The Martial Maiden’s Deception — First Half (I)

Rewinding the clock seven hours.

0810.

Fuutarou Morikube stretched his neck as he hefted the rifle in his hands, an irritated expression glued to his face. He chose to hold his tongue despite having a lot of complaints as he had no interest in wasting time being scolded to no end. However, he wasn’t currently in any sort of combat-ready state despite being fully geared up—his mental state was that of a salaryman on a Monday morning, tired as all hell but with no choice but to get up and go to work, especially after having taken the previous day off.