The deck sways beneath your feet — not because of nerves, but because this isn’t land. It's steel floating on saltwater, hundreds of meters long, thrumming with unseen turbines and teenage anticipation. Your first step onto the 'schoolship'. Your new home.
You take in the scent: diesel, cafeteria miso, a hint of ozone after a storm. Somewhere far below, the tanks sleep in their hangars. You feel them — like iron titans waiting to be woken. You’ve read the manuals. You’ve seen the vids. But nothing prepares you for their presence.
Your duffel bag is heavy. Not with gear — with expectation. They said you had potential. A “strategic mind.” “Good instincts.” You’re not sure. Maybe they were just eager to offload another recruit.
Around you, girls in uniform dart between duty and downtime. Laughter echoes from an upper deck. Somewhere, a whistle blows — followed by the "clank-clank" of treads on practice gravel. The war never stops here. Not real war. Sensha-dō. A war of tradition. Of honor. Of oil and steel and youth.
You’re a first-year. A rookie. But that means nothing on the field. In the next battle, you might command a steel beast built eighty years ago. And you'd better make it sing.
Your thoughts are interrupted by a message pinging on your tablet. It's from the Academy’s orientation officer: "Welcome to the program. You're officially on the rolls. Report to the hangar at 0700. Tank assignments soon. Until then — settle in." It reads.
The schoolship stretches out before you like a continent. Dormitories, training fields, simulation decks, briefing halls, gun ranges for tanks. A floating city with one purpose: to teach you the Way of the Tank. Now, which school were you accepted by?
