Zane's shock at discovering he had a distorted rarity barely had time to settle before something else seized his attention.
His gaze snapped to Aidan—not because of his power, but because of something deeper. Something unexplainable. A chill prickled the back of Zane's neck. His instincts, sharper than ever, screamed a silent warning.
There was something about Aidan—something wrong. He couldn't name it, couldn't trace it.
The slums had never been kind to children. Beatings were routine, scraps over food just another part of surviving. Violence was as natural as breathing. Zane glanced down at his hand. The hardened calluses he once wore like armor had faded, the mark of the blade he'd gripped for so long now just a ghost.
Zane's childhood had carved a hunger for strength into his bones. Maybe that's why he and Aidan connected so easily—they were both chasing something beyond survival. Aidan's goals mirrored his own, and because of that, Zane understood him in ways others couldn't.
Lately, though, he'd noticed a shift. Aidan still wore his usual smile, but it no longer reached his eyes. There was a weight behind his gaze, a quiet fatigue that clung to him. The dark circles under his eyes had faded slightly, but they never truly left. It was like he was carrying something invisible—something heavy—and trying not to let it show.
That was why Zane hadn't told him about hoe close he was to the transformation. He had wanted to—maybe even celebrate. But something in Aidan's expression stopped him. Aidan wasn't living in the present. His mind was elsewhere, chasing a future only he could see, trying to solve a puzzle no one else understood.
Zane tried to help—cracking jokes, sharing gossip—but it rarely worked.
Matthew looked at Aidan, hesitating. His gaze lingered for a moment before he nodded.
"Alright. You can fight him. I believe you won't lie—not about something this important."
Aidan stepped forward and took his stance. Zane mirrored him, raising his stick—not to mock him, but to measure the distance between them. The real difference. Aidan and his master understood the meaning behind it, and that was enough.
To Zane, it didn't matter what anyone else thought.
Aidan's heart raced—faster than when he'd faced the wolf that killed him. Every part of his body screamed to turn back. And yet, he stood his ground. His eyes locked on Zane, narrowing with focus.
The entire training ground stilled. Every eye fixed on just two figures. Even the air seemed to hold its breath, waiting.
Zane smirked—and moved. Aidan moved with him.
But Zane closed the distance in a blink, as if it were just two steps.
Aidan met the clash head-on. His arms absorbed the shockwave, but pain shot through him—raw and unrelenting. Still, he didn't falter. He held firm.
Zane shifted, launching a flurry of strikes.
Aidan dodged and parried—desperate, precise. Stick clashed against stick, but with every exchange, the gap between them became clearer.
From the very first strike, Aidan knew—he couldn't match Zane head-on.
Zane's strength had evolved beyond anything Aidan had prepared for. And yet, he wasn't using aura. Not even a flicker of mana.
Just raw, physical power.
Aidan's arms ached. His breath came in ragged gasps. He rolled back to create space, dirt flying beneath his feet. He forced himself upright, jaw clenched, chest heaving.
Then, with blazing eyes, he snapped, "Stop holding back, Zane. Do you really mean to insult me like this?"
Zane laughed, low and amused. "Not at all, Aidan. I'd never insult you like that."
He gave his stick a casual swing, as if he had all the time in the world.
"I just wanted to see how you'd react. Don't worry… I know better." His voice dropped, sharp and dangerous. "Holding back in front of you would be foolish. Almost fatal, don't you think?"
The moment he finished, Aidan felt it—danger, sharp and sudden, slicing toward his left.
Instinct screamed.
Aidan whipped his blade to his ribs, barely catching the strike.
But this time, it wasn't just his arms absorbing the blow.
The sheer force of it launched him sideways. His feet skidded across the dirt, balance shattered, muscles trembling.
He couldn't keep up—not like this.
The only reason he parried at all was because his core had instinctively responded. It shielded him in the moment of danger. Without it, he wouldn't have stood a chance.
There's a world of difference between reacting with thought and reacting with instinct. Once the core is formed, it no longer waits for commands. It protects on its own—even from the faintest trace of danger.
Aidan huffed—and for the first time, a real smile broke across his face. Not a half-lipped smirk. A true smile. One that reached his eyes.
Zane responded with a smirk of his own, locking eyes with Aidan before launching forward again.
Aidan lowered his stance.
This time, he didn't try to follow Zane's movement with his eyes. His gaze softened, unfocused—but his body was alert. A faint breeze brushed against his skin. He caught the whisper of air shifting, the tension in the ground.
Zane moved—striking toward his ribs once more.
Aidan's breath slowed.
He remembered what Matthew had told him long ago:
"Stop watching, Aidan. You have good instincts—trust them. Your body and mind have a gap between them. You think before you move. That's not instinct. That's hesitation. You want to control the fight. But a fight isn't controlled—it happens. Let go. Trust your body to move."
Aidan had taken that advice to heart. He'd trained. Bled. Spent hours with his eyes closed, swinging wooden swords into the wind, learning to feel instead of see. To exist in the moment—like the servant and the flowers.
And then there was Zane.
The boy fought like a storm—no thought, no doubt, just motion. Watching him had taught Aidan more than any lecture ever could.
Zane didn't just attack. He flowed. He adapted. His weapon moved with instinct, without hesitation.
Aidan had studied every motion, every shift, every rhythm.
And now—he moved too.
Not after the strike.
With it.
Zane lunged.
Aidan was ready.
His body shifted, breath calm. The strike grazed past him like a breeze. In the same heartbeat, he twisted, letting the rhythm guide him.
His counter came—not from thought.
But from flow.
And now… the real fight had begun.
Aidan smiled—wide.