Orion's gaze flicked from Varun's eyes to the screen's message:
[Confirm Data Purge?]
His fingers hovered over the confirmation prompt, a knot of reluctance tightening in his gut. Yet, he knew Varun's directives weren't born of whim.
Then with a decisive tap.
[Data Purged!]
The interface blinked before Orion's attention went back to Varun.
A prickle of unease ran beneath Orion's skin. He didn't like being kept in the dark.
"What was that about?" he asked, his voice flat. He wanted answers, and he wanted them now.
Varun offered no immediate reply. Instead, his hand reached into the inner pocket of his coat, emerging with a sleek, smooth identicard. He slid it across the polished table, it clicked almost imperceptibly on the metal surface.
Orion picked it up, the cool surface pulsing faintly beneath his thumb. He felt the subtle hum of its embedded security acknowledging a new user. The familiar insignia of the Reyes family was absent.
Varun paused, then asked abruptly, "You ever heard of CAI?"
Orion blinked, confusion written all over his face. "Sai? Who's Sai?"
"Not who. What. Central AI," Varun said. "It's the Confederacy's backbone. Almost every strategic move, every resource shift, every surveillance decision is filtered through CAI. CAI interprets, predicts, and implements. Until something unpredictable shows up then the decision is made by the Confederacy's strategists."
"This will grant you access to computational resources far beyond your current clearance," Varun finally explained, his gaze steady. "With secure analysis protocols, typically reserved only for the eyes of Generals and High Commanders."
Orion turned the card over, the weight of its implications settling in.
"Why though?" Orion's brows furrowed, suspicion lacing his tone. "Isn't this yours?"
Varun's arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. "Because if the Confederacy's central AI had fully dissected your movements… it would have been catastrophic for you." A shadow seemed to pass over his features.
A cold flicker of apprehension snaked through Orion. He tightened his grip on the card. "Elaborate."
Varun studied him for a long moment, his silence drawing out the tension. "As of now, CAI categorizes you as an exceptionally gifted five-years old child. Your techniques, while decent, are still in their nascent stage. The AI tracks your progress, notes the rapid development, but hasn't yet recognized your movements as a distinct, codified martial discipline."
Orion's gaze remained locked on Varun, absorbing his words. He sensed the gravity of what was coming.
Varun's voice dropped, the air between them thickening. "But if that AI had been allowed to fully unravel the Wraith's Wrath—to map every subtle shift, every unpredictable transition—it would have begun formulating counters before you yourself had truly mastered it."
A sharp intake of breath. The implications hit Orion. The Confederacy's vast network, its intricate combat simulations, its adaptive algorithms… they could have turned his own skills against him.
Or worse.
A chilling thought wormed its way into his mind. If his style was flagged as something truly unique, something… worthwhile, it wouldn't just be countered. It would be assimilated and woven into the Confederacy's already formidable martial database.
Elite cadets could be trained with bastardized versions of his own movements before he even understood their full potential.
His stomach clenched. The idea felt like a violation.
Orion's gaze sharpened, the initial confusion hardening into a calculating intensity. "So what now?"
Varun leaned back, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Now?" He inclined his head towards the identicard. "You refine your style away from the Confederacy's insatiable gaze. You utilize that access for private simulations, honing your edge in environments they can't monitor. And most importantly…" His gaze intensified, a silent command. "You don't reveal your complete hand until the moment demands it."
Varun stepped closer, his focus unwavering as he gestured for Orion to assume his stance once more.
Orion stepped into position. His stance was sharp, poised—but his legs were trembling from the exertion.
"Your body's lagging behind your instincts," Varun observed, his voice measured but firm. "It's tearing itself apart trying to execute sequences your mind grasps but your muscles have yet to fully adapt to."
Orion swallowed, a reluctant nod. He felt the truth of Varun's words in the protesting burn of his muscles, the subtle tremors that ran through his limbs. He had been pushing beyond his physical limits.
Varun began to circle him, his movements fluid and predatory. His gaze was dissecting Orion's posture, the subtle weight distribution in his stance, the almost imperceptible tension in his shoulders.
"I think the issue isn't solely velocity nor the sudden bursts of movements," Varun continued, his voice a low murmur. "It's the abruptness of your transitions. Your stance shifts, your footwork, the transfer of your weight—it's all happening in a violent surge instead of a controlled flow."
Orion's grip tightened on the weight of his spear. A surge of impatience rose within him, a desire to prove his capabilities, but Varun's quiet authority held him in check.
Varun exhaled sharply. "Let's start from the beginning. Footwork. Drop the weapon."
A flicker of hesitation, then obedience. Orion let his imaginary spear fall.
"Wraith's Wrath thrives on rapid changes in direction," Varun explained, stepping beside him. "That demands absolute mastery over each step. Feel each shift. You need to learn to harness momentum and let it guide you."
Varun demonstrated, his movements effortless. His feet whispered against the training floor, each step a seamless continuation of the last. There was no wasted motion, no extraneous force, just a fluid, calculated dance.
"Watch," he instructed. "Slow it down. Feel the weight shift."
Orion mirrored him, his own movements feeling clumsy and disjointed. It wasn't the speed that eluded him, but the precise control Varun exhibited.
Varun's expression remained inscrutable. "Good. Now, slower still. Hold each stance. Feel the engagement of your muscles. The longer you hold, the less strain in the transition."
Orion's jaw clenched. His body screamed for release, for the explosive speed that felt so natural. But he held each position, consciously engaging the necessary muscles, fighting the urge to rush.
What struck Varun most wasn't the inherent speed of Orion's technique, but the underlying fluidity he glimpsed beneath the raw power. Even when forced to move at a snail's pace, the potential for a devastating grace was evident.
Minutes stretched into an eternity of controlled movement. The silence was broken only by the soft rhythm of their synchronized footfalls, the rasp of Orion's breath. His legs burned, his balance wavered with each prolonged stance.
Varun's gaze sharpened as he circled him, offering minute corrections. "Your center of gravity is too high. Sink into it, ground yourself. Breathe in sync with each shift."
Orion adjusted, inhaling slowly, deliberately.
"Better," Varun conceded, stepping back to observe. "Now, integrate the idea of the strike. The intent."
They continued, dissecting each component of the Wraith's Wrath. Footwork, stance, the precise angles of attack, the subtle transfer of weight that generated power. Nothing was deemed insignificant.
Varun crossed his arms, a rare hint of satisfaction in his eyes. "The pieces are there, Orion. Now, the question is how far you're willing to go to elevate them."
Orion wiped a bead of sweat from his brow, his muscles trembling with fatigue. But beneath the exhaustion, a flicker of understanding ignited in his gaze. The path to true mastery wouldn't be about raw speed, but about the intricate dance of control.