Archer finished his explanation, set down the grav-chute model in his hand, and swept his gaze across the eager players before him.
“Did you all understand?” he asked calmly.
The players no longer hesitated.
“Understood! Understood!”
“Yes, instructor! Hurry up and start—we can’t wait!” one of them shouted, bouncing in place with excitement.
A faint, cold smile curved on Archer’s lips. He casually pointed at the most enthusiastic player.
“You. Repeat the key points I just explained.”
The player froze. His excitement visibly collapsed.
“Uh… it’s… about the timing to open the chute… and… direction control… uh…”
His answer fell apart almost immediately. It was obvious he hadn’t understood much at all.
Archer sneered inwardly. Just as expected—they think system assistance makes training optional.
If he were still in the army, he would have lost his temper by now and repeated the entire lesson from scratch. Here, however, he simply cut the embarrassment short.
“Alright. You passed. Jump.”
The player blinked.
Then his face lit up again, as if he had just been granted salvation. The others erupted in cheers, completely missing the implication behind Archer’s words.
One by one, they rushed to the edge of the high platform and leapt from the hive city without hesitation—plunging into the sky like diving into an ocean of freedom.
Archer stood at the edge, watching with an expressionless face.
Amusing.
A scream echoed from below.
“AAAAA—HOLY SHI—”
A player successfully triggered his grav-chute mid-fall, but immediately spiraled out of control, spinning like a broken top. He slammed into the side of a towering structure.
A burst of fire followed. Fragments scattered outward like shrapnel.
Another player never managed to activate his chute at all. He fell in silence for most of the descent, seemingly still adjusting to the sensation of freefall—until the ground met him.
There was a wet impact.
What remained resembled a crushed, overripe fruit.
More players followed in increasingly chaotic ways—some exploding on impact, some ricocheting off structures, others simply failing to survive long enough to understand what went wrong.
Archer observed them all without reaction.
On Earth, parachuting required rigorous training, strict discipline, and often tandem jumps for safety. Here, they were nothing more than untrained amateurs hurling themselves off a hive city with borrowed equipment.
Below, the watching players reacted not with sympathy—but laughter.
Moments later, the fallen respawned at the original platform.
For a few seconds, they stood in silence, as if replaying the experience in their minds.
Then the chatter erupted.
“Damn, I had zero control after opening the chute—I just slammed into a wall!”
“You’re lucky. I blacked out mid-fall and didn’t even open mine. Instant splat.”
“The wind kept pushing me off course—I couldn’t recover at all!”
Archer cleared his throat.
The noise stopped instantly.
“Talking won’t help,” he said evenly. “One by one. Report your mistakes.”
He pointed to the player on the far right.
“Start with you.”
This time, they complied.
One after another, they described their failures in detail—panic in midair, delayed activation, poor directional control. Archer listened and corrected each issue step by step, breaking down the mechanics with precision.
Only after experiencing failure firsthand did they begin to truly pay attention.
When the explanations ended, Archer nodded once.
“Good. At least you’re learning now. Jump again.”
The players exchanged uneasy glances.
But this time, hesitation was replaced by determination. They had failed once, understood the mechanics, and now believed they could do better.
They jumped again.
And once again, the sky filled with chaos.
Screams tore through the air. Bodies spun uncontrollably. Grav-chutes activated too late, too early, or in the wrong direction. Collisions with buildings turned several players into streaks of fire against metal and stone.
One player nearly succeeded.
His descent stabilized. His chute deployed correctly. He even aligned his landing.
Then his legs struck the ground at the wrong angle.
A sharp crack echoed.
He collapsed instantly, twitching, then silently drew his pistol and ended himself without hesitation to reset.
Faster respawns were, apparently, the only optimization they had mastered.
Below, the observers were no longer just shocked—they were captivated.
“Is this what paratrooper training is like? That’s brutal.”
“I was going to try it… but after watching this, absolutely not.”
“No, this is perfect. This is exactly how Warhammer training should be—no mercy, no safety net.”
“Actually, real Astra Militarum training is supposed to be extremely disciplined…”
The argument continued as the cycle repeated overhead.
Jump. Fall. Die. Respawn.
Again.
And again.