The second wave approached with unnerving precision. Every metal hound moved as if part of a single organism, shifting formations, testing gaps, and probing flanks. They didn't charge blindly anymore; they observed, adjusted, and struck where a human might hesitate.
Marksmen tightened their grips, scanning for movement between the shifting dunes. Shield carriers lowered their stances, bracing for impact, rifles angled between shields to suppress advancing machines. Close-combat fighters flexed their fingers around handles of machetes, batons, and knives, ready to intercept anything that broke past the line.
A sudden wave of beasts surged toward a flank unit. One of the soldiers, a seasoned infantryman, immediately pivoted, ducking low as a metallic hound lunged overhead. He swung a sledgehammer in a controlled arc, smashing the creature's hydraulic knee joint. It collapsed, but two more already advanced to fill the gap.
Another squad moved forward, cutting across the dunes to intercept a pack attempting to encircle the formation. Pistols fired, rifles cracked, and a pair of bayonets slid between shifting steel limbs, disabling three mechanical attackers in seconds. Each human moved with calculated precision, as if every action had been drilled a thousand times.
A lone scout, armed with a machete and sidearm, spotted a hound sneaking low across the sand toward the rear support unit. With a calm, almost surgical motion, he threw the machete, hooking the leg joint and flipping the beast to the ground. Before it could recover, a pistol shot rang out, cutting clean through its neck hinge. The scout didn't celebrate. He simply returned to formation.
The desert trembled again. The surviving hounds adapted instantly, forming wedge-shaped formations, targeting the thinnest lines in the human ranks. It was a test not of brute strength, but of coordination, patience, and nerve under pressure.
From Unity Tower, Tony leaned forward, eyes wide. "They're learning from every shot. Every movement. This isn't just survival… it's real-time adaptation."
Natasha's gaze was sharp. "Notice how none of them break formation. No panic. No overextension. That's why the system keeps them alive — it's watching for hesitation, not casualties."
Shuri's fingers danced across her console. "Phase 1.2 isn't about killing. It's about discipline under repeated pressure. If anyone steps out of line, they're out — mentally, strategically — before physically."
The sand hissed as dozens of mechanical beasts adjusted mid-charge. Each assault was met with controlled responses: a rifle shot to a knee, a baton smashing a jaw hinge, a machete slicing through hydraulic tendons. The humans rotated positions, covering blind spots, repairing breaks instantly.
Above the field, the text shimmered once more:
[PHASE 1.2 — TEST OF DISCIPLINE]
[Eliminations: 0]
[Formation Integrity: 100%]
[Trial Status: Ongoing]
From the dunes, one of the leaders muttered over the comms, calm as ever, voice cutting through the tension:
"Keep moving. Don't let them dictate pace. Step where we step, fire where we fire. Discipline saves more than bravery."
The first real wave of simultaneous ambushes hit like a hammer. Beasts lunged at flanks, the center, and even the rear support. Shots cracked. Steel clanged. Sand flew. But the humans held every inch, suppressing, disabling, and advancing methodically.
And the desert seemed to respond. As if aware, the sand shifted, forming rising dunes that blocked long-range sightlines, forcing the soldiers to adapt, flank, and engage in close quarters — exactly the challenge the trial intended.
The mechanical hounds regrouped at the edge of the dunes, jaws snapping, hydraulic limbs whirring — waiting, watching, learning.
And yet, the humans did not break.
From the safety of observation screens, Tony muttered, more to himself than anyone else:
"Yeah… these guys are good. Real good. And they don't even know the worst is coming yet."
Shuri adjusted her console, eyes narrowing. "Phase 1.3 will begin when the pack attempts to fracture the formation. That's when we'll see who truly adapts under relentless pressure."
The pack didn't stop. Phase 1.3 began with a shift in tempo — the metal hounds worked in coordinated feints, sudden retreats, and tight false charges designed to make the human lines overreact. Dunes rose like walls, sightlines closed, and the machines favored blind flanks and low, sudden bursts into the formation.
Leaders barked crisp, quiet commands. Squads flowed as a single organism: shield carriers tightened a ring, marksmen covered blind spots, and close-combat teams moved like a hinge, ready to snap shut on anything that tried to wedge through.
A wave attempted to fracture the center by punching one gap and then immediately withdrawing. Two squads rotated seconds later and sealed it. Another pack faked a retreat, then circled to strike rear munitions — only to be met by scouts who had already traded places. The humans adapted without panic, countering with textbook efficiency: disabling joints, severing actuators, and using sand to stall the machines' momentum.
Minutes stretched into a relentless hour of pressure. The trial escalated, throwing every trick it had at the participants — coordinated flanking, synchronized leaps, embedded spike-ridges that briefly pinned shields in place. Each time the machines adjusted, the humans adjusted faster. Formation integrity held. Ammunition discipline held. Morale stayed steady. Not a single elimination was recorded.
On the feed, Tony let out an impressed whistle. "They're not stopping. They're not tired." He tapped the screen. "This is some serious endurance."
Shuri was already running data overlays. "Their rotation cycles and rest micro-breaks are optimal. They're fighting on efficiency, not adrenaline."
Aizen's calm voice cut in, almost amused. "They treat this like a long mission, not a short sprint. That makes them dangerous in different ways."
After the dust settled and Phase 1.3 flagged complete, the scoreboard still read:
[Eliminations: 0]
[Formation Integrity: 100%]
[Trial Status: Phase 1 — Passed / Proceeding]
Tony leaned back and smiled, eyes bright. "Well. I can see all of them now — trained, ready, not panicked or burned-out. We're not watching amateurs. These are pros. Tough, smart, and disciplined. If the next phase wants to break them, it's going to need something else."
Natasha's jaw tightened. "Tactics are one thing. The trial can't force real-world moral choices. Make sure whatever we suggest doesn't create casualties. We're watching people we'd trust in the field."
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