, explored alternative approaches, and gradually refined the process until we’d identified the optimal balance between functionality and production efficiency.

The final magic circle design was elegant in its complexity, incorporating fail-safes and efficiency improvements that addressed most of the issues we’d encountered during initial testing.

Using that magic circle as the base, creating the macro for automatically writing them and the machine to produce cards was a job for the R division.

I’d provided detailed blueprints, complete specifications, and thorough documentation of the underlying magical theory. The work should have been straightforward for technicians of their caliber.

It shouldn’t be too hard to create based on the blueprint, right?

The question had seemed reasonable at the time. The R division had successfully tackled more challenging projects with less comprehensive documentation.

It’s only later that I found out the R division cursed at me for giving them short notice on the said work.

Their reaction had been… educational. Apparently, the gap between “theoretically possible according to detailed blueprints” and “practically achievable within arbitrary deadlines” was larger than I’d appreciated.

The complaints had been creative, technically precise, and delivered with the kind of professional indignation that only came from engineers who’d been asked to perform miracles on impossible schedules.

Several of the curses had incorporated magical terminology in ways that were both impressive and probably anatomically unlikely.

But they’d delivered. The production line was operational, the cards were being manufactured to specification, and the Cloud Style’s versatility had increased by exactly the notch we’d hoped for.

Innovation born from necessity, I thought, watching Leader investigate the discarded prototype cards with the cautious curiosity of a creature who’d learned to be suspicious of anything that glowed. Sometimes the best solutions come from the most ridiculous inspirations.

The requip system wasn’t perfect, but it was functional, scalable, and addressed a genuine tactical need.

In a world where preparation could mean the difference between victory and catastrophic failure, even marginal improvements in adaptability were worth pursuing.

Plus, there was something deeply satisfying about transforming anime-inspired fantasies into practical magical applications.

If nothing else, it proved that inspiration could come from anywhere—even childhood memories of heroes in colorful costumes fighting rubber monsters.

Now, time to see if we can make the sea serpent taming go as smoothly as our equipment innovations.

The thought carried a mixture of optimism and realistic pessimism. Innovation was one thing; applying it successfully in the field against unknown variables was another entirely.

But that was tomorrow’s challenge. Today, we had requip magic, a working production line, and a Ground King who was cautiously approaching the glowing cards with the expression of someone trying to decide whether they were edible.

Some victories are smaller than others, I mused, but they all count toward the final tally.

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