The air in the arena felt heavier than before.
Not because of the heat, or the sweat-soaked mats.
But because today wasn't about running.
It wasn't about endurance.
Today was about breaking flesh.
Instructor Brax stood in the center, arms crossed, boots planted like anchors.
"Pairs."
One word. That's all it took.
Cadets scrambled to form up.
"Blade-to-blade," Brax continued. "Real weapons. First to disarm or disable. You hesitate, you lose. You go soft, you bleed.
Choose what you bleed with."
Steel gleamed in the low light—practice blades sharpened enough to tear skin, but not kill.
Not unless you meant it.
Kaelen walked to the rack.
He didn't hesitate.
A single-edged greatsword. Heavy, scarred, balanced.
He gripped the handle, felt the weight settle into his palm like it belonged there.
This isn't a tool. This is a key. A memory. A release.
Everyone else wore padded gear, light armor, or reinforced gloves.
Kaelen wore none of it.
No guards. No straps. Just his blade—and a stare that didn't blink.
The others formed their pairs.
Rheya Dusk—dark hair, twin curved blades, eyes like calculation—was the last without a partner.
She met Kaelen's eyes across the platform. Said nothing.
Instructor Brax barked:
"You two. Arena C."
Kaelen didn't blink.
He walked to the circle. Stood in silence. Sword ready.
Rheya followed, spinning her blades once, testing their weight.
Around them, others were already clashing—grunts, steel on steel, curses and stumbles.
But in Arena C, it was silence.
"Begin."
Kaelen moved first.
No hesitation. No warning.
A brutal downward swing.
Rheya parried—barely—and slid aside with sharp footwork.
She didn't counter. She studied.
He pressed again.
A wide arc that forced her into a backstep.
From the edge of the arena, Instructor Brax watched.
His grin slowly faded.
"That one's not training," he muttered. "That one's executing."
Instructor Veren glanced up from the other side.
"He's not even here, is he?"
"No," Brax said. "He's somewhere darker. Somewhere bloodier."
Inside Kaelen's head, there was no arena.
Only red.
She moves, I strike. She breathes, I cut.
She's not my enemy. She's not a monster.
But my body doesn't care. My hands don't care.
All I see—are shadows.
And I want them to scream like they did that night.
He came in low.
Rheya twisted, but not fast enough.
The blunt edge of his blade slammed against her shoulder, sending her skidding across the floor.
She coughed. Rolled. Came back up.
"You trying to kill me?" she hissed.
Kaelen didn't answer.
He stopped. Lowered his weapon.
Rheya rubbed her shoulder, breathing steady but sore.
Without a word, Kaelen offered his hand.
She hesitated.
Then took it.
A firm, silent shake.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
Just two words. But it was enough.
Rheya blinked. Nodded once. Didn't speak.
But something in her stance softened.
Rheya's thoughts:
He moves like he's been at war for years.
Every strike came without hesitation. Without fear.
That wasn't training. That was instinct—sharpened by something worse than failure.
He could've broken me.
But he didn't.
He stopped.
And then he offered me his hand.
No mockery. No smirk.
Just—silence. Respect.
Or maybe guilt. I don't know.
But whatever drives him—it's not ego.
It's survival.
I'll remember that.